I munch my breakfast as the guy in the Mr Motivator unitard disappears and the screen cuts to a woman standing next to a display of gaudy gold earrings. With her tawny-coloured hair extensions, thick dark fake eyelashes, and ridiculously long spiky acrylic nails, she resembles a sloth.
“There’s no way she’s getting those earrings in with those nails.” I shove another spoonful into my mouth. “And I bet those earrings aren’t even cubic zirconia. They look like they’ve robbed them off a Barbie doll. I bet they sayMade by Mattelon the box. What do you think, Delores?” She makes a little humming sound in the back of her throat. I nod. “Just what I thought.”
I glance across at Delores transfixed by the screen, and I feel something in my chest uncoil slightly. It’s true she’s not particularly good company seeing as she doesn’t talk, stalks me obsessively, and is… well… dead, but I find myself grateful for the companionship. I don’t feel quite so alone now.
I’ve just lifted the spoon to my mouth when something sails across the room and smacks me in the side of the head.
“Ow,” I hiss loudly as the bowl in my hand jolts, sending a small tsunami of cold milk over the rim and soaking the t-shirt of Danny’s I slept in. Picking a couple of wet soggy cornflakes off my chest, I drop them back in the bowl and set it down on the coffee table.
I rub the back of my head, looking around to see what hit me, and frown as I catch sight of a rather familiar book which, up until a couple of seconds ago, was tucked neatly on a bookshelf… in the other room.
My life is so weird these days.
I reach down to pick it up, but my hand freezes when I see the illustration on the page where it's fallen open. My lips part in a silent gasp as I stare at the picture before picking it up slowly. My gaze skims down the page quickly as I read the accompanying text.
“There you are.” A familiar voice breaks the silence in the room, and I see Dusty literally skid into the room and come to an abrupt halt. She’s wearing a fedora set at an angle, her signature blonde curls spilling over one shoulder. She also has on a beige belted raincoat and black leather gloves, and her eyes are covered by dark, oversized sunglasses.
“Where else would I be? I live here,” I reply, watching her in confusion as she keeps looking behind her. “What’s with the outfit, Inspector Clouseau?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “I’m in disguise.”
“You don’t say,” I murmur.
“I’m just checking I wasn’t followed.” She checks behind herself again.
I frown. “Dusty, where have you been, and who would be following you?”
“I went back… you know…” She points toward the ceiling. “I asked Upstairs Management about that shadowy thing from yesterday.”
“And what did they say?”
“Well that’s where it gets even weirder,” she replies.
“Weirder than you dressed as Peter Sellers?” I blink, momentarily forgetting the book in my hand and the cold milk seeping through my t-shirt.
“Funny.” She rolls her eyes. “Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Sorry,” I reply contritely as I pull the clammy material of my damp t-shirt away from my skin.
“When I first started asking questions they seemed really surprised, but then they got cagey, really fast. They flat out shut me down and told me to stop asking questions.” She slips off the ridiculously huge sunglasses and her concerned gaze lands on me. “Tris, I get the distinct impression that whatever the hell that thing was, you weren’t supposed to see it, and up there?” She points to the brown leaky patch on the ceiling. “They are not at all happy you did.”
I break her gaze and glance down to the open book in my hand.
“As much as it pains me to say it,” I murmur, “I think you might be onto something.” I lift the book so she can see it. “Something just flung this book at me.”
“Something?” she repeats slowly.
I shake my head. “Or someone.”
“Is that what I think it is?”
I nod my head in confirmation. “Crawshanks Guide to the Recently Departed.”
“Great, because that’s just what we need. A hundred-year-old book of spiritual nonsense written by a drug addict.” Dusty fists her hand on her cocked hip and purses her lips, lifting her perfectly sculpted brows.
Okay, admittedly, she may have a slight point once again. The book came into my possession six months ago when a ghost threw it at my head in an occult bookshop in Whitechapel and was written by the Victorian spiritualist Cornelius Crawshanks, who also more often than not happened to be riding the crazy train whilst high on opium. The problem is, Cornelius did actually know his stuff and had incredible knowledge of life after death. Unfortunately, he was nearly always heavily under the influence while writing his how-to guide, and sifting through pages of drug-addled rambling to find the hidden gems of wisdom is not for the faint of heart.
“You can’t take anything that crackpot says seriously,” Dusty huffs.
