8. Hudson
Chapter 8
Hudson
T hat was so weird.
I haven’t stopped thinking about that strange-ass visitor earlier. The very hot stranger. In other circumstances I would’ve been more than happy to show a man like that around my house, but not only was he talking about stuff that makes zero sense, I’m not exactly boyfriend material these days.
I’ve been staring at his business card for nearly an hour, which is solving fuck all. If he comes back here like he says he will, I need to make sure he’s legit. I’m not letting any weirdos into my life again.
I pick up my phone from the coffee table and dial the number listed as “Office of Investigators” on the card, waiting as it rings.
“Office of Investigators, Michael speaking. Where can I direct your call?” a man asks.
“Um, hi. I wanted to verify employment.”
“For what purpose?”
“Someone showed up at my house today claiming he was following up on an investigation for the state. I wanted to confirm he really works there.”
“Oh, that’s something I can help with. Employee name?”
“Aster Charboneau.”
I hear the sound of clicking, like a computer keyboard. “Ah, Mr. Charboneau. Junior Investigator, Domestic Disputes.”
The anxious feeling I had in my gut immediately settles. “Okay. You’re a state agency?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What exactly do you investigate?”
“We keep track of various incidents for reporting and budgetary resources.”
“Ah. Okay. Thank you for your time.”
“Of course. Have a good day.”
I end the call and settle back on the couch, feeling much better. So Aster is a little odd. The whole ghost thing was wacky, but I guess I didn’t really give him an opportunity to explain what specifically he was looking for.
Maybe I’ll call tomorrow and invite him back. Right now, I’d like a sandwich and then maybe I can even write a couple of chapters. A writer who isn’t writing is a sad sack. To be fair, it’s hard to focus on imaginary worlds with a very real-world stalker.
After setting my phone on the table, I rise from the couch and walk down the long hallway to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway as another flashback of his hand around my neck hits me. Will the day come when I don’t react anymore? If not, I’m not sure I can spend the rest of my days in this house.
I blow out a breath and push forward, determined to try my hardest to reclaim this space. When I open the fridge to grab the ham and mayo, a shiver runs down my back, so powerful that I freeze for a second, expecting someone to be there. I close the door quickly, looking around.
I’m alone. Of course I am. Just fucking jumpy.
I make my sandwich and sit down at the small table in the nook, directing my gaze outside into the backyard and visually checking that the door is still bolted. The grass needs mowing, but with my cracked ribs, I won’t be doing that any time soon. Maybe I can pay one of the neighborhood kids to do it for me.
Chewing in a daze, I pause when the salt and pepper shakers on the table slowly inch toward me. They scrape across the table in a jerky motion. What the fuck? Is the floor sloped now? Well, that’s great. Foundation work isn’t cheap. Add that to my list of things to get checked out with the contractor.
Pushing them back into place, I keep an eye on them as I jiggle the table, but it feels pretty steady. Definitely a floor problem then. The saltshaker moves forward abruptly, stopping just in front of my plate, while the pepper shaker stays in place. That’s odd. Oh shit. What if there’s a crack in the foundation too? A slope and it’s uneven? That could mean a full replacement. I just had to buy an old house, didn’t I?
I finish my sandwich, put the plate in the sink, then walk out to the living room to make a note about the foundation. No sooner have I finished writing it down than the sound of shattering dishes comes from the kitchen. I’m on my feet and rushing down the hall in seconds.
The salt and pepper shakers are lying on the floor in pieces by the chair I was just sitting in. Okay, that’s super weird. For a second, Aster’s comment about having a ghost pops into my head, but I shake it off. If Chester were haunting me, he sure as fuck wouldn’t choose something so benign. He’d make my life a living hell if he could. It’s gotta be something totally explainable and rational.
I grab the broom and dustpan and get to cleaning up, ignoring the tiles to my left where Chester left me to die. As I stand to dump the mess in the trash, the room turns strangely cold again. I’ve got to figure out why the hell that keeps happening too. Where is a cold draft coming from?
I lean on the island, dragging my gaze around the room to look for a crack or a vent or anything to explain where the heck it’s coming from, but I freeze when the distinct feeling of being watched comes over me.
Not just watched. Hunted. Like the hundreds of times when Chester was stalking me. Spinning around, I see no one, of course, so I rush to the window to peer outside. No one. Just some kids across the street playing kickball. They aren’t tall enough to look through my window, even if they wanted to.
I can’t shake it though. It’s almost like I can feel someone breathing on the back of my neck. Too close. Slowly, I turn around to find the room empty. Great. Now I’m feeling things that aren’t real. How much more messed up can I get?
I squeeze my eyes closed and rub my temples to stall the incoming headache. I just want my life to be normal. Peaceful. Like it was before I ever met Chester Dillon.
“God, I wish I never met you,” I say aloud, directing my gaze to the floor. “If you can hear me, I know you’re in hell or wherever psychopaths go when they die. You tried to ruin me but I won’t let you. I might be down right now, but you’re dead and I’m not.” My eyes sting with emotion. “Fuck you, Chester.”
The napkin holder on the counter clangs to the floor suddenly, and I gasp, jumping back. My chest tightens as a trickle of fear slides along my spine. There’s no way Chester is here haunting me. That doesn’t make sense. Even if ghosts are real, wouldn’t it take a while? Or is that just something I saw in a movie once?
The side door that leads to the outside breezeway connecting the house to the garage creaks open slowly, and another jolt of panic rises within me. Didn’t I lock that?
To test the theory, I step back toward the dining room, but call out, “Fuck you, Chester.”
The door slams shut, rattling the glasses in the cabinets.
Fuck. Fuck. Oh my fuck.
I dart out of the kitchen, down the hall, and back to the living room where Aster’s card is. I pick it up, about to call, but then I pause. Wait. This is just way too convenient. It’s gotta be some kind of prank or trick Aster thought up to fuck over people like me. Make us feel like we’re being haunted so we pay for his services or let him stay here, or whatever way he takes payment. Maybe he even uses his job to find vulnerable people like me.
Either that, or it’s my imagination fucking with me. That makes a lot more sense. I’m traumatized by what I’ve been through. Of course I would imagine a scenario where Chester can still mess with my head.
I put Aster’s card down and shake my arms out. I’m good. My house isn’t haunted. In fact, tomorrow I’ll call Aster and tell him I need an exact listing of what damage he’s supposedly looking for or he’s not welcome here.
I’m taking control of this situation. No one, living or dead, is going to mess with me again. With that settled, I carefully climb the stairs to my bedroom, suddenly exhausted. A nice little nap should make me feel a lot better.