Chapter 5 - The First Haunting of Marcus Vale
The rain over Ravenport turned into a torrential downpour as midnight approached.
In the master suite of the Moretti penthouse atop the grand Highline Tower, Marcus Vale stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, swirling a glass of twenty-year-old scotch.
Behind him, sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, Elena was staring blankly at the marble fireplace. She was wearing a silk robe, her face pale, her hands trembling as she held a porcelain cup of herbal tea.
“You need to stop pacing, Marcus,” Elena said, her voice strained. “You’ve checked the perimeter locks four times.”
Marcus turned, his brows furrowed. “The crematorium transport driver hasn't checked in.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the van picked up the casket from the chapel at six in the morning,” Marcus said, downing his scotch in one violent swallow. “The furnace operator was supposed to text me the confirmation code by nine. His phone has been going straight to voicemail for twelve hours.”
Elena set her tea down with a clatter. “You said there was no chance of an error!”
“There wasn't!” Marcus snapped, striding across the room and grabbing her shoulder firmly. “The coroner confirmed zero cerebral activity! He was legally, clinically dead! The incinerator is probably just backlogged. Stop losing your mind over shadows.”
Suddenly, the lights in the penthouse flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the room plunged into pitch darkness.
Elena let out a short, terrified shriek. “Marcus!”
“It’s just a storm surge,” Marcus barked, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from his waistband. “The backup generators will kick in within five seconds.”
Ten seconds passed. The penthouse remained black as pitch.
Then, across the room, the seventy-five-inch smart television mounted above the fireplace flared to life.
The screen didn't show cable news. It displayed a live, high-definition camera feed of Marcus standing in the dark room, his gun drawn, looking directly at the display.
Below the video feed, a single line of text typed across the screen letter by letter:
DID YOU CHECK THE CASKET BEFORE YOU LIGHTED THE FIRE, MARCUS?
Marcus’s breath hitched in his throat. “Who is doing this?! Show yourself!”
He rushed to the television and tore the power cable from the wall.
The screen went black.
A second later, the built-in sound system in the ceiling crackled with static. Through the speakers came the sound of a voice—deep, smooth, and intimately familiar.
“Thank you for making the crash look real, Elena.”
Elena covered her mouth with both hands, collapsing onto the floor in hysterical sobs. “No... no, no, no! He’s dead! Marcus, he’s dead!”
Marcus fired two shots into the ceiling speakers, plaster and wires raining down onto the carpet. “Shut up! It’s a hack! Someone tapped into the local Wi-Fi network!”
He ran to the balcony doors and threw them open to scan the street eighty stories below.
Through the rain and fog, on the rooftop of the abandoned warehouse directly across the street, Marcus saw a figure.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Standing motionless in the pouring rain, dressed in a long dark overcoat.
The lightning flashed across the sky.
For one fraction of a second, the light illuminated the man's face.
It was Adrian Moretti.
And he was looking directly at Marcus through a pair of binoculars, raising his hand in a slow, mocking salute.
May you like
Marcus fired his remaining four bullets into the night fog. The gun clicked empty.
When the lightning flashed again, the rooftop across the street was completely empty.
