The Ghost of a Murder Past (Part I)

Chris was asleep in his bed when he felt someone straddle him. At first, he thought he was just having a good dream, but then someone forced something cold into his mouth, and he woke immediately.

“Hey big boy,” the woman said, her voice salacious, reminiscent of overacting in an expensive pornography.

He squinted his eyes, but it was too dark to see her. The moonlight barely outlined her blonde hair, which appeared soft and slightly frayed by split ends. The whites of her eyes seemed to glow abnormally, and she wore a fragrance with which he wasn’t familiar.

“Wha’ you wah’?” His voice trembled and the gun kept him from making hard consonants.

She pulled the hammer back, and the hard click caused the small of his back to tighten. He felt the vibration against his tongue, and the taste of oil and metal made his stomach turn sour.

“I just thought you should know,” she said, looking deeper into his irises than any woman had ever done, “that I think you have the most gorgeous eyes.”

His heart slammed in his chest, beating hard against its cage of bone. Black tentacles pulsed at the sides of his vision. He knew those words. He’d said them before, and he knew what happened the night he spoke them.

“Oh, so you are familiar with that pick-up line, aren’t you?” she said, and pushed the gun further into his mouth. The tip of the iron sight scraped the skin of his roof, and he tasted blood as it climbed down his throat.

The woman ground her crotch into his as she repositioned herself, and because he was wearing nothing but thin boxer shorts, her jeans rubbed him raw. He winced and accidentally bit down on the metal. He felt the muscles of his jaw burn, and tears laced his eyes.

“Oh,” she said, and clicked her tongue. “Poor, boy. Did that hurt?”

“Who ah’ ‘ou?”

She reached up with a finger, placed it over her lips, and shushed him. Then she moved the same hand down along his muscular body, and he felt her graze him with something cold. A short moment later, her hand returned with a bloody knife, and he felt his face turn cold.

“That’s two out of three,” she said. “So, you remember the pick-up line and this knife.”

He shook his head in disagreement, but he knew all too well, but he wanted to deny it. He had to deny it, because if he could do that, then he could make himself believe that night didn’t happen, and he figured that if he believed his own deception, then it never happened.

The gun scraped against his teeth as she moved the knife to the right. He slammed his eyes shut, just waiting for her to bury the knife into the side of his skull. He waited for that moment, which seemed like forever, but it never came. Instead, his eyelids filled with a bright red glow when she turned on the bedside lamp.

When he opened his eyes, he saw her. He knew her, but he knew it couldn’t be her. That blonde hair with blackened roots. The soft black and blue eye-shadow accenting those gorgeous grey irises. The deep red lipstick and the subtle lines at the edges of her mouth when she grinned. It was Beth, but it couldn’t be—it just couldn’t.

“How…” he said, but she choked him off by pushing the gun even deeper. The iron sight scraped more skin, and he gagged as the tip poked his uvula.

“How, indeed,” she said, still able to sound sexier than ever, a curse of his overactive sex-drive. “Tell me, how does it feel to be controlled?”

He couldn’t respond with more than a soft choke, and she knew it. He gagged some more as he pressed his tongue to the underside of the barrel. Tears dripped toward his ears, and she moved her mouth close to his ear.

“Beth Barnes,” she said, the soft sticky sound of her sexy voice tickled him, and his skin tightened with gooseflesh. She took a deep breath, and blew softly on his neck.

He never believed in ghosts, but he was sure Beth had died. He was positive she died because he killed her. No way was she straddling him in his apartment. So was she a ghost? Was he still dreaming?

When she moved her head away, she was no longer smiling. Malice twisted her face, turning her brows inward and encircling her eyes with rage. Her upper lip seemed to twitch as if tugged by a thread that, at any moment, would unravel her into pure madness.

“You killed my sister.”

Instinctively, he shook his head in denial, but the truth was unavoidable. She had the knife. She had her face, but was it her face? Only Beth knew what he did, so it had to be her! He shook his head again, but this time with disbelief.

She let out a soft laugh, and said, “It’s funny. Some people don’t get it. In fact, the only people that get it are twins. There’s a connection between us, but me and my sister? We had a strong one. The kind where trauma comes as nightmares. When one of us experiences something that hurts us in some way, we feel it and see it in our dreams. I saw what you did. I felt what you did, you sick son of a bitch!”

She wasn’t just becoming mad, she was mad. She was damn psychotic. She proved it a moment later when she squeezed the trigger, and blew the back of his skull into his pillow. She smiled, pulled the gun away from his broken teeth, and kissed his burnt lips.

“A kiss from Beth to you,” Lacey said, and wondered if, even in death, Beth might dream about the moment that her sister killed the man that ended her life.


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