Ghost Writer - Pandora Pine Page 0,1

to the desk, rather than pushed under it.

He let out a shaky laugh. Over the course of the six months it had taken him to write this book, Jamie had a lot of sleepless nights. Ideas were flowing so fast and furious the words wouldn’t allow him a moment’s rest. Jamie was positive what he’d heard, or thought he’d heard, was just a figment of his already active imagination in overdrive.

The only way to confirm his theory was to walk back to the desk and look at the page. If a phantom had truly been typing, the words would be displayed in black and white. It was an easy enough thing to verify, but even so, Jamie’s feet felt like they were cemented to the floor.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Forcing his unwilling legs to move, Jamie strode back to his desk and ripped the page from the typewriter carriage. What he saw nearly stopped his heart.

His words were there on the page, the very words he’d been typing moments before his stomach had started its aria. It wasn’t his brilliantly penned prose which made him feel as if he were about to faint. It was the line of type just below his last sentence.

Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty! Holy, holy, holy! Merciful and mighty!

Jamie had most certainly not typed those words, but that didn’t mean he didn’t recognize them. Not a particularly religious man himself, he’d done his duty by his mother and attended church services while she’d been alive. The last time he’d stepped foot in a church was the day of her funeral ten years ago.

He might not have cared for the overly judgmental sermons, but he’d always been a fan of the music. There was something about a group of Catholics, huddled together in their finest winter coats, joining their voices as one. Holy, Holy, Holy had been one of his favorite hymns. Be that as it may, he hadn’t typed those lyrics, nor did they belong in the climactic scene where Molly was about to get exactly what was coming to her, courtesy of a German air raid.

Salem, Massachusetts was one of the most haunted cities in the United States. Jamie supposed places like Savannah and New Orleans could also claim a haunted legacy, but not one nearly quite so old. Everyone who grew up in Salem knew about the infamous witch trials of 1692. Some of the older families in town claimed relations who were either put to death, accused, or were among the dozens making the accusations. There was a certain twisted status that came with the documented affiliation to Salem’s darkest days.

Just because Salem was infamously haunted, didn’t mean these words were the product of a spirit. Did it?

Standing here, the library bright with the midafternoon sun, Jamie wondered if maybe he had typed these words. He was hungry, sleep deprived, and craving his first gin and tonic of the day. Maybe he had typed these words. It was possible he’d been caught in a daydream, while his fingers brought a treasured memory to life. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d thought about his mother.

Returning the ruined page to his desk, Jamie started for the library door. After he’d had lunch, and a good stiff drink, he would have to re-type what he’d already written before the ghost writer had taken charge of the machine.

Jamie chuckled to himself, the sound echoing off the library’s high ceiling.

His hand was on the doorknob, turning it, when he heard a click, followed by a second, followed by a third. Slowly turning, Jamie’s eyes were riveted to the keys, which were moving, seemingly of their own accord. There was no paper in the carriage. The keys were striking the bare roller bar.

Shrieking in fright, Jamie yanked the library door open and hurried into the hallway. The ominous sound followed him as he ran.

Click. Click. Click.

1

Copeland

June, present day…

Copeland Forbes sighed. It was his birthday, but Wolf, his eight-month-old son, was fast asleep on his neighbor, Ronan O’Mara’s, shoulder. His baby was a sleeper. No doubt about it. Jude, Cope’s husband of four months, was certain he could run the vacuum under Wolf’s crib and the baby would sleep right through it. Cope wasn’t willing to put that theory to the test but had a feeling Jude was right.

“I guess I’ll start the grill since my baby likes you better.” Cope rolled his eyes at Ronan. Psychic Tennyson Grimm and his husband, Ronan, were hosting the party