A Ghost of a Chance by Cherie Claire (fantasy novels to read .TXT) 📕

are unheard of. We walk down a long, narrow hallway with a low ceiling and ductwork exposed, arriving at a room Baker used to dispose of cancer patients who — amazingly enough — weren’t cured by his magical tonic. The creep factor soars through the roof in this tight, dark space, and we also learn that Baker might have experimented on folks here as well.

The tour guide expounds on the Baker cancer hospital and all its horrors — they believe Baker burned his patient’s bodies in the incinerator rather than have proof that his cancer cure was a fake. There’s mention of accomplices, some who followed Baker to jail when he was finally convicted of mail fraud (the only thing the feds could nail him on, apparently). And we get to check out the locker where TV’s Ghost Hunters captured a full-body apparition on their infrared camera.

We’re all feeling light-hearted about the whole thing, listening to the stories, looking around and taking pictures. But after a few minutes everyone stops talking and a lull settles over the group. The tour guide keeps offering ghost stories, however, now sharing what other people on the tours have experienced, including some weird light anomalies in the morgue, but it appears no one’s listening.

Finally, the tour guide gets the hint. “Y’all ready to go back upstairs?”

Several of us agree and there’s almost a mad dash out the door. Something spooked us, and we all felt it.

No one says a word until we reach the stairs. I feel a light touch on my elbow and I jump.

“It’s just me,” Winnie says from behind, laughing. I wait until she catches up and we climb to the lobby together.

“Are you avoiding me?” she asks.

“Not at all.” I have been, not wanting to explain all that has happened since our cave escapade the day before.

“I tried sitting with you at dinner but you moved too fast and ended up at Carmine’s table.”

“Oh, really? Sorry.” I hope I sound sincere.

“Henry said you weren’t feeling good this afternoon so I was worried about you.”

I sneak a glance over at Joe who winks. God bless that man for not spreading the news. Good thing Richard hadn’t been at the lake with us when I spotted those girls.

“I’m fine.” Another lie. “My head’s much better but I didn’t sleep well last night so Henry thought it best I get some rest.”

“Good for Henry.” We reach the top of the stairs from the basement to the lobby and Winnie has perked up since the morgue visit. “Want to go have a drink at the Baker Bar and catch up, now that we heard all about his dead patients? Or we can nab a drink in the lobby and sit on the back porch and wait for Annabelle to fly by.”

I know she’s just being funny and normally I’d be laughing at the joke, but it hits a nerve considering Annabelle’s now my roommate.

“It’s been a long day.” I pause at the elevator. “I think I’m going to head up to bed.”

Winnie seems disappointed and I so wish I was in better spirits to join her, no pun intended. But I really am beat and I’m hoping I will rest eight hours sans ghosts tonight.

“But you rested all afternoon,” Winnie insists. “Come on, one drink.”

I’ve had my limit of alcohol after too much drama, never got that nap and my brain is shutting down. Winnie senses my refusal before I speak it. “See you in the morning, then.” She heads off to where Stephanie and Joe are ordering a nightcap.

I push the elevator button, expecting TB to be following but he and Carmine have a tête-a-tête going. In fact, everyone in the group is heading toward the lobby bar, not ready to call it a night, except for Richard who naturally announces he’s going to bed and bounds up the stairs.

Part of me hates that I’m not joining this party, a gathering of colleagues I have waited my entire career to be a part of, but becoming a SCANC has sucked the wind from my sails. With a heavy heart I get in the tiny elevator.

Just before the doors close, a hand appears and I quickly push the door open button and move aside for the newly arrived person. “Thanks,” she says, and suddenly I’m standing next to Merrill. When Merrill notices it’s me she exclaims, “Just the person I’m looking for.”

The doors close so I’m trapped. “I don’t think so, Cousin. You’re bad news.”

She gazes at me in that New Age, Mother Earthy way and appears sincere but I’m still pissed from the incident at the lake. “I can explain. Please let me buy you a drink or something.”

“Is the mayor coming too?”

“I can explain that as well.”

We reach the fourth floor, the doors open and I sigh. I can’t help it, I want to know what’s up with this woman and how the hell she’s related to Lori, aka Annabelle the flying mist.

“One drink.”

Because it’s a weekday the Baker Bar is sparsely occupied and we nab a quiet table right away. Merrill orders a bourbon and like a good girl I request a Diet Coke.

“Okay Cassiopeia or whatever your name is, what the hell happened at that lake today?”

Merrill smiles, turning her napkin emblazoned with Dr. Baker’s creepy face on it around and around. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

I lean back in my chair and study her. There’s something about her face that’s so familiar, the tilt of her chin when she smiles, the glint in her eyes, but for the life of me I can’t place it. Sitting here in a gauzy top and jeans with about a half dozen bracelets that range from hemp to meditation beads, she’s nothing like her cousin, that’s for sure.

“How are you related to Lori?”

“Who?”

“Lauralei Thorne?”

“Oh Annabelle?”

That buzzing starts but I shake it off. “I don’t think that’s her name.”

Merrill leans in close and studies me. “How do you know all this?”

Because I’m a SCANC I want to say, which makes me laugh and Merrill stares harder. Instead, I sober. “Annabelle or Lori is haunting my room.”

This juicy piece of information — and that of the other girls and their deaths — is not something I’m eager to share with anyone for I’m certain of their disbelieving reaction. Merrill, on the other hand, appears thrilled at such news. She leans forward and grabs my hand, which jolts my senses.

“How do you know this?”

I’m not a touchy-feely girl, although I don’t condone it either, so I slip my hands free and place them in my lap. “I saw her a couple of times in my room and I think she haunts my dreams.”

“But how do you know it’s her?”

“There’s a photo in the room across the hall, the one with the English teacher and the class winning a literary award. She’s in it.” Not exactly true; her name came to me in that weird vision the first night. Tying her with the photo works, however, remembering what Carmine told me about providing facts instead of Woo-Woo reports. But now that I think about that photo and the mayor’s reaction when I asked about Lori, I know there’s something very odd about my ghost and these Arkansas cousins.

Unlike the mayor, though, Merrill appears happy with the connection. “That’s probably her. She went to school here. But still, how do you her name?”

I don’t know, so I decide to come clean and hope Ms. New Age is as open to these things as I suspect she is. I shrug. “It came to me.”

Anyone else would dispute such a statement. As a journalist who bases everything on fact, I know I would. But Merrill nods, so happy to have this tidbit of information. “You’re gifted.”

“More like crazy. So, how is she related to you?”

The smile fades and she takes a deep breath, letting it out in a rush. “She’s not. It’s about my grandfather.”

The drinks arrive, Merrill hands the waiter a ten and I let her. We take the opportunity to relax a little, sipping our drinks and sinking deeper into our plush seats. Finally, Merrill drops the bomb.

“I think my grandfather killed her.”

This makes me sit up straight. “What?”

Merrill puts down her bourbon on the rocks and leans forward, forearms on the table with her hands overlapping each other. “He died several years ago and my mother inherited all of his papers and stuff, a endless assortment of things she’s been slowly going through. Letitia only wanted the important stuff. He was mayor of Eureka Springs too, so she pulled out all those papers and donated them to the library here.”

“Letitia?”

“My cousin, the bitchy mayor.” She smiles as if to make light of this but I know she’s not kidding, wondering what Christmas is like at her house.

“And your grandfather was mayor, too?”

“Long time ago, but yes. James Leatherwood.”

Doesn’t ring a bell but why would it?

“Anyway, recently my mother found this old letter hidden inside a book that make us wonder if he was involved in Annabelle’s suicide or murder, we’re not sure which.”

Now I lean forward. “Why do you and the ghost tour guide call her Annabelle?”

“I’m not sure where the tour guy got his information — they’ve always called her Annabelle — but it’s what’s in the letter.”

I’m puzzled because I’m almost positive her name is Lauralei and