HauntMe Read online

  Haunt Me

  Lena Loneson

  Minerva Silence, TV psychic and fraud extraordinaire, can read them all. She’s not even aware that her gift is real until she’s confronted by the spirit of her late husband, and by the man who murdered him.

  Bram would do anything to protect the woman he loves, even from beyond the grave. But he needs her passion, her body’s response to him, if he’s to manifest and help her to defeat the men who mean to kill her.

  A Romantica® horror erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Haunt Me

  Lena Loneson

  Chapter One

  Aware

  They were all haunted, the faces in the audience—every last one of them.

  Minerva watched them as the TV studio filled with the sound of applause and chatter, welcoming her back from commercials. Nearly every chair in the three hundred-seat studio was full. Sex Psychic was at an all-time ratings high and the Los Angeles audience knew it. The air was electric tonight, static raising hairs on the back of her neck. She knew this feeling—the show would be a total success or a complete disaster. It could go either way. Focus, Minerva. With an analytic eye, she organized the audience into candidates.

  Three women sat in the front row, two in their late twenties and one middle-aged. They applauded with enthusiasm but their eyes glistened in the stage lights, tears illuminated until they shone like marbles. Recent unexpected loss, Minerva concluded—a mother and her daughters wanting some final word from Dad. Haunted by grief. She’d like to help them but it wouldn’t be interesting TV.

  A middle-aged man at the back caught her attention, lights flickering against his black-rimmed glasses. His face wore the expressionless mask of the skeptic, but his hands twitched between claps, grasping at the air, brushing sweat against his pants. His nails were filed almost to a point. Minerva shuddered—it wasn’t a good look for him. His slacks were perfectly creased, too creased, likely purchased and worn for the first time today. He was dressed to impress, but nervous. Minerva guessed he’d ask a romantic question in an uninterested voice—he considered himself too intelligent to believe but he was too hopeful not to. Haunted by loneliness. She might get something good from him. A fetish he kept hidden? Something to do with those creepy-as-fuck nails?

  Minerva noted the group of women in their forties seated at the front, their faces flushed, tipsy on wine, giggling and whispering to each other as they applauded. Likely a girls’ night to celebrate a birthday—perhaps they were members of a book club. They’d had to get there early for front row seats. One didn’t laugh as quickly as the others. The blonde’s gaze slipped to the woman on her left and she blushed as she looked away. Unrequited love. These women could be a possibility. Love and sex were ratings generators like nothing else, and the TV execs had known it when she and Rachel had pitched the show as “John Edward meets Sue Johanson”.

  Minerva Silence, TV psychic extraordinaire and giant fraud, could read them all.

  There was nothing supernatural about it. The ghosts she saw were figments of her imagination, specters painted in words using the pigment of the seeker’s inadvertent revelations and Minerva’s own creativity. The whispers from beyond were the voices of her three assistants who eavesdropped from their seats in the audience, projecting from their hidden microphones into a tiny speaker in her shimmering jade earrings.

  Her eyes drifted back to the lonely man with sharp features and glasses at the back. Something was different about him. He wasn’t just the usual geek unlucky in love. The dark pools of his eyes flicked toward her and met hers. Hairs rose on her arms. It wasn’t often that a man went for her eyes first, at least not while she was wearing this dress, her full breasts straining beneath silver sequins. Maybe he didn’t find her attractive? A possibility.

  Minerva felt a cold breeze rustle around her legs. It was the air conditioning, that was all.

  The book club women in the front row had matching cardigans hanging on the backs of their chairs. They weren’t cold.

  She had to keep moving. As the applause settled, Minerva took her mark, stepping forward in heels that pinched her toes. She ran her hands down her womanly curves, smoothing the sequins and setting them sparkling, giving her an otherworldly glow. Minerva tilted her head toward the camera, knowing by instinct and experience just when the light caught the mahogany highlights in her brown curls. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, careful not to smear the scarlet lip gloss. She inhaled.

  “Welcome back, friends, lovers and spirits. Before the break, we heard from Yukio, whose grandmother briefly crossed over into our world to finally reveal who her grandfather was. I’m immeasurably touched by her story of a torrid affair with an American World War Two soldier. And to be honest, I’m a little turned-on. Who knew sex from seventy years ago could be so sizzling? Thank you, Yukio, for letting us share in your story.” Minerva inclined her head toward the woman in respect, and on cue the audience applauded. Rachel’s right—all this clapping is going to go to my head one of these days. They don’t even make me work for it anymore.

  She scanned the audience, looking for her next mark. She specifically did not look the way of the guy who had given her the creeps. He might give her good material, but if she was wigged out by him she wouldn’t be fully on her game. The audience would tolerate a certain number of incorrect “visions”, but she tried to keep them to a minimum.

  Minerva spotted a young woman a few rows back from the book club, clutching a friend’s hand. Married, or widowed—gold twinkled on her ring finger. Minerva itched to rub her band. She still wore her ring after seven years. A psychic with a tragic backstory made for more captivating TV.

  The woman’s skin was white with pressure as she held her friend’s hand tightly. Her clothes were simple, a black skirt and blouse hugging soft curves, but her head was wrapped in a bright scarf of blues and purples. Below the scarf, brown eyes sparked with tears beneath blonde brows. She wore understated makeup and minimal jewelry, a small gold locket in addition to her wedding ring. The headscarf wasn’t alternative dress, then, and nor was it medical—or she’d be without the eyebrows, without the rosy complexion and chubby cheeks of health.

  Minerva’s gut told her that the scarf was a reminder. The woman had shaved her head in solidarity and her hair hadn’t yet grown back. The grief in her eyes, the way she grasped at the other woman’s hand, let Minerva know the loss was recent. Cancer, most certainly. If her husband were still alive, it would be his hand she’d be clutching. So—late husband, most likely. Marital relations were rife with sexually charged material, so she could work this into something interesting.

  And the friend? Her bright-blue eyes were just as wet as the scarf woman’s. A friend wouldn’t be that teary. Sister of the deceased? Minerva focused on the blue eyes and decided to run with it. Her instincts were usually right.

  She noticed this in seconds, before the audience had finished applauding. She touched a finger to her lips, silencing them and signaling to her assistants to pay attention, remember what they could of what they’d heard or seen from this woman earlier in the taping.

  “There’s someone here. Someone close.” Minerva sucked in a breath and widened her eyes, focusing deliberately on an empty space in front of her. “He wants to say goodbye. It’s hard to see color through the veil of the Other World, but his eyes are a most brilliant blue.” She took a chance on that, betting on the sibling connection and hoping the eyes were hereditary.

  If she got it wrong, there was likely someone else in the audience missing a blue-eyed friend or family member.

  “His head is fully bald but his face glows with happiness. His aura shows me a kind soul.” Whatever the husband and brother’s personality in life, death always softened it and those left behind preferred to reme
mber the best. “And yet he carries a dark secret.” Didn’t everyone? “He’s saying a name but his voice is so soft. I cannot hear him through the veil. Is there someone here who knows him? A loved one who can call him closer, where we might listen?”

  “Thomas?”

  She had guessed right—it was the woman in the headscarf, her voice quiet and raspy with emotion. Minerva let her mouth form into a genuine smile. “Yes! He’s nodding. His name is Thomas. He’s someone close to you. A husband?”

  The headscarf woman was nodding.

  “Yes.” Minerva imagined the dead man in front of her, skin as soft and bare as a newborn’s, nodding and gesturing at his wife. “What is your name, my dear?”

  “Pirette. Thomas was my husband. He died of—”

  “Cancer. I know. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Yes.” Pirette’s blue eyes shone with tears. The sister whispered in her ear, comforting her. The audience murmured amongst themselves at the revelation of cancer, as if it weren’t perfectly obvious from Pirette’s choice of clothing.

  “He has a message for you,” Minerva said. “And he wants to beg forgiveness. Before he can move forward to his eternal resting place, he needs to know you forgive him.”

  Minerva knew the drill—though there were some who came to her show in anger, wanting their former loved ones to answer for a slight, her bread and butter came from those who deep down wanted to know their loved ones still cared for them and were in a better place. And so she gave them that comfort. She could empathize better than anyone.

  She held a finger to her mouth, asking the audience for silence and pretending to listen closely. “He wants to say how sorry he is—”

  Static hissed in her ear. Her staff had come through. Greg’s thin voice followed the static. “Husband had an affair. The women were talking about it in the washroom. Sister found the text messages. Wife wants to know if he ever even loved her. Maybe you could approach it from—”

  Minerva nodded her understanding, tapping her lips again to cut him off. Greg was new, a bright and eager young man, and hadn’t learned the value of brevity. Still, with his pale skin and bright shock of red hair, he made her smile.

  She finished her sentence. “For the affair.”

  Pirette gasped. “It’s really him?” Her friend whispered in her ear. Was she a skeptic? Minerva had to keep talking, get Pirette hooked.

  “It is. He can only imagine the pain you’ve been through. Finding those texts from another woman. You felt so betrayed. First, to think you had a marriage that would last until death, not knowing that death would come so soon.” Minerva let her eyes moisten with the barest hint of tears, knowing the camera would catch them. She found these clients to be the easiest, and the hardest—betrayed lovers. The sense of loss combined with outrage was so easy to empathize with. But also hard to put herself through again.

  “And then, after supporting him through his illness, after shaving your own head to show him how much you valued your partnership—to find that he may not have valued it at all. He was getting sex from someone else. You wondered what she did for him that you wouldn’t do.” Minerva shaped her lips into a small smile of sympathy. “It must have felt as if he died twice. First, his body. Second, the memory of the loving husband you knew.”

  Pirette nodded. Tears were streaming down her face. Even her dark-haired skeptic friend was literally sitting on the edge of her seat. Minerva knew she had them. Now it was time to bring it home—deliver the combination of sex and healing that made her the queen of late-night television.

  “He wants you to know that it wasn’t like that. He loved you so much, Pirette. He desired you so much. Tell me, Tom. What do you want to say to your wife?”

  Minerva tapped a finger to her lips. Static hissed in her ear again and Greg responded. “Uh, there was talk of, um…she was worried she wasn’t good enough in bed.”

  Minerva mentally rolled her eyes. Every woman who had a spouse who cheated was worried she wasn’t good enough in bed. She needed details! She tapped her lips again, impatiently. She squinted at the air as if she were listening hard to the ghost in front of her.

  “She mentioned blowjobs—said it was really hard to get him off. She’d be down there for what seemed like hours, and nothing. He got off, like, three times in the entire marriage. So she was worried the other chick was better at them. That she deep throated or something.”

  Minerva nodded. That she could work with.

  “The affair was meaningless, Pirette,” she said. “The texts you saw might have been hot and heavy, but whenever he was with her, he thought of you instead. He was worried about burdening you with his illness and his desire. He feels like such a fool.”

  She continued. “Did you know that you’re the only woman who could ever get him off with your mouth? Do you mind if I talk about this?”

  Pirette was blushing, her fair face flushed with a rosy glow. But she smiled and shook her head. She wanted to hear more.

  “Your mouth was like nothing he’d experienced before. He remembers the first time he came in your mouth as if it were yesterday.” Minerva was careful not to give too many major details, such as whether she spat or swallowed—best to go with generalities. Some details, the small, specific ones, would add color for the audience at home and Pirette’s memory would fill in the gaps. Surely, she would think, this must have happened or why would Thomas be remembering it?

  “Thomas, would you speak through me?” Minerva asked. She nodded. There was a collective gasp from the audience—this was the part they were all waiting for. She didn’t channel spirits on every episode, so it was a treat to see this live.

  She made her body shudder. Her eyes rose skyward in their sockets, exposing the whites. She let out a small moan, high and girlish, that turned deeper as she shook. The fabric of her dress rustled as she trembled, lights dancing off sequins in a kaleidoscope of color. Minerva let her voice continue to fall until her throat had relaxed, then abruptly stopped her movements. Best to give the audience a taste and leave them wanting more, without time to question what they were seeing. When she spoke again, she used a man’s voice, deep and rough in comparison to her own.

  “You would get me so hard,” she said. This should be an easy one—imagine the best blowjob she’d ever given, and put it in Thomas’s words. “I thought my cock might snap in two. I was dizzy from it. The way your tongue whirled around the tip before pulling me deeper. You’d make those little swallowing noises, as if you were sucking me in as far as you could take me. When my head hit the roof of your mouth I almost came right then. Your mouth was so hot. So slick and wet. It was as if I had my cock buried between your legs, but softer. Watching your head bobbing up and down drove me to near insanity. Do you remember the first time I came in your mouth? It felt as if my spirit would float right out of my body. My semen gushing out of me, the most incredible release—”

  Minerva moaned deep in her throat as if she’d reached orgasm. She watched the audience through half-lidded eyes. They were enraptured—the men particularly.

  “You were always the one for me. I’m so sorry I fucked up. I’d give anything to be there with you again.”

  Pirette had her hands pressed tightly against her mouth. Her eyes were wide and shining with happiness.

  Minerva finished it off. “I love you, Pirette. I wish I could stay, but I have to go.”

  Pirette rose to her feet. “No, Tom, please…” Thomas’ sister clutched at her hand, urging her to sit down again.

  Minerva allowed her body to shudder again. She stood on her toes, letting her head snap back quickly on her neck—ouch, a little too quickly, that was going to hurt later—as the “spirit” left her body. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, pretending to be rattled by the experience.

  “Thomas!” Pirette cried.

  Minerva calmed the shaking in her arms. She lowered her head, keeping her eyes closed. She could hear the audience chattering amongst themselves. She let the sound rise lik
e a wave cresting on the ocean, waiting for that perfect white cap before she suddenly opened her eyes, staring out at them.

  There were a few audible inhalations then silence.

  “He’s gone now, Pirette. He wanted to stay with you, but he had to move on. It was already using so much of his spiritual energy to remain behind and give you this last message. Tom made a mistake. One he would regret for the rest of his life and beyond. That regret, and his love for you, is so strong that it’s keeping him from his afterlife. Can you forgive him? Will you let him go and reach his final resting place?”

  Pirette was nodding.

  “He needs to hear the words. Can you say them?” Minerva smiled warmly and gestured for the show’s host and producer, her friend Rachel, to hand Pirette the microphone.

  Pirette cleared her throat, heaving back happy sobs. “I forgive you, Tom. I love you.”

  The audience burst into riotous applause.

  “Pirette?” Minerva interrupted.

  “Yes?” Pirette eagerly leaned forward, tilting her scarf-wrapped head. Minerva smiled at her. These were her favorite guests. They wouldn’t get her rich, but those seeking comfort from lost relatives gave her steady work that paid the bills, and it warmed her heart every time to know she’d helped with their grief even a little bit. Surely the deception was in the name of good? At least this time?

  Would she want someone to lie to her about Bram?

  “He is moving safely to the other side now. His face is filled with joy. I see the light now—it’s enveloping him. Pirette, it’s time to say your final goodbye and wish him peace on his journey.”

  Rachel held the microphone out to Pirette again and the woman stuttered through her tears, “G-goodbye Thomas. I love you.”

  The woman beside her leaned forward and spoke. “We both love you. So much.”

  As she spoke the words, the studio lights faded, slowly, almost imperceptibly—Minerva’s crew was experienced and knew their cues down cold.