I made everyone at the shelter keep it a secret that Blue was officially ours, then I took Lionel and Emily to the shelter so that they could meet Blue and get used to her. It turns out they both fell in love with her, even Emily, who can be such a grump (takes after her dad).
And now, Blue is home.
I place the puppy in Kayla’s arms and she immediately licks my wife’s face. Can’t blame her for that.
“Oh no,” she says, sniffing, staring down at the dog. “Now I’m going to cry.”
“It’s only fair,” I tell her.
She grins at me, happy tears, and leans in to kiss me. Blue decides she won’t be ignored and gets her tongue in right between us.
We laugh and Kayla sets her down. Emily and Lionel come running out from around the corner and the three of them all start speeding around the flat.
I put my arm around Kayla and kiss the top of her head. “Thank you for everything.”
“Happy everything, Lachlan,” she says.
Then the buzzer rings.
It’s Keir and Jessica, bringing a pizza.
Then it rings again.
Mal, Maisie, Brigs, Natasha and Ramona, bringing more pizza.
Then it rings again.
Bram, Nicola, Stephanie, True and Ava, bringing a six-pack of non-alcoholic beer and a very fancy looking cake.
Throughout the night that buzzer keeps ringing, bringing in co-workers at the shelter, teammates, and other friends, until the flat is absolutely packed and Kayla has everyone wearing balloon hats and playing pin the tail on the donkey. Being the world’s cutest puppy and all, Blue steals all my thunder, but that’s okay.
I have my love, my dogs, my family, my friends.
I have all I need.
THE END
GHOSTED An Experiment in Terror Novella
Chapter 1
“Excuse me, are you Dex Foray?”
I stop in my tracks as I’m walking past the Chief of Seattle statue in Tilikum Place, and look over my shoulder at a Danny Devito-sized man hurrying toward me, clutching an oversized trench coat around him that flaps in the cold breeze. Can’t pretend I didn’t see the man loitering outside of the apartment moments earlier, having followed me down the block. Of course, with my fucking luck, this is the type of stalker I get.
“You don’t know me,” he says breathlessly, his voice coarse and nasal. He holds out one hand while trying to keep his coat closed with the other. “I’m Harry. Harry Cox.”
Don’t laugh. Don’t fucking laugh.
I bite back a grin, and turn around, staring at his hand for a moment before I give a hesitant shake. It’s small, chubby, clammy. I imagine it’s like shaking hands with a starfish.
“How do you know who I am?” I ask him, just as the wind whips a fallen yellow leaf into his face, sticking to his black-rimmed glasses. “Better yet, how did you know where I live?”
He reaches up and hastily wipes the leaf away.
“Your address is on your website. I’ve been trying to reach you for a long time,” he says, giving me an apologetic smile. I’m a pro at reading people’s energies these days, more than I want to be, and this guy is anxious as fuck, which in turn sets me on edge. “But all my emails have gone unanswered. I’ve left some messages too.”
“With who?”
“With whom,” the man corrects me, and what a fucking dickladle this guy is. “I don’t know. I used the contact form through your website and I’ve left a few messages on your voicemail.”
“My wife handles those,” I tell him, folding my arms across my chest. Perry runs a pretty tight ship when it comes to managing Haunted Media, our video production company, so it surprises me that she’d drop the ball with this guy. “And you’re what, a band manager?” I squint at his attire. “Accountant?”
“As I’ve said on my many voice messages and emails,” he says, his voice growing a pitch higher, “I’m not interested in your video services. I’m interested in your other services.”
I frown. Like…sexually?
I raise my brow. “Well, Mr., uh, Cox. I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. We run a studio, primarily for music video production. We don’t have any other type of business. Or services. Of any kind. And if you don’t mind, I need to pick up my pizza before it gets cold.” I jerk my head toward Zeek’s, our local pizza parlor, before heading down the street toward it.
“Experiment in Terror,” he calls out from behind me.
I stop.
He walks around me, getting between me and the pizza place. “I need those services.”
I blink at him, trying to figure him out. His anxiety is still through the roof, but it’s coupled with something else. Desperation. It rises out of him, like steam from a turd. A most unsettling image.
“We don’t…you know that was just a show, right?”
“You saw those ghosts. I know they were real,” he says, his eyes sparking beneath his glasses. “I know they’re real too. That the monsters really do live under our beds.”
Okay, now he’s looking a tad erratic. I can’t say that Perry and I don’t get stopped on the street from time to time by people who were fans of EIT, asking us if we’re going to do another episode, grilling us about what was real, or just wanting a lame-ass photo. But this guy…this guy’s not like them.
“Look, Mr. Cox, I don’t understand what this is about,” I tell him firmly. “Whether what we filmed was real or not, that’s all done with. It’s over. We haven’t filmed a show in over three years.”
“But you talk to the dead!” he cries out, loud enough that the people walking past us on street pause, give us a funny look. “That can’t just go away. That’s in you. That stays in you.”
I stare at him for a moment, wondering if he’s about to go a little fucknuts on me. I know crazy, believe me, and he’s walking a fine line
