Blogging's great, writing, and an excerpt from ErRatic (chapter two)!
I swear, this blogging stuff exorcises more than a few demons. I have a few other blogs, and so far, I've vented, I've pouted, I've cheered, I've griped, and I've speculated online today. God help me if anyone visits them all!
BTW, if you want excerpts from my other books, you can visit some of my other blogs. Just Google me, and I'm sure you'll find an excerpt or three...
Next week Uni begins again, and I can't wait. I'm absolutely thrilled this time - taking 2 ancient history and 3 anthro classes. One of my courses is Egyptian hieroglyphics. Fascinating!
I've also opted for a class in dynasty 18 - that's the dynasty sourced for that new find in the Valley of the Kings. Should be interesting.
Writing? Some, but not enough. I've been promoting my website online like mad, which is rather sad because I still need to finish the remainder of it. It has an index page so far and that's all! Disgraceful! LOL! Later this week...maybe. Before next week I need to finish submitting books to search engines and directories, and complete that website.
Work! Work!
And put another 2500-5000 words on my latest. If I want to finish it by 15 March, I need to at least hit 15K to 20K words by 1 March...I think!
Enough for now - too much to do. I'll leave you here. Have a super week!
Oh, and your excerpt's below.
Happy reading!
Cheers,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm (all my EBOOKS...except Gilded Folly)
http://www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill (my PRINT books)
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com (my under construction new website)
http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (Gilded Folly)
Excerpt:
ErRatic, chapter 2
Chapter Two
They hit him before he hit the bottom of the steps. The other guy made it back to his tree, but Harley never had a chance. He tripped over rats, landed on rat-cushioned brick, wriggled and fought to get up on all fours—while the weight of the onslaught crunched him down. His world was squeaks, squeals, groans, squawks; scraping, scratching, thudding, pummelling. Tiny toenails snagged his clothes, and rat panic tore at his hair as they fled. He was cheek against brick, arms flailing, fending them off, but that was their mission, anyway—over and off and away, furry body after furry body after furry body. Harley’s eyes were scrunched closed against a thousand tiny claws. His face was stinging; raw with scratches.
They’ll eat me now!
The blood... He buried his face in his arms, but he couldn’t hide it all. Better an ear than an eye. His toes were safe in shoes, but his jeans suddenly seemed such a flimsy fabric. His legs, his genitals. His back and spine. The horde came on.
Like a pack of piranhas, he kept thinking.
He gagged again, burrowing his face deeper under his arm.
It-It’ll be o-over in seconds...
It was. The weight of sheer numbers had been pinning him prone, and suddenly, it dwindled. Harley peeled himself off the brick with jerky, save-yourself desperation, and pulled out his gun. Fire off a shot, and they’ll all run... He got up on brick-beaten knees, unable to control his all-over shaking. Nothing to be ashamed of—just reaction, he thought bravely. Shock. He twisted, gun at the ready, searching out his intended victims.
They were gone. He’d expected corpses to be littering the ground—half-eaten tributes to rat appetites, but there was nothing. No blood, no fur, nothing. Even the rats he’d pounded when he’d fallen had somehow vanished, down some hole in the Earth.
He shuddered. Their tiny needlish claws were still ghosting his skin, doing their scratchy dance on his back. If they were to come back now, they’d come right for him—go straight for the raw meat. His whimper of terror surprised him, and he cleared his throat loudly to cover, then twisted madly—afraid that any sound of weakness would lead them to suspect they had a victim to claim.
Nothing. His tension eased a notch...and then Dale tapped him on the shoulder.
The gun should have fired, but instead, it flew. Harley shamed himself with a yelp; overreacting with a panicky roll that brought him back to his feet, and let him reclaim his weapon.
His eyes flicked back and forth. It was only Tree Man.
"N-Nev-v-ver t-touch a m-man with-th a l-loaded-d w-weap-pon-n." The teeth chattering didn’t do much to enforce his message. Harley’s eyes shifted from the man’s face back to their flick-flick wary watch of their surroundings. Not a rat in sight.
Yeah—but you know how fast they came on last time. They’re everywhere. Houses, fields, sewers.
He held his gun at the ready.
Yeah, they were real, Harley. Don’t doubt yourself... He tilted his head, and shook a rat pellet out of his ear. I must look like a madman, he realised.
Hell, I am one. What he’d just experienced was insane. He crouched there, semi-stunned, as the shivery sensation slowly faded. It was the first time he could ever recall feeling this rattled.
"Rat"-tled, he thought hysterically. How appropriate...
Hysteria. In a minute, he’d be giggling like a schoolgirl.
Tree Man hesitated for an instant, then placed a wary hand on Harley’s shoulder. "You okay?" he asked. There was an element of sympathy to his voice.
In a moment of lucidity, Harley recognised a fellow sufferer. His eyes quit their panicky searching, and lifted to other man’s face. "I-Is it s-safe now?" he whispered hoarsely. His voice hardly shook at all.
Dale nodded. "Happened to me in the lab," he admitted. "Glass everywhere. It was a mess." At the sudden heat in Harley’s expression, Dale said grimly, "You woke them up. Do you set your damned alarm on stake-outs, too?" So obvious he was a policeman, and a lot too eager with his damned gun. Another asshole like Jack. Jack Jamieson had tainted Dale’s opinion of all policemen.
Nor did his words help. Dale had a feeling the man was ready to arrest Emma and haul her off to the Big House. His protested, "Most of the time they’re docile. They run in, sure, but then they sleep it off, and disappear." Something flickered in Harley’s eyes at that one, and Dale hastily shook his head. "They go back where they came from. Nobody ever gets hurt." He added, "I’ve known Emma ten years—more than half the time she’s had this..." His eyes lifted heavenwards as he sought the right phrase. "...attraction for animals." For emphasis, Dale said reasonably, "Some of the saints had it, too, if I recall my St. Francis of Assisi correctly."
"All animals?" Harley asked.
Dale cleared his throat. "Limited to a few species, but..." He held up his hands against the argument in Harley’s face. "...who’s to say the derivation of Francis’ gift?"
"So, now she’s a saint," Harley said flatly. He couldn’t help it—a glint of amusement appeared in his eyes. At least he no longer had any question about the source of her nickname. He had to fight against the sudden urge to laugh like a buffoon.
Hysteria. Control it, Chalmers.
In his efforts to counter his moment of weakness, it came out more brutally than he intended. "She’s a public nuisance," he spat out. After that, he found himself, literally, spitting. The insides of his cheeks were raw from biting them, and he couldn’t get the rat taste out of his mouth. Not that he’d actually tasted rat, but the taint was everywhere.
Hairs. Rat hairs, in your nose.
He fought the embarrassing urge to gag again. He was stained, disgusting, and those damned little feet had left their marks on his skin. He gave an inadvertent shudder. "Just reaction," he grunted.
It was the other man’s turn to look amused, but Harley appreciated how he tried to hide it.
"She’s more of a private nuisance," Dale said. "It’s not her fault you took them by surprise."
"So, now it’s my fault?" Harley couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Dale appeared to consider it. "Well...yeah."
He was about to say more, when a woman’s voice interrupted him. "I agree with him," she said staunchly, nodding towards Harley. "Lock me up and toss away the key." She had a roll of toilet paper in her hand and began awkwardly brushing at Harley’s clothes, picking off the worst of the rat pellets. "I’m sooo sorry."
Dammit, if it didn’t sound like she meant it, but Harley tried not to let it sway him. "Saint and martyr," he muttered. He was surprised by the flash of anger in her eyes. "‘You have the right to remain—"
"It should have been done years ago." Jock’s interruption was both harsh and unforgiving. "Those rats of hers are gonna kill somebody some day."
Dale turned on him. "You make ’em sound like pets! Emma can’t help it!"
Emma shook her head. "I bet a psychopath can’t help it, either." Dale opened his mouth to argue again, but she held up a hand. "They’re both mental conditions, Dale!"
"States of mind," he debated. "This’s a metaphysical phenomenon!"
So much for his arrest. Harley appeared to be clinging to his temper by threads. "What about injuries?!" he barked.
Emma’s eyes widened in alarm. "Did they hurt you?" she asked, anxiously. She looked him up and down. Other than some scrapes, where his nose and chin had contacted the pathway, and some claw scratches, he seemed okay. "Are you hurt?"
"And property damage!" Jock stormed. "What about that?"
"Bullshit!" Dale argued. "The only damage is right here, to this residence—and Emma’ll fix it, the way she always does." He looked to Emma for concurrence, and she nodded.
Fix it. "What about my neighbours?" Emma asked now, in near-despair. Jack’s friend had his gun stowed now, but one lady was out on her porch, and there were a number of twitchy curtains. Somebody must have seen them...
It was the nightmare of her existence—never being able to live in peace.
Move, move, move. Good thing I don’t have all my boxes unpacked, she thought dismally. She forced a smile and gave a wave to the neighbour across the street. The woman had brought over cookies on her first day there. "Damn!" she whispered.
Harley saw the direction her eyes had taken, and the other woman’s glare. "Let’s take this inside," he said firmly.
"No way!" Jack argued. "What about my shirt—m-my jeans!" Jack looked to Harley for approval, which immediately set Harley’s back up. Somehow, Jack read his blank face as agreement. More confident now, he sneered, "What about them? Who’s gonna pay for them? If you don’t arrest her ass, Harley, I sure as hell will."
"Did she invite you over?" Dale asked him pointedly. "Or you?" He turned his narrowed eyes on Harley. "Did she threaten anybody? Arrange this scenario to—in any way—harm you?! Are you injured? Were—you—attacked?"
No, Harley had to admit. The rats ran over him. I just happened to be standing in their way. Hit and run.
You can’t arrest a rat. His lips twitched.
Jock wasn’t through. He’d sensed some kind of victory in the air—maybe he wanted his sister locked up, in some kind of institution. Harley could almost feel pity for him then. Years of this. It must have been hell.
"I’m a cop!" Jack roared. "So’s he—!"
"Does he have a warrant?" Dale pushed.
Jack looked at Harley, and Harley sighed. "No. ‘He’ doesn’t," he admitted.
"Well, there you are," Dale said, looking pleased with himself.
Jack’s grunt was almost a growl. He grabbed Dale’s wrist.
Dale looked pointedly at Jack’s hand. "What’s this? An arrest, for ‘aiding and abetting’? Try to make that one stick."
Harley yanked Jack’s hand back.
Dale glanced at his watch and sighed. "Now, if you’re finished with these accusations," he said, dismissing them casually, "Emma and I have some lab work to discuss." He put a hand on Emma’s back, and firmly propelled her in through the front door.
*
"I am sooo damn good!" Dale was practically dancing. "Did you see the way I handled them? Did you?" He grinned. "I’ve always wanted to do that!"
"You were a master," Emma told him distractedly. She was already pulling out the vacuum.
Dale shook his head in disbelief. "And I used to think my life was dull. I’ll tell you, Rat—around you, opportunity knocks." He grinned again.
"Yeah," Emma said dryly. "Knocks, thuds, and squeaks."
"Only noise." He made a big point of looking innocently around. "Do you see any rats? I don’t see any rats."
Emma snorted, pointing to the scratch marks on her table, and the rat pellets littering the floor. "Some people would call that evidence. Disinfectant time," she sighed, "again."
"I think the good Lord knows how much you hate doing housework—"
"So He’s cursed me?"
Dale’s smile was overly sweet. "Hey, you said it—I didn’t."
"Shut up, Dale. Go home and brag to Marie."
"Damn right I will. She, at least, appreciates me." He spotted the remains of her lounge suite, and asked, appalled, "Did the rats do that? Didn’t you just pay that off?"
"I forgot to tell them," she said sarcastically. Her smirk faded, and she sighed. "Jack did it. He was," she put it mildly, "a little pissed off."
Dale twitched the curtain aside to peek out. Jack and Harley were still standing there, arguing. "So, there is still a rat on the premises. Maybe two of them."
"You can’t blame Jack for being mad," she said. "If it were you—"
"Don’t go there, Rathburn, or I’ll take you on a quick trip down Memory Lane." He shifted anxiously. "Good! They’re leaving." He grinned.
Emma smirked. "Bested ‘The Man’, huh?"
"Damn straight," he retorted. "Can’t wait to tell Marie..."
"If your story needs backing-up, just have her call me."
Dale checked at that. He looked slightly insulted. "Think she won’t believe me?"
"I think she knows how prone to exaggeration you are."
Dale thought about it, and his huffiness vanished. "Why are women so cynical?" he asked.
"Not cynical—just not totally gullible, either."
Dale grinned. "I’ll have her call you."
"And I’ll confirm your hero-hood." She smiled, and told him sincerely, "You bailed me out, Dale. I don’t know if my freedom is deserved, but I appreciate it. You have my thanks."
Dale dismissed it with a wave of his hand and yanked open the door. A little belatedly, he mumbled, "Shouldn’t leave you with the mess."
He was already halfway to his car when he heard Emma’s, "It’s my mess..." She’d lost the formal tone, and he recalled the number of times she’d bailed him out of trouble. He might be a good talker, but he wasn’t the best scientist, and they both knew it.
Oh, well, he thought. Next time. That was one thing with Emma: you could always figure there’d be a next time for catastrophe.
"...and you know how I love to clean!" A blatant hint, if ever he’d heard one.
"Great!" he said, no longer listening. Wait’ll Marie heard about the way he’d handled things! As she called it, "The latest in The Emma Chronicles." Women might not be gullible, but they were suckers for heroes. His eyes lit up. He was gone almost as soon as the policeman’s car had pulled away from the curb.
*
The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk sense into Jock Jamieson’s head, but he had a nasty suspicion Jamieson planned to get even with his stepsister. He’d probably never seriously considered arresting her before, but now that someone else had suggested it, all those dammed-up family loyalties were off. His, "If you don’t arrest her ass, Harley, I sure as hell will", had sounded a little too determined to be dissuaded by logic.
And it had been far too easy to make him leave her house.
No, this afternoon’s events weren’t finished—not by Jock Jamieson’s standards. Harley just wasn’t sure which way his temper was heading. An arrest was likely to draw Jock under scrutiny, too—something he wouldn’t want.
There was always the remedy Jock had been about to deal out when the rats had turned up. Harley would have thought he’d be too scared of rousing the masses again to hit her, but maybe Jock knew something Harley didn’t—like she could only muster rats at certain times of day, or one assault used her up for a while.
It was certain she wouldn’t want word leaking out, either—not if she’d managed to keep her problems a secret this long. Her dismay over the neighbour’s reaction hadn’t been feigned. Emma Rathburn really did want to maintain a low profile.
Harley wondered whether her co-worker was more than an associate. If so, Jock would have a difficult time getting to Emma. Her "friend" might not be as dirty a fighter as Jock, but he had brains.
He wasn’t there last night when I searched her place.
Harley couldn’t recall any signs of male habitation, and he tried to remember exactly what the man had said. He’d been so familiar with the rat problem that Harley had assumed he and Emma had a closer-than-co-worker relationship, but now Harley had a feeling he was wrong. The guy had claimed he’d known her ten years, yet he hadn’t done anything to counter whatever demons were stalking her during the last five. Otherwise, why would she have phoned for help seventeen, eighteen times?
Could it be she was just being spooked by her rats? Had she phoned because they were making more noise than usual, and she’d thought it was something else?
Stupid, Chalmers. He’d seen her buried up to her neck in rats, and she hadn’t been afraid.
But she was last night. Therefore, it wasn’t rats.
Jock, trying to scare her away? Getting her to move again in hopes this time, she’d leave the area?
If that was it, he’d be back there tonight—Harley would have bet money on it. He still didn’t have much use for Jock Jamieson, but he had a lot more understanding. It said something for the man that he hadn’t turned her in before now.
Jock’s attitude at this point would depend on how much he’d been threatened by her activities. Harley knew his own presence at the scene was definitely a contributing factor. If Jock believed his career was damaged, or that he was about to become the precinct joke, he’d want to take it out on somebody. He had too much of the bully in him. It might be the result of a lifetime of provocation, but he wasn’t good at playing victim. Maybe he thought he’d already borne more than his share.
No matter what, Harley knew he needed to talk to Jock, before the man did something stupid.
Like asking tidal backwash to stay on the beach, or the sun not to rise...
He flashed his lights at Jock’s car, and pulled over. Then, he waited, lead in the pit of his stomach. Time to have it out with one of his least favourite people.
*
Twenty minutes later Harley’s mouth was dry from talking. "The only way anyone’s gonna know you’re related is if you make the association. Different last names, Jock." Harley gripped the other man’s arm. "You don’t have to know her."
A flicker of something like relief shone in Jock’s eyes.
He wasn’t the only one feeling relieved. Harley could only admire the thickness of the man’s skull. Harley concluded it wasn’t concern for a sibling which had prevailed over the years as much as gross insensitivity to anything but Jock’s own interests. Everything he said was relative to the degree of persecution Emma had inflicted on him, and he’d revealed far more than he’d probably intended about how much persecution he’d inflicted back. Then the dickwit had grinned, and expected Harley to appreciate the "subtlety" of his retribution.
Jock had gone on at length regarding the ways he’d "covered" for her, and more on how much today’s episode was just one more example of how little control she actually had. "She should be locked up," he insisted, sure he was speaking with a sympathetic fellow-sufferer. "Did I tell you the latest? Biofeedback," he spat out, shaking his head in disbelief. "I practiced ‘biofeedback’ on her often enough," he said scornfully, "and it’s never done a damn thing. She still drives me crazy, every chance she gets." He unconsciously ground one fist into the other. It was a real "Jock" gesture, and he had no idea how revealing it was. Now, he grumbled, "If it’s negative feedback she wants, I can supply it." He’d actually smiled at the thought, his fist grinding his palm all the harder.
"Bet she’s not too happy about her situation, either." As soon as he’d said it, Harley knew he’d made a mistake. Jock was the victim here...only Jock. Harley shrugged it off with a "Who wouldn’t be?".
That unleashed another flood, which Harley finally stopped with a "How long’s she been at it?". It held just the right amount of ambiguity. Jock interpreted it as "How long have you been tortured?".
Harley came away feeling coated in more than rat shit, but endowed with a sense of purpose. He understood now why Emma’s co-worker had stood up for her—somebody had to. As much as Jock may have suffered from Emma’s episodes, it could be nothing to the amount Emma had. Jock hadn’t been the only one who’d lost a family—plus, Emma’d had to live with the guilt. Guilt for her mother’s failed relationship, and her stepfather’s disillusionment, and mainly, according to Jock, for the damage to her brother. No matter how much Jock claimed he’d protected her over the years, it wasn’t worth the persecution he’d subjected her to.
Besides, after his own experiences with Emma’s personal brand of mayhem, it seemed to Harley that Emma Rathburn didn’t need the kind of help Jock was offering. She was quite capable of protecting herself. Jock might like to think she was still dependent on him, but it was more imagined than real. Harley had to press it home maybe five times to get his point past Jock’s anger. The man had held onto his grudges so long he didn’t know how to function without them. A power trip for Jock—a persecution trip for her?
"You don’t have to know her...ever again," Harley pressed.
Jock was still deliberating. His social status was based on coercing people to recognise him. Harley could almost read his mind. He was weighing whether deliverance from his sister’s problems could balance against the social standing she gave him. Apparently, according to Jock, Emma had quite a rep as the scientist. Not exactly his usual social circles, but he’d acted as her escort at times.
And Emma was the one person in the world who would forgive him anything. He’d lived on her guilt for so long—excusing it as "she’s family"—that he wasn’t sure how to eliminate her influence. Her rats gave him an excuse; a reason to be less than he was supposed to be. Could he manage without them...without her?
No one to beat up. No one to ridicule. No one to give him a reason to hate his life. Lots of reasons he shouldn’t let her go. "She’s not so bad. And hell, she’s my sister—" he began.
Harley cut him off with a sharp, "No, she’s not. You told me your parents broke up when Emma turned ten. Eight years together. That labworker friend of hers has known her longer than that."
"She went to my school—"
Harley shrugged. "So, you knew her. I knew lots of kids who went to my school—hated a bunch, too. Did you two hang out or something?"
Jock looked horrified. "Sure, Harley." He snorted in derision.
"The point is, she’s not a relative—she’s not even a friend. Neither one of us called in a report, and neither one of us has to know her."
"What were you doing there, anyway?" Jock asked suspiciously. It had only now occurred to him to ask why Harley was there.
Just passing by...
Not even Jock would buy that crock, so Harley decided on partial honesty. It might be enough to dissuade Jock from further action. He knew better than to suggest a paranormal element. Jerks like Jamieson thrived on anything they perceived as a weakness. Harley refused to offer him any ammunition. "She seemed really scared last night, and I wondered if there was something more to her report...like a stalker." He watched Jock closely. No reaction. Harley continued, "So I decided to sit there; watch for a while. Just curious."
The latter sounded bad, Harley realised. After all, Emma was the man’s sister. He’d made himself sound like some kind of voyeur. Secretly watching...
Jock nodded eagerly, though, as if he’d indulged in something similar himself. It made Harley feel sick.
Harley frowned. "Then, I saw you head in and you looked damn mad," he said grimly. "I heard your threats."
Jock tensed. "I wouldn’t have done anything—"
"I know, Jock," Harley lied. "But I needed to follow it through, if you know what I mean."
It took a few seconds, but Jock figured it out. Harley knew, because he gulped, and his voice squeaked a little as he said, "Yeah, Harley. I think I do."
*
Jock had taken off pretty quickly after that. "I wouldn’t worry about the stalker," he’d argued. "Probably more rat noises. It comes in waves, y’know."
"No, I didn’t," Harley had said mildly.
"Yeah." Jock sighed and nodded. "Happens two, three times over a week, then that’s it for a while."
"Good to know," Harley said.
"Yeah," Jock grunted, then burst out laughing. "Good to know, even if she’s not!" He was still laughing as he climbed back into his car.
*
Two hours later, Emma was on the phone to Marie. She listened, then laughed. "Yeah, I’m embellishing a little. It was a near thing, though. I was almost behind bars."
"Dale would have loved that," Marie admitted, a smile in her voice, "‘being behind bars’, I mean. I sometimes think it’s his goal in life, to be dissociated from society."
Emma heard Dale’s voice in the background. "As long as I’m not dissociated from you..."
Marie giggled, and her next words were garbled. "The martyr complex—" She laughed again. "Look, E-Emma—I’ve gotta go..." Her laughter made a hissing sound in the receiver.
Emma found herself smiling in sync. "Have fun!" She hung up the phone, and looked dismally around her living room.
It was picked up, disinfected, and she hated it. The part she hated most was her suspicion that she was responsible for the new "aura" in the room. Not a smell, and not the damage by knife or claws. She’d taped and patched those parts of her life back together, by working like a fiend. Cleaning up after her "visitors" was always a horrible prospect, but she had it down now.
Tools of my trade...
Hose outside, then a sprinkler and grass seed. Water in as much as possible. She frequently wished she could take the hose to the inside, but a shop vac worked its industrial action on the mess. The only signs of a problem now lay in her trash bin outside, a close inspection of her grass, and a new, damp, antiseptic shabbiness to her furnishings.
It could have been worse...
It could have been the kitchen, or my bedroom. Visits like that would haunt her dreams.
Why can’t I get used to this? She downplayed it, sure, but Dale and Chang and Nicky were better at casual acceptance of her episodes than she was.
Would someone get used to a cyclic series of car wrecks, even if they transpired only intermittently? Emma didn’t think so. Maybe the increase in paranormal activity was actually an improvement. Maybe, in another year or two, the rat incidents would cease altogether, to be replaced by visual phenomena.
Then I can be batty Emma Rathburn, more of a neighbourhood weirdo than I already am. Medium to the middle class.
Hey, at least people don’t have to know how weird you are, then.
Nobody except the police. She considered his visit last night, and again today. That indicated a level of suspicion she knew she deserved.
Maybe he’s just Jack’s friend. There were excuses for Jack, but none for the people who chose to befriend him. She could excuse or even deny Jack’s jerkiness, but not that of those who admired his traits enough to hang out with him. Emma knew it wasn’t fair, and subjectively, she was glad he had someone with similar interests to spend time with, but objectively, she also recognised, somewhere deep inside, Jack’s essential stupidity. His brutality was another issue she didn’t want to explore too deeply. Suffice it to say he no doubt resolved a lot of his angst with his police work.
I wish he were out of my life.
Words. I’m glad he can’t hear them. She was being unfamilial, nonsisterly, and cold as hell. Guilt and exasperation warred.
Jack was a constant reminder of what she was and what she’d done. Past and present, with a nasty prognosis for her future. Just once, she thought in dismal contemplation, it would be nice to be an only child...
She’d been able to put up with her mother’s grievances. Blame could be tolerated if it was referred to only on expired wedding anniversaries and Christmas. Emma couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to live without guilt.
Maybe that’s where she was headed. If the rat stuff stopped, and the ghost stuff took over, she might be able to help people.
The thought gave her the creeps. Summoning the dead. She shivered.
Maybe the ghosts would disappear, too, if she could learn to ignore them. What you refused to see doesn’t really exist. That maxim worked for scores of tightassed people every day.
Emma scanned her living room. No movement, nothing dire. It was dark outside, and no matter how many lights she put on, the room wouldn’t get any brighter.
No big deal. The dark stuff didn’t exist. She’d made up her mind.
You can always call Chang. He’d come around, just for the novelty. Emma’s hand was halfway to the phone when she pulled back. If she brought him into this now, and he ended up as scared as she was, the novelty of it would be lost. Work was the only place where people met with her on a regular basis, and accepted her. It wasn’t worth jeopardising that for the odd goosebump or two.
Besides, he was a friend—not a boyfriend. An engaged friend. How would Janice interpret a late-night visit to her house?
She could come, too.
Emma knew she’d been lucky with Marie and the rats. If Janice were to have a paranormal encounter with either ghosts or rats, it could severely damage Chang’s personal life—and their work relationship.
Emma wished there was someone—anyone—she could call.
Even Jack?
She searched her brain. No, God help her, not Jack...for any reason.
There was a thunk outside, on the porch, and the lights flickered slightly. When they came back on they were dimmer than before. Emma curled into the big chair, pulling her feet up on the seat. She gave a frightened shiver.
Not Jack—not even now.
*
