A Triple Scoop of I Scream (4 page)

Once a day
, he promised himself.

He was glad to be away—away from the show, away from the producers, away from the sceptics and critics, and even the fans. Thomas had gone to college to become a serious journalist. Instead he’d wound up the sometimes-applauded and often-maligned host of a television ghost-hunting show.
Paranormal Research Team
had been an instant international hit. It paid him well and allowed him to travel the world, but it had also made him unemployable with any network news programme.

He’d gone into this thing with naïve good intentions. He was going to use empirical methods to prove the existence of ghosts and bring comfort to millions. And he’d bring comfort to himself. Thomas’ grandmother, Claudette, had died when he was twelve, and she’d been visiting him regularly ever since.

Claudette had been larger than life, so Thomas thought it wasn’t surprising that her spirit couldn’t be contained after she’d crossed over. The four-time divorcee had drunk like a fish, dressed like a Bohemian and sworn like a sailor. Anyone who’d met her was regaled with anecdotes of her brief stint as a bit player in Hollywood films. She’d delighted in reciting her one spoken line, ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ from her role as a cigarette girl in
The Gentleman’s Wish.
Thomas had never tired of hearing the stories and had come to share her love of the movies.

The two would spend whole afternoons at the multiplex. They’d pay for one feature then sneak in to see two more. The method was brilliant. They’d hole up in the restrooms while the end credits rolled on the first show, then meet at the concession stand. From there it was easy enough to feign impatience at the long lines, then slip into another screening room. More often than not they’d miss the opening minutes of the next film, but the thrill of the adventure was always worth it.

The night of her funeral Thomas had been inconsolable. When sleep had finally overtaken him, he had dreamed of Claudette. It was so real that he could hear the jangling of her charm bracelet and smell her rosewater cologne. He was certain that if he had reached out he would have been able to feel the warmth of her delicate wrist. In his dream he asked his grandmother to take him to the movies. Her face softened and she replied without moving her lips, “Oh, darling, you know it’s too late for that.”

Thomas hadn’t set foot in a theatre since that night, but Claudette continued to haunt his dreams, appearing to the music of tinkling jewellery and in a cloud of sweet perfume. After the encounter at the Buckman Inn, he’d even felt her presence while awake. He’d never told anyone—not even Toni—and if anyone would understand, it would be her.

* * * *

Thomas hiked the short, winding path down to the water’s edge. He reached into the open collar of his shirt and found the chain around his neck. He followed it downward until he was fingering the little coin. It was one of the cache of thousands of antique pennies he and Toni had found at her inn. They had both been crushed to learn that the coins weren’t gold, but each of them had walked away with a nice little windfall. He’d cashed in all of his with a local antiques dealer—all but one, which he’d drilled a hole through and now wore on a chain around his neck. It reminded him of her and of the adventure they’d shared.

Toni Bianchi was unlike any woman he’d ever been with. She was passionate, sharp-tongued, smart, funny and beautiful. Everything about her was extravagant—her personality was enormous, her eyes were big, her lips were full, her hips were lush, her breasts were…
Oh, those breasts
. Thomas’ cock twitched when he thought about pinching and sucking her nipples, kneading her heavy breasts, pushing them together while he straddled her ribs and slid his erection between them.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

The time he’d spent with Toni had been wonderful and terrible and confusing. She’d called in the team to investigate a haunting at her run-down bed-and-breakfast inn. Not only had he had direct contact with the ghost of Civil War soldier John Buckman, but the spirit’s energy had joined with Toni’s, multiplied, and resulted in the most mind-blowing sexual encounter of Thomas’ life. His rod stiffened at the memory of plunging into Toni’s tight, wet pussy while Buckman had sucked at her nipples and massaged her clit. Toni had been outside herself with pleasure and she’d dragged Thomas along for the ride.

The intensity of that otherworldly ménage à trois couldn’t be matched, and couldn’t be replicated. Thomas and Toni had had good sex—really good sex—immediately following the encounter, but the intensity had faded quickly. They had parted amicably enough, but Thomas had felt rocked back on his heels. He’d put the coin money in the bank, told his producers he needed a break, and headed to his cabin in the woods of northern Minnesota. He’d thrown himself into chopping wood, fishing and hiking, but nothing he did could erase her. He kept conjuring up the scent of her hair, the yielding softness of her skin.

Thomas shook his head and tried to push Toni from his mind. His cock wasn’t so easily put off track.

This is fucking ridiculous! I’m standing out in the middle of nowhere with a hard-on for a woman who doesn’t care if she ever sees me again.

Thomas stepped off the path and onto the narrow dock. He dropped his gear in the rowboat. His erection refused to be ignored. He looked into the boat then past the end of the dock to the smooth surface of the lake. It was spring in northern Minnesota—that water had to be cold, really fucking cold. Thomas dug his cellphone from his pocket and tossed it into the boat. His sweatshirt, T-shirt, shorts, shoes and socks followed. Thomas stood in his boxers and scanned the lake. It was the middle of nowhere and the middle of the week. There were a handful of other cabins dotting the shoreline, but it was too early in the season for many of those to be occupied.

“Fuck it,” he said, sliding off his boxers and feeling his cock spring back against his flat belly.

Just before jumping feet first off the end of the dock, Thomas exorcised his longing by shouting, “God damn it, Toni!”

If his erection didn’t respond to reasoning, it responded immediately to sixty-degree water.

Thomas pushed off the moment his bare feet hit the sand and weeds at the bottom of the lake. He let out almost his last bit of air with an underwater scream. He broke through the surface sputtering and spent his first fresh breath on an impressive string of expletives.

He hauled himself up on the dock, shook off dog-style, then clambered into the boat to pull on his clothes. He found a stack of beach towels folded under one of the seats and wrapped one around his head, one around his shoulders, and draped one over his lap. Thomas’ teeth chattered as he untied the boat and shoved off. He drew hard on the oars to pull away from the shadowy shoreline. As soon as the rowboat slid into the sun, the warmth began to soothe his shivering. He pulled up the oars and laid them in the boat, letting himself drift while he rubbed his hair dry. He draped the damp towel over the bench seat, pulled out his cellphone and watched the bars slowly illuminate. When he had three, he touched the telephone icon and tapped ‘Messages’. There were eleven.

Fuck.

Three were hang-ups and two were from the producers of
Paranormal Research Team
wanting to know when he was coming back to work. The next five were from friends wanting to know when he was coming back to civilisation.

“Maybe never,” he said to the empty lake.

The next number looked familiar, but he didn’t make the connection until he heard Bridget O’Malley’s voice.

“Thomas, it’s Bridge. Mike and I are in Wisconsin. He talked Toni into buying some run-down ice-cream parlour—a very fucking haunted ice-cream parlour. Tom, you know I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t have to…”

There was a pause and Thomas frowned. Bridget usually debriefed him in efficient rapid-fire partial sentences and in the six years he’d known her she’d never once called him Tom.

The wind suddenly picked up and a hawk screamed overhead. Thomas flattened his palm over his open ear so he could focus on the rest of Bridget’s message.

“…Toni made contact. We didn’t know she was doing it—hell, I don’t think
she
knew she was doing it—so we couldn’t help her. She wasn’t prepared. This is a strong fucking spirit, Thomas. It drained her. I mean it totally drained her. It happened so fast. We were all just hanging out and she went into some kind of trance. The next thing we know, she’s on the floor—out cold.”

A chill zipped through Thomas’ body and the hair on his arms prickled up. He pressed the phone against the side of his head and squeezed his eyes shut as Bridget went on.

“…She’s been in and out of consciousness since yesterday, babbling some scary fucking shit. She’s in real trouble, Thomas. Toni needs you.”

Thomas tapped out a text and waited for the phone to chirp its confirmation that the message had been sent. He picked up the oars and turned the boat around. He knew he’d slide out of the tiny reception node before Bridget picked up his four-word reply.

I’m on my way.

Chapter Five

They think I’m nuts.

Toni couldn’t force open her eyes, but her ears were working—if only intermittently. Mike was there with Bridget and sometimes the new guy. What was that guy’s name? Liam, maybe? They were talking about her, how she’d acted like she was in a trance then stared at herself in the mirror before passing out, and the strange things she’d been muttering in her sleep.

Bridget was telling the whole story again. Why was she doing that? Toni wanted her to shut up.

They hadn’t seen Daisy in the mirror—the frail little thing who looked like she’d stepped out of the 1920s. They hadn’t seen the lights surge. They hadn’t heard the radio crackle and screech. And they hadn’t heard what Daisy had said.

“I want to tell you my secret.”

The memory of that desperate whisper—amplified through the radio speakers—made Toni’s skin tingle. She wanted to get up. Her mouth was dry and she had to pee. She had to open her eyes. She raised her eyebrows, hoping her lids would follow. She moaned.

“Toni?”

Toni wrinkled her brow. She was still asleep—still dreaming. Thomas’ voice sounded so real. She wondered if she would be able to see him in this dream. She could always feel him in her dreams—the way his cock felt inside her, the weight of his muscular body on hers, the warmth of his skin. But when she tried to see his face, it was always fuzzy, like she was looking through a fogged-up window. She wondered if it was because they’d been together for such a short time.

“Toni, open your eyes.”

A warm hand scooped hers up and she felt breath at her ear.

“Please, Toni, wake up.”

She could even smell him. It made her skin tingle. She smiled and lips brushed her cheek. She willed her heavy lids to open. This dream was so real! She could see the detail of his razor stubble and the little lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. And those eyes! How could she have forgotten how green they were?

He smiled back at her.

“Hey,” he said.

This is real.

“Thomas?”

Toni was shocked at how weak and ragged her voice sounded. She blinked against the sting as her tears gathered. She felt an arm slide behind her back and turned to see Bridget beside her, easing her up.

“Try to sit up, Toni. I’ll get you something to drink.”

Toni pressed her lips into the glossy red-orange hair. “I’ve got to pee,” she whispered.

Bridget nodded and helped Toni hang her legs over the side of the bed. Toni slid an arm around Bridget’s thin waist and allowed herself to be helped up. The two women stood for a moment while Toni tested her equilibrium. She felt sluggish, but steady enough.

Toni took a moment to look around the dingy room, but her bladder would not be ignored. She let Bridget lead her down the hallway and—after assuring the redhead that she could manage on her own—closed the bathroom door behind her. Toni had emptied her bladder and was washing her hands in the sink before she fully registered that she was no longer wearing the capris and tank top she’d arrived in. She was wearing black sweatpants that hugged her hips but puddled at her ankles and a black T-shirt that hung down to mid-thigh and stretched taut across her braless breasts.

Oh gawd. I’m wearing the new guy’s clothes.

Toni looked in the mirror and immediately flattened her palms over her face. Her eyes were covered, but the brief glimpse was seared in her memory. Her eyes were puffy and red and ringed with smudged mascara. Her hair stuck up and out in some spots and was matted flat in others.

Desperately hoping that she’d imagined the horrific sight, Toni pulled her hands from her face and rechecked her reflection.

Nope, no mistake. I look like a homeless person.

She groaned when she noticed the white line of dried spittle trailing from the corner of her mouth.

Toni opened the cold tap and lathered up her hands under the frigid stream. She scrubbed her face—wincing at the icy jolt—until she’d washed away the makeup and drool. She ran her wet hands back through her hairline and combed her fingers through to the ends, getting snagged on the dried ice cream at the back of her head. She repeated the process until her hair was evenly damp and the big snarls were worked out.

Thomas is here. I can’t believe he’s actually here.

She bent at the waist, flipping her hair towards the floor, then coaxed the curls to spring back into shape. Toni made the return trip to standing a bit too abruptly and the room began to tilt and spin. She groped her way back to the toilet and sat down fully clothed. She leant forward—elbows on knees—and breathed slowly until the world came back into balance. She heard a tap on the door.

“Toni, everything okay in there?”

“Fine. I’ll be out in just a sec, Bridget.”

Toni stood slowly and returned to the mirror. Improvement—not great, but better. She dragged her lips through her teeth, trying to bring up the colour, and harshly rubbed her cheeks in lieu of rouge.