Page 1 of Revenant (Spirit Realm #2)

RUE

T hey’re coming.

Wake up.

Wake. Up.

WAKE UP!

I bolt upright with a gasp, my heart thudding erratically against my ribs, the whispers of too many ghostly voices talking over each other still ringing in my ears. My first thought is of the guys—they finally came for me after months of silence. Though I should be pissed, I’m thrilled at the prospect of seeing them again, nearly giddy with the excitement.

Yet, after searching my sterile room, only darkness awaits me, the guys nothing more than a figment of my imagination. It’s enough for me to flop back onto the bed and drag the covers over my head.

The squeak of sneakers echoing down the hallway is the only thing that stops me from drowning in despair, and I blink away the sting in my eyes when it feels like I’ve lost the guys all over again. Now is not the time for a pity party.

If an orderly is coming to collect me, I might finally be allowed to leave my stint in solitude. One mistake could mean another week of isolation if I don’t start acting like the perfect lobotomized patient.

Unfortunately, the guys aren’t so easily dismissed from my mind, and the lump in my throat refuses to be banished.

Even after three months of disappointment, the truth is still crushing.

Apparently, they made their decision.

They aren’t coming.

I shy away from even thinking about my nan. The crazy old woman is the only bright spot in my past. She’s probably frantic with worry at my disappearance. I just hope she doesn’t do anything foolish, like trying to confront my father. If he hurts her…I’ll kill him.

Refusing to wallow in my misery, I throw back my covers and drag my legs over the side of the bed. With a groan, I clutch my aching ribs, then gingerly probe the area.

Nothing makes you forget your grief better than physical pain.

The area is bruised, but nothing is broken, no thanks to the three masked men who barged into my room for a late-night visit. They yanked me from my bed, and I barely had the chance to curl up into a ball before they proceeded to beat the crap out of me.

The beating only lasted fifteen minutes, but a lot of damage can be done in that time if a person knows what they’re doing. I suspect the men were disturbed when I didn’t cry out or fight them. I might have even smiled, excited to try out the new tricks I’ve learned with my abilities.

I mean, what else is a girl to do when she spends nearly twenty-four hours a day by herself and an unending supply of ghosts?

My glee might have frightened the big babies, and they left sooner than expected. I didn’t get to torture them even a little. It’s hard not to pout. At least they were careful not to touch my face, keeping most of the damage to a surface level only, meaning I am sore as fuck but able to breathe and walk without assistance.

It was all very deliberate, each blow inflicted for maximum pain, the midnight visit timed to induce the most fear. If I hadn’t grown up with regular beatings and intimidation tactics, it might have even worked.

Instead, it came off as a rather pathetic attempt.

The attackers don’t work at the sanitarium—I would have recognized their size and shape—which means Father dearest hired them specifically for me. Some kids receive hugs and gifts, while my father sends thugs. He’s sweet like that.

It wouldn’t do for me to become too comfortable or acquire any new-fangled ideas, like the notion that I could ever escape his tender mercies.

Even though he hates me with every fiber of his being, he wouldn’t risk killing me.

Not yet anyway.

I haven’t suffered enough.

I didn’t even bother to cry out for help during the beating.

None would come.

The hospital is aware of what happened…because who else would allow them to enter my locked room?

I drag up the hem of my shirt and grimace when I see the perfect outline of a boot print where a fucker stomped on my ribs. From my collarbone down, I’m a mess of bruises and scrapes. I grimace when I pull down my shirt, then fork my hands through my messy hair and rest my elbows on my knees, cradling my aching head. My latest round of meds is a cocktail designed to keep me groggy. A ghost of a headache lingers near my temples and never seems to go away.

I laugh humorlessly at my own joke.

Fucking ghosts.

Although, to be honest, being sent to the psych ward wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened to me. I’m starting to get a handle on my little ghost problem, mostly through trial by fire, but I’m still alive, so I’ll take that as a win.

When I yawn, pain spears my jaw. I reach up and prod the area, grimacing when dried blood flakes down to pepper the grungy shirt inmates are forced to wear. An inch-long scrape runs along my jaw, the slightest touch warning me I will have a nasty bruise from where I twisted away from the blow aimed to crush my throat.

I drop my hand with a sigh and glance around the four-by-six-foot prison cell.

Padded rooms are real.

Who knew?

They call them “calming areas.”

Calming, my ass!

They are nasty as fuck. The smell of sweat and despair clings to the vinyl fabric decorating every inch of the room. I now understand why they call it a rubber room—throw yourself at them, and you just bounce off. Stains mar almost every surface, the pads so old, they are hard as rocks.

That didn’t stop people from clawing at the walls, and I shudder at the jagged, bloody nails that are still embedded in the pads from where they were ripped right to the quick from desperate fingers. A few spots even have teeth marks where the previous occupants fucking tried to chew their way out, if the indentations are to be believed.

I grimace at what would drive a person to try and eat a fucking wall.

Then again, from the lax way they feed people, maybe it’s not so farfetched.

After three months of unending isolation, I can understand how it could drive a person a bit batty. I might not like people very much, but even I miss socializing. If I wasn’t able to see and hear ghosts, I’m not sure how well my sanity would have fared.

But, after saying that phrase in my head, maybe that ship has already sailed.

I glance around my small room, not even flinching at the sight of a dozen or so ghosts filling the cramped space. The spirits are barely more than shadows, a sea of blurry shapes. The walls bulge and ripple as more try to push through, but the fresh drops of my blood christening the cell must be keeping away the worst of the lot. The ghosts are such a frequent sight now, my constant companions, that their presence is almost a comfort, which is a frightening thought in itself.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise, but the sanitarium is full of troubled spirits. Some are trapped, a few poor souls don’t understand they are dead, while others are just as crazy as when they were first admitted to the hospital. One or two special souls are malicious assholes, content to stay and cause mischief.

Those bastards are scary as fuck.

Dealing with a normal ghost is hard enough.

An insane one?

Impossible.

I almost feel bad for the ones that have been here for over a hundred years, the torment they suffered written on their broken and tattered bodies, where doctors had used them as experiments. Not surprisingly, a lot of the ghosts are women who were admitted to the hospital for something as simple as their family didn’t want to take care of an aging spinster or they wanted the money of an ailing aunt. A shocking number of women were locked away for daring to cheat on their spouses. The most tragic ghosts are the young women who were locked away for something as heartbreaking as getting pregnant without the luxury of being married.

People can be fucking awful.

But not all of the ghosts fall under that category.

Some of the residents still haunting the halls are crazy as fuck, not a speck of sanity remaining in their empty black eyes. They are the worst of the lot, doing their best to drive everyone else around them as insane as them.

Singing at all hours of the day and night.

Screaming or laughing hysterically.

The constant, nonstop whispering at all hours.

An unhinged few ramble around the empty hallways, following inmates and staff with creepy smiles, like they are thinking about the many ways to dismember a body.

Shudder.

If they could interact with the living, they would slaughter anyone they encounter and enjoy painting the walls red with their victim’s blood.

Thankfully, the ghosts leave me alone for the most part, many fearing that if they mess with me, I’ll mess with them back. After three different hospitals in as many months, I’ve learned through trial and error how to hunt them as much as they hunt me.

Banish a few ghosts, and they keep their distance.

Go figure.

Surprisingly, a small few have begged to be laid to rest, desperate to leave this hellhole. In return, they are willing to do anything I ask…like haunting the living so the other inmates and staff leave me the fuck alone.

It’s a devilishly fun side effect that I exploit to my maximum benefit.

After the first few hauntings, the staff often quit en masse, and I would eventually be transferred when everyone refused to have anything to do with me.

The same pattern followed in quick succession at the second and third locations.

You’d think the fuckers would learn to leave me alone, but the people hired at these places aren’t always the most balanced. Truthfully, they are sadistic assholes who take pleasure in torturing the inhabitants, because who’s going to complain, right?

If you make a fuss, the mistreatment becomes worse.

Verbal abuse.

Frequent beatings.

Thankfully, besides a few inappropriate touches, leering eyes, and lewd comments, the staff and residents mostly leave me alone.

For now.

I suspect my reputation precedes me.

Another favorite pastime of the orderlies is pumping me full of enough drugs to keep me comatose. Ironically, the ghosts become stronger when I’m not there to hold them back. They take it upon themselves to haunt the living, using me as a conduit.

Just being near me grants them power.

The orderlies and nurses quickly learn that nothing they do can break me. I’m not sure if that infuriates them or scares them more. Dear old Dad taught me well, and my tolerance for fuckery outlasts theirs when the ghosts take their dues.

I can’t even pretend to be remorseful.

Even the good orderlies are little better than Nurse Ratched in places like these…especially when my father pays them handsomely to be extra “gentle” with me.

The sound of metal on metal screeches in the small space as the heavy bar across my door is wrenched off. This place isn’t exactly state of the art, the old building exuding murderous vibes, even during daylight hours, reminiscent of that creepy hotel in the middle of nowhere where everyone died and their ghosts remained trapped.

Light pierces the room as the door creaks open, and I cringe when it threatens to sear my corneas. I lift an arm to cover my sensitive eyes and narrow my gaze, trying to distinguish the shadowy figure waiting for me. Dallas fills the doorway, his hulking form blocking most of the glare. “You ready, dollface?”

Dallas is nearly seven feet tall, four hundred pounds of purebred Southern boy. He is assigned to the rowdier occupants of the sanitarium where I’m currently residing. We came to a truce on the first week of my stay—he doesn’t fuck with me, and I won’t fuck with him.

He is the only one willing to have anything to do with me. The rest of the orderlies refuse to enter my ward, much less look in my direction.

Not that I can blame them.

Much, anyway.

The ghosts haunting the sanitarium take protecting me seriously, and not only during working hours. They are relentless when given a target.

The hauntings—if you want to call them that—would range from something as simple as moving a few items to full-out tormenting the orderlies until they land in a psych ward themselves. Not that I feel even a smidge of remorse. The fuckers deserved it, and I have the bruises to prove it.

The first time the spirits came to my defense, I was as gobsmacked as everyone else.

But maybe I shouldn’t have been.

After years—or even decades—of abuse, they want their own pound of flesh.

I climb to my feet slowly, my joints stiff, my muscles sore. I exercise as much as I can in the limited space, since being physically fit allows a person’s body to heal faster. But the drugs and lack of food are barely enough to keep me functional. Smiling at Dallas, I shuffle toward the door. “Ready as ever.”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Dallas snarls, his face folding into a scowl that rivals a pit bull.

Telling the truth would only stir up trouble for him, and I’m too afraid to lose the small kindness he has shown me in this hellish place. So I stare him dead in the eye and lie my ass off, my voice lacking any inflection. “I cut myself shaving.”

Apparently, only I find myself amusing.

Everyone’s a critic.

Instead of a laugh, a growl rumbles from his massive chest, sounding very much like a grizzly bear. His jaw moves like he’s chewing his molars, but I refuse to relent at his scary boss man face. The battle of wills only lasts a minute before he heaves a sigh, then he steps aside and admits defeat. While he might be stubborn, I’m even more obstinate—a lesson he learned the first day.

As I exit my luxury suite that smells of stale urine and toxic chemicals, he watches me with eyes that miss nothing. He hovers at my back like a giant shadow, waiting to catch me if I falter. I could almost pretend this is what it would feel like to have a big brother. Even though it’s a ridiculous thought, warm fuzzies fill my chest.

It’s the small things in life that keep me going.

My mind conjures up memories of the first time we met. I was admitted to this new facility a little over two weeks ago. After I woke up from the medically induced coma they put me in during transport, I didn’t have long to gain my bearings before hell week started, where both the patients and the staff do their best to enforce their standing in the hierarchy any way possible, so no one ever forgets who’s boss.

Hell week was pure torture, mine more than most, as I struggled to survive both the living and the dead. With a few new tricks I picked up along the way, everyone quickly learned not to fuck with me. The second week of my stay consisted of solitary confinement—the repercussion for fucking with them.

Sigh.

I’m surprised they didn’t just lock me into solitary, toss the key, and leave me to rot. If not for Dallas, I suspect my stay might not have been so…hospitable. After they pumped me full of drugs and dragged me to my new cell, they left me strapped to a gurney for nearly a full day. The next morning, I woke to find Dallas towering over me. He stood next to my cot with his arms crossed, his legs splayed, his expression harsh.

He has an awesome resting bitch face, and I told him that.

He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. With his plump cheeks and droopy expression, he bore an uncanny resemblance to a hound dog. “Listen here, dollface. I know what you did at those other places.” A full-body shudder passes through him. “Keep your voodoo bullshit to yourself, don’t fuck with me, and I won’t fuck with you. If you can do that, I’ll treat you right.”

Once released from my confinement, none of the other employees would come near me, leaving Dallas permanently assigned to me.

I wasn’t sure I could trust him—I trust no one these days—but the big black man kept his word.

Color me surprised.

I squint as we head down the brightly lit hallway, grimacing when the harsh smell of chemicals burns my nose. After months, I should be used to the stink, but the bleach is too overpowering. Unfortunately, the stench of feces, puke, and urine still haunts the air, like it has bled into the very essence of the building.

Honestly, at this point, the harsh cocktail is all mixed into one toxic mess. It’s seared into my senses, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to smell it again without suffering from a heavy dose of PTSD.

“What’s scheduled for today?” I do my best to disguise my limp, careful not to move my body too much to prevent my ribs from screaming at the abuse they took last night. The injuries will heal soon, anyway, and it wouldn’t do for Dallas to look into the issue. He would either be fired or targeted on my behalf. While we aren’t technically friends, I don’t want to lose the one person who actually gives a shit about his job.

Not that most psychiatric wards are bad. Unfortunately, my father would never risk sending me to a reputable hospital. How could he control me otherwise? No, he’s paying good money to keep me hidden and quiet. We couldn’t have pesky doctors actually doing their jobs. Not only would I be released—probably, anyway, I have my doubts these days—but my father would be the one behind bars.

“Breakfast first, then you have a session with Dr. Hershamn.” Dallas reaches forward with his ginormous arms and scans his badge against the black scanner near the wall. When it beeps, he pulls the door open.

“Doctor Hershamn?” I smile my thanks and duck inside the cafeteria.

“He’s the head of the hospital,” Dallas says, then he rolls his lips and glances over my head with narrowed eyes as he surveys the room for any threats. Honestly, if he weren’t an orderly, I would take him for a bodyguard. When I told him that, he laughed his ass off, claiming he loved his fried chicken too much and wasn’t nearly in shape enough to protect anyone.

As he follows me into the room, he whispers in my ear, “Just be careful. The doctor… He’s not a good man.”

I barely resist rolling my eyes.

Like I would tell a doctor anything.

From my experience, the type of doctors my father hires have long ago lost any scruples they might have once possessed, each willing to take money to forge documents to show my deteriorating sanity. While their diagnosis might be true, most of them barely even glanced in my direction, much less spoke to me before they signed off on the incriminating papers that legally pronounced me certifiably insane.

If my father is good at anything, it’s navigating the seedy underbelly of the world.

It takes a crook to find a crook.

As the metal door clanks shut behind us, all sounds instantly quiet until I swear I can hear a mouse fart from across the room. Whispers about my abilities had spread like wildfire throughout the hospital. Patients duck their heads and focus on their food, hoping to escape my notice, while the orderlies and nurses either glare at me or scurry away in fear.

I do my best not to roll my eyes at their dramatics. I’m not the big baddie they all fear. Sure, ghosts are scary as fuck, but I’ve been dealing with them since I was a child. If a toddler can survive being attacked by poltergeists, then they sure as fuck can deal with it as well.

Not that I tell them shit.

I’ll take the protection of the ghosts for as long as it lasts.

Dallas leaves me as I saunter forward to collect my food. A tray clatters to the counter, the questionable food—paste, really—splatters, but the server disappears before I can level a glare at them. I grimace when the watery substance immediately begins to separate from the pureed food and mixes together in a delightful mess that looks like diarrhea on a plate.

Yum.

With a sigh, I take what’s offered, knowing better than to argue or protest.

Crappy food is better than no food.

I take a seat on the metal bench bolted to the ground, and the other occupant at the table jumps to his feet like he was electrocuted, sprinting across the room in his attempt to flee. The cold metal seat sears my ass through the drab gray patient outfit we are forced to wear. I suspect it was once white but became dingy after too many washes, and I barely resist a shudder at the thought of how many people have worn the clothes before me. The outfit could almost pass for scrubs, if the material wasn’t so paper thin.

While I’m allowed underwear and a sports bra, none of it is comfortable. The waistband of the panties is stretched out and barely stays up, while the bra is a size too small and digs into my flesh with each breath. I suspect a pervy male assigned me my clothing so they could gawk at my cleavage, because who doesn’t love a massive uniboob?

Unfortunately, I don’t dare go without.

That’s just asking for trouble.

It’s only pure luck that I haven’t been raped at any of the four different asylums I visited.

Small mercies.