Page 11 of Impenitent Claim

Because I hadn’t been alone.

There was a spectre, a ghost, in my room. Or better yet, the essence of one. Glaring into the dark, I couldn’t pinpoint the monster’s pulse. There wasn’t a prickle against my skin thatwarned me of his presence. Just because I couldn’t now sense him, didn’t mean he hadn’t been here. Every few nights, there’d been a nocturnal visit. All I had to do was jump out of bed, pad across the plush carpet, and discover the evidence of his intrusion.

What did you leave me this time, phantom?

No, he definitely wasn’t here any longer.

Gathering every drop of courage, I threw back the protective layer of covers and leapt from the bed. There was nothing on the antique side table by my reading chair, so I swiveled and headed to my writing desk, a white, distressed piece that I’d repainted myself as a senior in high school. The other girls were out partying, and I was at home, stripping old layers, sanding smooth the age, and creating a new-old look like the strange little freak I was.

The large calendar that doubled as a blotting pad, the sunflower-painted mason jar for the pencils and pens, and the gold wire rack that organized the jumble of papers were as I’d left them. But I learned a few nights ago that I had tolookfor the small offerings the shadow was leaving me.

Sure enough, in the top right drawer, bound in soft velvet ribbon, was an unlined journal, one of those trendy Insta cameras in a bright purple pouch, and a package of junk journal décor. It was by far the most extravagant gift the mysterious force left.

“What in the hell!” I hissed, flicking on the small, lacy lamp.

One of the scrapbook pieces was out of the package, and there was a scribbled note on its face. The pen strokes looked…pained. They were scratches, like a child’s, all in caps and shaky.

Why would the spectre disguise their penmanship? It wasn’t like I would recognize the person by the way they wrote.

“Unless…I would?” I shook my head. No, I could tell my mama’s handwriting, and that was it. Hers had been elegant, a flowing script.Everything she did was a thing of beauty.

Sighing, I pushed away her memory. I didn’t need that haunting me too.

Holding the slip of paper under the light, I read the words.

And then read them again.

“‘For your travels,’” I whispered. “Where the hell am I going, you nutcase?”

A scrapbook. A freaking travel scrapbook! I moved to tear the paper in half, but my muscles squeezed in protest. A long inhale filled my lungs as my eyes squeezed shut.

My door clicked.

Rounding on the thick piece of wood, I glared at the barrier. While my heart beat wildly in my throat, I couldn’t muster enough fear to stay put. There was some wackadoodle who snuck into my room, almost nightly at this point, and left me trinkets.

The fact that they were the most thoughtful, perfect gifts imaginable was beside the point. I would not warm to whatever twisted intentions the intruder had, just because they knew my favorite flavor of saltwater taffy and brought the package from Atlantic City, which was right down the road.

I stalked to the door and flung it open.

Only, right as the handle was about to slam into the wall did I catch it and remind myself to be quiet. It was the middle of the night, but that didn’t mean the intruder and I were the only ones prowling about. Softly closing the door behind me, I took off down the back staircase.

There was not a drop of fear in my veins. I reasoned that if the apparition wanted to hurt me, it would have. There’d been ample opportunity.It was not good logic. Did I know how stupid it was to chase the shadow through the darkness? Absolutely. But here I was.

Mad. Angry. Past my freaking breaking point and ready to scream!

The spectre seemed just as good an outlet as any on which to unleash my frustration.

As with the first night, I chased the presence from the house, the doors that marked its path were open. I darted onto the side patio on the southwest side of the house. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the backyard. It spilled through the trees, dappling the ground in a web of light and shadow. The tall oaks, maples, and poplars loomed over me like silent sentinels, their twisted branches forming ghostly fingers that reached down toward the earth. Theydaredme to advance into their domain.

A chill trickled down my spine.

The spectre was here.

Eager to intercept my target, I hurried forward. Yet once I reached the shadowy realm under the trees, every step I took sent a soft crunch through the night. The lawn was a well-laid trap with fresh fallen leaves that dared to mar the manicured yard. My footsteps broke the stillness of the night. I kept pausing, straining my ears for even the smallest sound.

There!

A ragged inhale.

---