Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) Page 2

  There is a shop that only sells dead flowers, and does quite well with online sales. Also, one finds the headquarters of a Fortune 500 company that manufactures one-of-a-kind bread-making ingredients and spices that are exported and sold all around the world. The city of Raven Maxim experiences all four seasons, some years more blustering or hot than others. Mayor William Washington is currently in office and a rather popular jazz singer, Miriam “Star” Dust, was born and raised in Raven Maxim, and still considers the place home.

  The city has had its share of attention in the news press, as well. It seems that, at times, the strangest things occur there, and some of the most unlikely successes, too. Some say that the land is cursed, while others deem it blessed. Some believe the founder, Ms. Maxim herself, delved in a bit of black magic, stirring the hocus pocus cauldron with the intent of finding ways to rule her kingdom from beyond the grave. Some think all of that is a bunch of foolishness, and it’s simply a part of America, just like any other city you may find along your travels. Regardless of what others say or think, the verdict is ultimately left up to you. While deciding what to believe, however, you may want to consider a few notable things:

  1. The city map layout possesses the shape of a crudely formed heart. This has drawn people from all over the world during a special Valentine’s Day Celebration held downtown to get married, celebrate an anniversary, or renew their vows.

  2. Raven Maxim herself never married, nor did she bear children, despite being considered one of the most intelligent and well-known women in the world. It is believed she always wished to find love, but it eluded her, while others stated she was too busy with her career to worry about such silly things as being romanced and wooed.

  3. There is scientific proven evidence that a meteor crashed and landed there soon before Maxim discovered the area. This has led several scientists and UFO enthusiasts to closely study the area.

  4. The town’s most revered living historian, Angelica Dexter, has written chronicles of the ‘strange goings-on’ on the Maxim estate, which is currently still standing. A portion of the property is now used as a gift shop, a gallery with guided tour, café, and bookstore.

  5. There are many tales and legends not only surrounding the uninhabited Maxim mansion, but also the rest of the land and surrounding waters. Some are fantastical, others are humorous, yet others are dark and unnerving, while some are purely inspiring. Do not be surprised if aspects of this folklore manifests in the form of a story or two in this book series.

  Welcome, darling, to the city of Maxim.

  Expect the unexpected…

  “Love isn’t where we find our ghosts. Love is where we release them…”

  —Pavana

  PROLOGUE

  Words yet unspoken…

  Maxim, New York, 1957

  Officer Grant ran his finger down the dust-covered desk with wooden crows carved upon the legs and sides.

  “He hadn’t worked in here in a while.” He regarded the massive room with a discerning eye. The elaborate, domed, eggshell-colored ceiling seemed untouchable as it rose high, soaring towards the heavens. The room showcased looming walls lined with ash-covered shelves filled with large books bound in ebony, burgundy, and fawn leather. The damn things threatened to break through and splinter the wooden shelf they rested upon to splatter onto the dull wooden floor below as their weight bowed the mantelpiece to the point that the slightest touch might just send them on their way.

  “No one had seen him out in quite some time. Did you see him? You know, his body?” He turned towards Officer Allen. The man still appeared whiter than an usher’s glove for Sunday morning service.

  “Yeah…I saw him. I wish I hadn’t. Can’t say I’ll get that out of my mind any time soon.” He shook his head, dreading to delve down that dark road again.

  “ ’Spose he really starved to death?” Officer Allen peered over his thin-rimmed glasses at a sloppily stacked pile of books, nameless and thick, almost begging to be read. Unable to resist a moment longer, he flicked his thumb over the cover of one, opened it, and pilfered through, feeling disappointed as he scanned the thing. There was little of nothing, just strange jottings of a word here or there, floating about as if discombobulated from a singular thought.

  “Looks that way… I wonder how that happens?” Officer Grant placed his hands on his hips and slowly paced about in his blue slacks, disturbing odd items and artifacts that appeared long forgotten. He jumped and sighed when a clock suddenly came alive, bouncing sound throughout the room, echoing and vibrating and booming in the dimly lit space. As soon as the sound shattered his sense of peace, the gonging died down. He curiously peered at the clock. It wasn’t on the hour. Strangely enough, it was only 2:37 in the afternoon.

  Why in the world would that clock sound right now?

  He shrugged it off and continued to peruse the strange place, reminiscent of a small-scale library, equipped with an elongated running ladder covered in cobwebs. Golden award statues lined one shelf, an assortment of trophies and plaques. One was situated in a little inlet in the wall. It was rather peculiar how they gleamed with cleanliness while the rest of the room was layered in filth and standing at the doorstep of complete ruin.

  “You think his brother will auction the place? He’s still back in L.A. Seems a pity.” He shook his head. “They don’t make houses like this anymore.”

  Officer Allen hesitated in responding, seemingly engrossed in another book he’d opened and flipped through with a gentle touch.

  “Uh…yeah, a real shame. Hey.” The man motioned towards him, waving him over with a curl of his left index finger. “You should see this.”

  Grant marched over until they were standing side by side.

  “This must’ve been the latest book he was writing. Boy, I would’ve liked to have read the rest of this…too bad it seems to have no ending; it just drops off abruptly. Hell, he didn’t even finish the last sentence. It is an incomplete thought.” He flipped to the back of the text—nothing but blank pages.

  “Yeah.” Grant looked about the place, always finding something new he’d missed before—odd things, beautiful things, rustic and charming things, and sad things, too. “He was a literary genius.” He glared at a collection of grimy timeworn dolls stuffed haphazardly into a soiled pillowcase.

  Strange. Must’ve used this for inspiration or something…

  “Horror isn’t really my thing though.” Grant shrugged his shoulders. “You and I see enough real life scary shit without a bunch of make-believe.” He reached into his pocket, drew out a cigarette, cocked his head ever so slightly to the left, and lit it, shaking the match until the flame died. The stiff air around them grabbed the scent and raced away with the burnt odor in tow. Swirls of gloomy smoke wafted high towards the ceiling until it grasped the colossal chandelier, decked out in abandoned spider webs from yesteryear.

  “Yeah, you have a point. Peter Jones wrote all sorts of stuff, though… It’s just that his scary stuff got the most attention,” Allen explained as he flipped through the dusty pages of a different novel, this one dressed in bright, blood red paper. “Towards the end, he’d become a recluse of sorts, but right before that, he was always seen at the best parties.”

  “Yeah, I saw the magazines. He was really something.” Officer Grant smirked.

  “Yeah, I got curious about him, you know? I read up on everything. He’d fly out to Washington D.C., go to L.A., give an interview in Miami. He was all over the damn place. Sought after, ya know? Lively guy, from what I’ve been told. Full of great jokes, fun, a bit of a ham, too. Boy, did the ladies love him, and he loved them. He was an infamous playboy…never married, no kids.”

  “He was peculiar.” Grant grimaced. Placing one hand on his hip, he turned from side to side, making mental inventory of the whole mess.

  “Yeah, I guess you could say so, but to me it’s mighty strange how someone who had it all could end up this way. According to his friends, he changed about three months ag
o, disappeared from the circuit. No one really knew why. One minute, he was one of the most sought after writers in the country; then the next, he locked himself up in here and no one heard another damn word. His agent had to drop him. He wasn’t producing any new work, wouldn’t take calls, but they knew he was in here and alive, well, up until the final week or so. Really a shame…”

  He snuffed his cigarette in an ashtray on the desk, taking note of the burns in the bottom of the ceramic container.

  I put out a cigarette in the same spot where he used to extinguish his cigarettes and cigars, too…

  The officers kept on unearthing piles of the mundane and stacks of the odd.

  Hmmm, interesting…

  “Look at this photo.” Grant snatched it from a low-lying shelf inside a dark gray chifferobe that appeared entirely too small for the considerable room. “Look at this man. The date in the corner says 1952. That was only five years ago. He had to have been only about twenty-five right here.”

  Peter Jones had a natural look of mischievousness with his combination of a tilted smile that stretched fleshy lips, a pair of lustrous light brown eyes, and dark brown wavy hair brushed back from his chiseled face. By many standards, the man would be deemed rather dreamboat-ish; but, upon a closer inspection, one would note hints of a suffering soul. There was just something about his eyes…as if he had a deep, dark secret and if he dared utter a word of it, he’d be struck down dead. Well, if that were the case, he was now free to tell…

  “The man the coroner took out of here looked like he was damn near eighty. It’s like it was his long lost grandfather.” Allen shook his head. “Yet, it was him. Goddamn it, Grant, I’ve never seen anything like that in all my life. He died in his own horror story, ya know? What a way to go. He must’ve gone insane.”

  “That’s too easy. Maybe we’ll never know. I can tell ya this much though, no one wakes up and goes crazy.”

  “Yeah, well, normal people don’t stop eating by choice, either.”

  Both men nodded and scanned the room, neither seemingly sure what they were looking for anymore. The house had a bizarre feel to it, and the odor of death still loomed about in the place. They’d been sent over to do a final sweep of the property before it became contaminated by nosy visitors, incessant fans of the deceased, and long lost family members hoping to cash in on the millionaire’s estate. One thing was for certain though: this was no homicide. Renowned mystery and horror author Peter Jones was a revered celebrity who had been swallowed whole by his own self, disappearing into the arms of a hermit lifestyle that no one could make heads or tails of.

  His bookshelves teemed with notebooks that had only one or two words written in them, while others had been well used to the last page. Those illustrious detailed stories could send the most unmoved spectator into a tailspin of the heebie jeebies. The man had an incredible imagination, shellacked with a love for the morbid and unusual. He blamed his bland childhood in Maxim for the sprouting of an overactive imagination. Regardless, the man was a legend… the legend was the man. Peter Jones left no true indication of his self-imposed fate. The only thing left behind was a short note detailing his plans for suicide that had been collected earlier in the week when his body was discovered. It read:

  Today I will no longer eat another morsel. I will only drink one glass of water per day, just enough to get my affairs in order before my time runs out.

  I will continue to write until I no longer have the energy or capability, and then, my final words will either be etched in Heaven or Hell, whichever place she may be. I believe that this is in fact the underworld, for no greater pain could be fathomed, even in my wildest fancy. Life no longer has meaning.

  –Peter Jones

  Officer Grant and Allen continued their search while a strange scent filled the air. Minutes graduated into hours. It felt like time had frozen, and an unnerving chill came upon him. He paused and looked about as the hairs on his arms stood at full attention. Was someone there with them, breathing, watching…? A sense of anger and urgency merged.

  “Jesus!”

  A book flew across the room and landed in the cold, dark fireplace.

  “Did you throw that?!” Allen asked, pointing towards the thing.

  “No! I swear to you, it just went over by itself.”

  On a swallow, he crept steadily towards the hearth, his heart beating so damn fast. Fear grabbed him and begged him to stay put. But, he could not. Reaching inside the fireplace, he pulled the tossed book out of the collection of ashes. With a swipe of the hand, he dusted the debris away, and read the title printed on the front of the burgundy leather bound novel.

  “White Roses”

  Grant flipped the thing open to find all the pages blank, except the first one. In typewritten words, it simply read,

  ‘Secrets kill love. Love kills time. Time is cruel, so I will end mine.’

  And that was all.

  Nothing more. Nothing less…

  CHAPTER ONE

  The final nail in the coffin of wedded bliss

  ~Modern Day~

  There once was a man who murdered his wife and hid her corpse in a large freezer. He went to work the next day, came home, and saw her sitting on the couch, watching a soap opera with an ashen gray complexion and dripping wet. Large puddles sat at her feet.

  He could barely speak, but when he did manage, he simply asked,

  “What’s for dinner?”

  To which she replied with a crooked smile,

  “A TV dinner… but it’s still defrosting…”

  “Those are fragile, man!” Sloan called out, his muscles buckling under the weight of a slightly sloped cardboard box marked, ‘Kitchen: Aunt Helen – China dishes’.

  “Goddamn it!” A faint crash could be heard from another room.

  “…Sorry,” came a feeble voice belonging to one of the hungover movers, a young, scruffy guy in his twenties just trying to earn enough cash for his next party. The youth’s apology danced over the scratch and crackle of the small battery operated, white paint splattered radio blasting 1960s oldies.

  ‘Haaaaang, on Sloopy, Sloopy hang on!’ by the McCoys crept into the air, stealing a dusty kiss or two.

  “Hey! Mr. Big Shot! You gonna help here or just watch me do all the dirty work, huh?” Sloan’s best buddy, Mike, called out as he heaved a box into the foyer area and slammed it down onto the ground with a big bang.

  “I’m just thinkin’ is all. The house looks much bigger than when I first came to see it.” Sloan ran his hand across his beard, curing an itch as his anxiety built up like a stack of Legos. “What am I going to do with all of this space, man? Jesus Christ… it’ll be a nightmare to keep clean.”

  “Shoulda, woulda, coulda… Midlife crisis in full effect. No one gives a shit about your silly problems.” Mike chortled. “Get uh maid to do it…make sure she’s good lookin’ so you can fuck her, too.”

  Sloan shook his head and sighed at the bastard’s comments.

  “So how does it feel to be a three-time New York Times bestselling author, Mista Famous?” A smile stretched across Mike’s face as he posed the question.

  Sloan slumped his broad shoulders as he rolled that notion over a bit inside his cobwebbed brain.

  “Feels good, I suppose.”

  “For the love of Wilma and fuckin’ Fred, Sloan! I need you to get outta this funk. Look.” He pointed at him, a stern expression on his rounded face. “You wanted to work on your new book, get a new lease on life, start fresh, so here you are, right?”

  “Yes, here I am.” Sloan looked about himself as if someone had beamed his ass to Scotty. “In Maxim…”

  “Yeah, Maxim. It’s not terribly far from Manhattan. It’s less than a five hour drive. You’re homesick, right? That’s what this is about, ain’t it, Mack?” Mike’s double chin became more pronounced as he lowered his head to his chest, glaring at the man in a judgmental sort of way.

  “Stop calling me Mack.” Sloan grabbed two ice-cold bo
ttles of water from a nearby cooler and tossed the man one. Mike caught the thing with one beefy hand, twisted the plastic blue cap fast and hard, and chugged half the thing down while sweat meandered down his plump, cherubic face.

  “The damn exterminators said they had to reschedule,” Sloan moaned between gulps. “Bastards. Can’t get good help around here. They’re too laid back.”

  “It’s gettin’ cold anyway; no sense in wasting money. Wait till the spring.” Mike nodded for extra measure, as if his word were bond.

  “Rats don’t give a shit if it’s winter, spring, summer or fall, Mike. I’m not just talking about a spider or house fly. Nobody wants to take the trip out here. It’s in the middle of nowhere and a gated community but I wanted someone out here to treat the house before all of my stuff was moved in. Now it’s too late. Everything’s going to smell like industrial strength Raid.”

  “What was their reason for not coming?”

  “It’s a family business.”

  “So? Why’s that a problem?” The big man leaned against the faded cream and raspberry swirl wallpaper, much of which was torn and chipped away, exposing another color and pattern altogether beneath.

  “ ’Cause family owned businesses sometimes let subpar work continue so they don’t have to fire cousin Herbie!” He laughed as he screwed the cap back on his bottle. “I’ve called them three times. They had the best prices and reviews, so I tried to stick it out, but now…” He shrugged his shoulders. “The hell with it.”