Sleeping With a Ghost

Daylight filters into the room as I blink my eyes open. I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. It’s nearly seven.

“Damn, I’m late!” I exclaim, leaping out of bed in my birthday suit. Brian, my soon-to-be husband, is still snoozing, his head buried under a pillow.

Our apartment is an old one, with creaky wooden floors that protest underfoot.

I tiptoe towards the bathroom, trying not to disturb Brian. But the floorboards betray me, squeaking under my weight.

Once in the bathroom, I turn on the shower. As I wait for the water to heat up, I twist my hair into a bun to keep it dry. I test the water with my hand.

“Just right,” I murmur, stepping into the shower and letting the water cascade over me.

There’s something soothing about the hot water hitting my scalp. Then I remember I’ve put my hair up to keep it dry.

“Whatever,” I shrug, pulling out the hair tie and tossing it over the shower curtain.

After a few minutes of enjoying the water, I lather up some shampoo in my hand and work it into my hair.

The shower curtain rustles open and Brian steps in. I keep my eyes shut tight, trying to avoid getting soap in them. Then I feel a pair of hands cupping my breasts.

“Morning,” I greet him, smiling with my eyes still closed.

“Morning,” he murmurs, pressing himself against me.

I can feel his arousal nudging against my backside.

“Don’t even think about it. I have a meeting with my publisher at nine, and I can’t be late.”

“How long will you be out today?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I planned to grab lunch with Zoey and Lynn after my meeting. Why?”

“Just curious,” he replies, his hands still kneading my breasts. “How about a quickie?”

“We had sex last night!” I protest, nudging him back with my butt.

“You’re such a buzzkill,” he grumbles, stepping out of the shower.

“If today goes well, you can have your way with me tonight,” I promise, waiting for his response.

All I hear is the bathroom door closing. “Whatever.”

After finishing my shower, I dry off and slip into my lucky silk panties and matching bra. I pull on my favorite pair of worn-in jeans, the ones with the holes in the knees.

I choose a blouse that brings out the blue in my eyes. I blow-dry my blonde hair that falls just past my shoulders.

I don’t need much makeup. A dab of foundation on my cheeks and a swipe of eyeliner, and I’m ready.

Next, I rummage through the closet for my favorite flats and slip them on. I grab my briefcase with my manuscript inside.

My keys are in a dish by the door. As I pick them up, a hair tie falls to the floor. I pick it up and glance at the mirror.

Brian’s car is already gone.

After about half an hour of driving, I pull into the parking garage and head up to the fourth level. I look for a sign that reads Fesser Publishing Visitor Parking. I find an open spot and park.

I switch off the car and flip down the sun visor to check my reflection one last time. I grab my briefcase and head to the lobby, with ten minutes to spare.

As I walk up the concrete path, I see two large glass doors marked Fesser Publishing. I push one open and step inside.

A receptionist sits behind a desk, a nameplate reading Alexandra. She looks up at me.

“Good morning. How can I assist you?”

“I’m Chelsea Payton. I have an appointment with Amanda Fesser.”

She checks her computer, then nods.

“Yes, you do. Please have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here,” she says, picking up the phone.

“Thank you,” I reply, looking around at the posters of all the books they’ve published.

I approach the wall of posters and something catches my eye. It’s Brenda Stains, who, in my opinion, writes the best horror novels out there. Her books are so immersive, they make you feel like you’re part of the story.

“One day, I’ll be on this wall,” I whisper to myself.

“Mrs. Fesser will see you now,” the receptionist announces.

“Thank you,” I reply, following her to the office.

She opens the door and gestures for me to enter. Amanda is standing behind her desk.

“Chelsea Payton,” she exclaims, clapping her hands. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person. I was getting tired of playing phone tag.” Amanda gestures to the chair in front of her desk.

“I know the feeling,” I reply, taking a seat and placing my briefcase beside the chair.

“You’re even more beautiful in person than in your photos.”

“Thank you,” I reply, surprised by her compliment. I’ve never met Amanda Fesser before today, nor have I sent her any photos.

“I’d like to arrange a new photoshoot for when we publish your next book.”

“Publish? Wait, what?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up.

I’m just sitting there, my mouth hanging open, staring at her.

“That would be amazing.”

“Do you have another book for me?” she asks.

I’m still sitting there, shocked by what I just heard.

“Chelsea?”

“Um, I’m sorry.”

“Do you have another book for me?” she repeats.

“Yes, yes, I do,” I manage to say, trying to pull myself together as I reach for my briefcase. I hand her my new manuscript across her desk.

“Sure. It’s about a couple who hire a babysitter for their twin boys. But here’s the twist.

“The wife is the one who makes a move on the babysitter, not the husband. When the husband finds out, it turns into a tangled web of sex, love, and heartbreak.”

“Interesting. How long did it take to write?” Amanda asks.

“Six months.”

“Would it be possible…” She pauses, thinking. “Could you write the next book in four months?”

I look at her, thinking about how I could possibly make that work. Brian and I are getting married in three months and our new house is still being finished. I’m going to be so busy.

“Chelsea?”

“Sure,” I say, not really sure if it’s possible.

Amanda opens a desk drawer and pulls out two checks.

“This is for this book.” She points to the new manuscript on her desk.

“This is an advance on your next book. I’m going to write up a contract that says you’re now a full-time writer for Fesser Publishing.”

I reach across her desk and take both checks. My eyes nearly pop out of my head when I see the amounts.

“Okay, that was part one. Are you ready for part two?”

“There’s another part?” I ask, and she nods as she opens another drawer.

She pulls out a large manila envelope and hands it to me across her desk. I take it from her.

“What’s this?”

“Open it,” she says, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands.

I just look at her, raising an eyebrow. I squeeze the metal tabs together, then pull the string and open the envelope. I dump the contents onto my lap, and all I see are court papers with my name on them.

“What are these?” I ask.

“Do you know Dorothy Strange?”

“Yeah, she’s my great-aunt on my mother’s side. Why?”

“What do you know about her?”

“Not much really. My mom said she was crazy for buying a house in the middle of nowhere and never getting married.”

“Did you know Dorothy was an author?” she asks.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

“She had at least two dozen bestsellers, and I was lucky enough to sign her. You should know her. You’ve read some of her books.”

“I think I would remember reading Dorothy Strange,” I reply.

“You have. She used a pen name.”

“Who?”

“Brenda Stains.”

“Shut the fuck up! I’m sorry,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand.

“It’s okay,” Amanda says.

“You’re telling me Brenda Stains is my great-aunt and she secretly wrote horror novels? Why am I just finding out about this?”

“Because I promised her no one would know who she was until she passed.”

“She died?” I ask, my face falling.

“Yeah, I couldn’t say anything until her will was finalized.”

“Why did she use a pen name?” I ask.

“That stack of papers on your lap is her last will and testament. You’re the only person in your family to inherit anything from her.” She pauses to take a sip of her water.

“She used a pen name because her family abandoned her, even her brother—your grandfather. They wanted nothing to do with her when she bought the house.

“When she started writing under a pen name, she didn’t want them to come after her when she became successful.

“Each book she wrote was better than the last. The money she made was hers. She earned it, no one else, and she didn’t want them to have any of it.”

“I don’t understand why my family wanted nothing to do with her! I never even got to meet her.”

“Well, she knew you,” Amanda says, pointing at me.

“How?”

“I don’t know, but she did.”

“Okay, then what’s with all the paperwork?”

“That’s her house, and it’s now in your name. You’re the proud owner of a 1902 Victorian-style home.

“It’s been completely remodeled, from the roof to the basement. It has all new appliances, updated electrical, and all the latest technology.”

She stops and watches me as I leaf through the papers.

“She left me her house?”

Amanda nods.

“How did she even know about me?”

“Funny thing is, she came to me and told me to look into you. Somehow she knew you were writing. So I called you right after you finished your first book.”

“I thought I just got lucky that you called me.”

“I don’t usually do that. It takes years for someone to get discovered from their first book. But when I read yours, I knew I had something good, and here you are,” Amanda says, leaning back in her chair.

“I can’t wrap my head around the fact that a stranger just handed me a house. I don’t even know where it’s located, let alone if I want to keep it.”

“It’s a twenty-minute drive east from here. Don’t dismiss it just yet. Go see it first, then decide,” she suggests, taking a sip from her water bottle.

“And don’t forget, she’s also covered the property taxes for the next thirty years. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

“I’m not sure. Brian and I are in the middle of building our own house. It should be ready in a few months. Then we’re getting married.”

“Just give it a chance,” Amanda insists, standing up and closing her planner. “I’m genuinely happy for you.

“It’s a shame your family never had anything nice to say about her. To me, she was a wonderful woman and an incredible writer. I can see you following her path.”

I gather all the papers and stuff them back into the envelope, then stand up. I cram everything into my briefcase. Amanda extends her hand across the desk. I reach over and shake it.

“Thank you,” I manage to say, still trying to digest everything.

“You’re welcome. Now, go check out your new property.”