Restless Souls

I debated about what category to put this story in. I almost put it in Erotic Horror because it contains elements of the supernatural, but it's not scary. Essentially it's a love story about the ghosts that haunt us all. I hope you like it.

-- e65

###

"I know you're going to love it here in Gilcrest Falls, Mr. Baldwin. It's a beautiful town."

Craig Baldwin looked up from the duplicate copies of the lease that were spread out before him on the kitchen table. He smiled at Earle Jennings. "I know," Craig said. "I grew up here. My mother lives over on Fillmore Street."

"Oh, so you should feel right at home then," Jennings said. "You said that you're a writer?"

"Yes," Craig said with a nod. "I've written a novel, and a collection of short stories. I'm working on a new novel now, which is why I've moved back here. I'm hoping a small town will help me to concentrate."

"Well, if you came back here to write, I'm sure you'll find this an ideal setting," the realtor said. "As you probably know, this is a quiet town where not much seems to happen, so you'll get plenty of peace and quiet."

Craig smiled politely and nodded again. He stole a glance at his watch, hoping to finish the transaction quickly. He looked across the kitchen table at Earle Jennings, waiting for him to speak.

Earle Jennings fumbled with the gold-coloured pen in his hand. He was a portly man a few inches below six feet, with thinning black hair that was greying in spots. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose as his green eyes darted about for an instant. "How long have you been away?" he asked as he handed the pen to Craig.

"I've been in Sedona for the past ten years." Craig looked back down at the papers before him and added his signature to the lines at the bottom of each. "Is today the thirteenth?" he asked, looking back up.

"No. The fourteenth," Jennings corrected with a curt shake of his head. "July fourteenth."

"Shit, I should have remembered that," Craig said with a rueful laugh. "It's Woody Guthrie's birthday. If it weren't for him, Bob Dylan would be running a furniture store in Minnesota."

Jennings gave a polite nod and glanced at his watch.

Once Craig was finished adding the date beside his signatures on the documents he looked back up at the real estate agent. He reached his hand out to return the pen to him.

"You can keep it," Jennings said as he plucked his copy of the lease from the kitchen table. "I have two boxes of them back at my office." He gave a nervous laugh and picked up his briefcase from the table where Craig was sitting. "Well, if you don't have any more questions, I suppose I should let you get settled in," he said as he slid the lease into the briefcase.

Craig placed the pen atop his copy of the lease. He was surprised to see that Jennings had disappeared when he looked back up. When he turned to his right he saw the realtor advancing towards the door. Craig stood up and followed him, puzzled by the man's abrupt departure. "Thank-you again, Mr. Jennings," he said awkwardly.

"You're very welcome. I hope you enjoy your stay here. Welcome back to Gilcrest Falls, Mr. Baldwin."

Craig braced his hand on the edge of the open door, watching the portly man hurry to his black SUV in the driveway. It started with a roar, and within seconds Earle Jennings was gone. "Strange fellow," Craig muttered to himself as he closed the door.

It wasn't quite four o'clock yet, and Craig began wondering how he should spend the rest of his day. He knew what he should do: write. That's what he had returned to Gilcrest Falls intending to do. But for the past several months that endeavor seemed more like a chore with each passing day. Most would call his predicament writer's block, but to Craig it seemed more like author's impotence. His laptop had become his nemesis, and knowing that his publisher had set a date for him to submit his second novel began to fill Craig with dread.

Craig began to pace towards the living room, thinking, as he buried his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. After having lived in an apartment for a decade the two story house he had just moved into seemed cavernous. That would hopefully change once he had gotten the rest of his belongings moved in. The moving company was due to deliver the rest of his furniture, as well as almost everything else he owned, the next day. Until then, all he had with him was what he was able to pack in his car, including his nemesis: an Apple MacBook.

In the living room, sitting towards one end of a oak coffee table was the laptop. Craig walked over beside the coffee table and looked around the barren room. Earle Jennings had explained to Craig the first time he had shown him the house that it had become unexpectedly vacant when it's former resident had died. That was ten months ago. Now the real estate company was eager to rent it, rather than let it remain shuttered for another winter. As a result, they were willing to give Craig a good rate on a year-long lease. As an added incentive, the house came with some furniture, including the coffee table.

Craig began to wander through the house, just as he seemed to be wandering through life lately. Leaving the living room and walking into the downstairs hall, he entered a small room next to a half-bath on the south side of the house.

During his first visit to the house with Mr. Jennings, Craig had decided that this room would make a perfect office, and a place to write. The room had a window that looked out on to the driveway, and another that had a view of the yard. Beside the window facing the driveway was a large wooden desk. Craig thought it might be oak, or perhaps mahogany. Jennings had told him that the desk would be remaining in the house. This is one of the things that appealed to Craig, and helped to convince him to rent the property.

Craig stared at the desk, imagining his laptop and printer on it, hoping that his writer's block would soon pass. As he thought, Craig's eyes soon were drawn to the other window to his left that faced the yard. On the floor in front of the window Craig noticed an object, and stepped closer to examine it. When he bent down he discovered that it was the shattered pieces of a black glass orb, held within a white mesh bag. He picked it up to examine it.

There were other such objects hung in windows throughout the house that Craig had noticed when Jennings had shown him the house for the first time. The only difference being that those glass orbs were a brilliant blue, rather than black, like the one that Craig was now holding the pieces of. Thinking nothing more of it, Craig placed the broken shards within the bag on the desk and left the room. He would dispose of it later, he decided.

Now that Earle Jennings had left, and Craig had the house to himself, he decided that it would be a good time to bring in the other things that he had packed in his car. His cranberry PT Cruiser could not hold many of his possessions, but he had packed a few suitcases and other essentials that he did not want to entrust the movers with.

Craig dashed out to his car in the driveway and returned carrying two suitcases. As he passed by the kitchen table he glanced down at the lease, still sitting there where he had left it. Craig froze, feeling his pulse quicken as every nerve in his body seemed to fire. His hands went limp as he dropped the suitcases to his feet. As adrenaline raced through his veins, Craig reached for the lease and picked it up. His eyes grew wide and fear welled in him. Scrawled across the bottom in blue ink below his signature wasGET OUT!.

Dropping the lease to the table, Craig whipped his head around, almost expecting someone to jump out from a hiding place and announce that he had been the victim of a practical joke. As his heart and breathing accelerated, Craig began to mentally retrace his steps. He had walked by the table minutes beforehand and hand not noticed the writing on the lease. He had only been at his car for perhaps a few minutes. There was no way someone could have gotten in during that time un-noticed. Still, he was suspicious, fearful, and more than a little paranoid.

Looking around, Craig saw nothing that could be used as a weapon in case whoever had written the message on the lease was still in the house. He picked up the suitcases and cautiously walked towards the living room, scanning left and right as he advanced. His relief and puzzlement grew with each step he took and still saw no intruder. By the time he was upstairs in what he had decided would be his bedroom, Craig felt relieved. Still, the mystery of the scrawled message on the lease worried and confused him.

When he returned to the kitchen Craig picked up the lease from the kitchen table to examine the message below his signature once more. It appeared to have either been written by a child, or a right-handed person using their left hand. Craig searched his memory, trying to think of any enemies he had, or of anyone who might either want to threaten or try to scare him. No one came to mind.

"Fucking strange," Craig mumbled to himself. He dropped the lease to the table and pulled the set of keys to the house that Jennings had given him from his pocket. He locked the door, then turned the knob, tugging at it to make sure it was secure, then he went in to the living room.

Craig sat down on the hardwood floor in front of the coffee table. He pulled his MacBook towards him, flipped the lid, and turned it on. He opened the document containing a portion of the novel he was working on and began reading. Soon a smile formed on his face. He was pleased with what he had written, and told himself that he was a good writer -- when he was capable of writing.

That first night in his new house Craig got little writing done. That neither surprised nor bothered him. It was becoming almost routine for him. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a thought that began gnawing at him more incessantly as weeks passed: that he would have to return the advance on his novel that the publisher had given him, and stop thinking of himself as a writer.

Deciding that he had best get some sleep because the moving company would arrive early the next morning, Craig shut off his MacBook and closed the lid. He slid into the sleeping bag he had brought in from his car and lay on the floor beside the coffee table. As he stared out of the curtainless windows at the moon, he tried to convince himself that moving back to Gilcrest Falls would bring about a turning point for him. But still, the gnawing self-doubt persisted.

###

The sun shining through the living room window woke Craig early the next morning. He groaned as he sat up. His neck and back ached from sleeping on the floor. Already he was looking forward to spending that night in his bed once more. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was twenty past seven.

Craig slid the sleeping bag down around his waist. As his eyes focused and adjusted to the morning light he became filled with the same bewilderment and panic that he had felt the previous night when he saw the message written on his copy of the lease. Turning towards his right, he was now facing the glowing screen on his MacBook. As he leaned closer, squinting, Craig saw that his laptop was on, and a new text document had been opened. It contained the messageYou are not welcome here, Mr. Baldwin.

After frantically climbing out of his sleeping bag, Craig pulled his laptop closer. For a few moments he had hoped that he had been dreaming, or that his eyes had been deceiving him. But as he looked at the text on the screen once more there was no way he could convince himself that he was mistaken.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Craig hissed. He saved the file and shut down his MacBook before closing it.

When he entered the kitchen and looked around it occurred to Craig that he should have gone out the night before for some food. All that he had to eat were two bags of chips and a bag of roasted peanuts that he'd brought from Sedona. Realizing that it was getting close to the time when the movers would be here to deliver his belongings, Craig decided it was best to not go out for some food.

Craig sat down at the kitchen table and began munching peanuts. Still lying there from the night before was his copy of the lease. He pulled it closer to examine the crudely written message on it, hoping to find some clues as to who wrote it. After staring at it for a few minutes he gave his head a shake. He folded the sheet of paper in half and pushed it aside, then finished eating his peanuts.

About a half hour later Craig heard the shrill beeping sound of a truck backing into his yard. He hurried to the door and unlocked it. He stepped out on to the porch and a broad smile broke out on his face when he saw the truck from the moving company in his driveway.

Two burly men wearing overalls, one carrying a clipboard, got out of the truck and opened the rear door. It wasn't long before they began moving Craig's possessions into the house one by one as he directed them as to where to put them.

Craig was surprised by how quickly the men from the moving company had unloaded the truck. Once he had signed the necessary forms that the man with the clipboard had presented him with, he stood in the middle of the living room, amid a sea of cardboard boxes. It wasn't quite two o'clock and Craig knew that he had a lot of work ahead of him unpacking everything. Rather than beginning that task immediately, he decided to go out for groceries.

It was a beautiful Thursday afternoon and Craig was glad to be out in the sun and fresh air. As he drove he turned the radio up loud and sang along to a few songs he knew. Although he had not made a grocery list, it was not difficult for him to decide what to get once he was at the grocery store, since he needed everything. That errand took him longer than he had expected, and by the time he had returned home and had put away all of his groceries, Craig was tired.

Craig opened the fridge and took out a can of beer. He pulled the tap and took a long gulp as he sat down at the kitchen table. He sighed and smiled as he licked his lips. In the distance he could hear birds chirping and cicadas buzzing. Finally, the house he had moved in to was starting to feel like a home to him.

Craig was almost finished his can of beer when he heard what he thought was a car in his yard. He got up from his chair to peer out the door. As he approached the door, a woman with shoulder length brown hair and hazel eyes opened it. She stepped inside and walked up to Craig.

"Here," the woman said as she thrust a paperback novel into Craig's hand.

Feeling bewildered and overwhelmed by surprise, Craig looked down at the book he had just been given. It was Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut. Wheeling around towards the pretty brunette, Craig said "This is my book!"

"I know. I borrowed it a few years ago," the woman with dazzling hazel eyes replied with a grin.

"A few? Closer to ten," Craig spat out.

"Ten years and eight months, but who's counting," she said. "I hope you don't charge late fees."

Craig walked towards the kitchen table and tossed the book down on it. "How the hell did you know I was here, Christine?" Craig asked, not bothering to try to mask his irritation at the abrupt intrusion.

Christine Glover sat down beside the table and crossed her legs. "Your mother told me," she explained. "I ran into her in the grocery store the other day. Oh -- and she said for you to give her a call, too."

"Great, now I'll have both of you nagging me," Craig lamented. He took another swig of beer, feeling the can begin to bend in his hand.

Christine laughed as she got up and walked towards the fridge. "She also told me that you ask about me when you call her -- that's so sweet of you, Craig," she cooed. "Mind if I have a beer? Thanks."

Craig could feel an odd mixture of anger and love welling within him as he watched his former girlfriend make herself at home in the house which was not quite even his home yet. "I've asked a couple of times if she's seen you and how you were -- that's all," he replied dismissively. "Hand me a beer, will you?"

Christine reached into the fridge again and passed Craig a can of beer. She sat back down and took a drink from the can she was holding. "I guess I shouldn't feel bad that you don't keep in touch with me when you only call your own mother every few months, and only visit her on Christmas," she said.

"You're exaggerating, as usual," Craig shot back. "I call her and visit more often than that."

Christine shrugged and took another pull from the can. "I suppose we can't expect you to grace us with your presence now that you're Mister Hotshot Author," she taunted.

"Look, Christine, what the hell do you want?" Craig barked.

"To see you. Why do you think I'm here?" Christine's smile faded as her eyes left Craig's and she brought the can of beer up to her full lips once more. "I've missed you, Craig," she said in a near whisper.

"Yeah... I've missed you too," he admitted as his voice softened. "I've thought of calling, or e-mailing, but, well -- you know..."

Christine nodded. "Yeah... I know what you mean," she sighed.

Craig leaned against the kitchen counter, looking around as he tried to think of something to say to break the awkward silence. When Christine spoke again, it came as a relief to him.

"So, when did you move in?" she asked, sounding cheerful again.

"Last night," Craig replied. "But my stuff only got here this morning. The place is a disaster area. I haven't even begun unpacking yet. I'd just gotten back from getting some groceries before you showed up."

"Well, how about I help you then?" she offered.

"No, thanks, that's okay."

"You're not getting rid of me that easy, Craig. You should know me better than that," she said. "So, since I'm here, let me help you move some furniture or something. At least show me around the place, for god's sake."

"Okay," Craig relented as he pushed himself away from the counter.

Christine trailed behind Craig, following him in to the living room. She let out a low whistle as she looked around. "Crap, you've got a lot of stuff to unpack," she said as she surveyed the boxes that were strewn about the room.

"Yeah," Craig said with a sigh. "I figure it will take me a few days to get everything done."

As Craig spoke, Christine walked across the living room floor towards a window facing the road going by the house. She pointed towards a blue glass orb in a white mesh bag hanging from the sash. "Where did you get the witch ball?" she asked, turning back towards him.

"The what?" Craig stepped closer to her as he furrowed his brow.

"This -- it's a witch ball," she explained, pointing towards the blue glass orb.

"Oh," he grunted, giving the blue glass ball another look. "They came with the place. I never brought them here. What are they anyway?"

Christine took a step closer to Craig and began explaining. "They originated in Europe ages ago. People used to hang them in their windows to either ward off evil spirits, or attract good ones," she said. "A spirit would become enchanted by the colourful glass and become trapped in them. If it captured a good spirit, the glass would turn white. But, if an evil one, or a demon, was drawn in and caught in it, then it would turn black."

Craig took a step back and sat down against the arm of his sofa that had been placed at a haphazard angle by the men from the moving company. "I've got a black one." he droned. His voice was quiet, but thick with tension.

"What?" Christine spat out incredulously as her eyes widened.

"I've got a black one," he repeated. "Well, kind of -- it's broken."

"Better call the Ghostbusters," Christine said with a laugh. . "Why? Is that bad?" he asked.