Read Online Ghost Program by Marion Desaulniers - Free Book Online Page B

know?  I’d always thought psychics must be blessed.  But is it a blessing or a curse?”  I was leaning more towards the latter.
       Brent giggled again.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I know.”
       “Feel free to use the shower in the morning.  There’s shampoo under the sink.”
       “Gee, I’ll pass.”
       “You know I still have to go in there whether I want to or not.  It’s my house after all.”
       “What do you think of Gregg?” Brent asked.
       “He gets confused a lot.”
       “I think so, too.  He’d almost be useful if he didn’t live in his memories so much.”
       “He means well.  I wonder if that vacuum salesman ever left,” I said.
       “I don’t hear any noise.  Surely we’d hear it if they were still together.”
       “I wish I was staying with you in Seattle,” I said, and I meant it.  “It’s too bad when we finally really got to know each other, it was under such weird circumstances.”
       “At least we did,” he replied.
     
       Then we were silent, and I listened to sounds of the storm outside.  And I thought no matter how bad the house is, it’s got to be much worse out there under those angry clouds.  My brain was sluggish from the wine, but I thought I felt Brent’s arm touching my side lightly, and the reassuring feeling it left inside me pushed me towards sleep.
       The nightmares came back.
     
       The room was dark, but white moonlight shone through its grimy windows.  Brick walls lined a dirty cement floor, in the distance I could hear the clack of trains running on a track.  My arms were tied over my head, and somehow I dangled from the ceiling of the old warehouse.  They only had buildings like this in the rough section of town. 
       “Please, is someone there?” My voice echoed eerily against the cavernous room.
     
       Mr. Breame emerged from a brick, arched doorway holding a bullwhip, a maniacal smile on his face, his eyes brimming over with malicious intent.
       “Your project is late,” he said as he approached.
       “It’s not,” I cried, sobs racking my frame as I looked down and saw that I wore my purple nightie.
       “It is for me,” he said.  “I’ve been waiting years .”  He struck me with the whip, and I screamed.  Perhaps someone outside would hear me and come to my rescue.
       “No one can hear you.  These warehouses are abandoned this time of night,” he said.  His pressed, plaid blouse, blue jeans, and bottle-rimmed glasses made him look like a quintessential nerd, while his bulging eyes were open so wide they displayed a lifetime of pent up rage.  I didn’t know what I’d done, but it was obvious that he blamed me for everything that had gone wrong with his life.  He struck me again, and I sobbed, closing my eyes to block out the weird scene.  Then I heard a jazz band start up, opening my eyes only to see mom and the vacuum salesman waltzing around the room as the salesman’s eyes bled red blood, which ran in buckets down his cheeks.
       “Mom!” I screamed in a state of extreme bewilderment.  “Please!  Mr. Breame has tied me up.  Please get me down.  He’s doing weird things to me.”
     
       Smashing through the dirty glass, splintering wood and hard brick, filling the dismal and malevolent room with its full, piney boughs and thick, heavy trunk, an old growth pine entered the room with a groan, and I cried as the warehouse collapsed around me.
       “Sam, wake up.”  I heard the disembodied voice.  “You’re having a nightmare.”
       Where was it coming from?
       “Sam, come on.  Wake up.” 
       Hands gently shook my shoulders.  I opened my eyes.  “Brent?”
       He let out a quiet, husky laugh.  “Who’d you think it was?  Yeah.  You were crying in your sleep.”
       “It was...I guess it was....”  I left my sentence unfinished.
       “It was just a dream, not real.  Too much wine, I guess.”
       I touched my