If I Stopped Haunting You by Colby Wilkens (Excerpt)

Chapter 1


PEN

PRESENT DAY

Pen’s hand tightened on her phone as she fought the urge to text Laszlo. Again. Were ten texts in twenty minutes too much? Pen didn’t know what was socially acceptable anymore, and the last thing she wanted to do was annoy the one person in the world who had stuck by her side these last four months.

Puffing out her cheeks, she slipped her hands into her pockets and squinted down the Royal Mile, regarding the thin crowd. Bundled in jackets, hats, and scarves, people wandered down the cobblestone street, meandering past wool shops and dark pubs, celebrating the last of the highs of New Year’s. Despite the chill, Pen found herself smiling.

There were moments since she’d landed, small, freeze-frame instances where she imagined what it would be like to live here. She’d spent the last two days getting lost amid the brick and cobblestone, traipsing through Edinburgh’s Old Town while munching on Scottish shortbread, her breath turning to fog in the air. Pen had hidden inside small cafes with fresh pots of tea as she watched the passing crowds through the glass. She’d buried her nose in antique books, curling onto worn leather sofas and nestling into warm, dark corners that smelled of spices and roaring fires. Edinburgh felt like magic. It was a place built of fantasy, with bronze water fountains, wilted gardens, and Gothic architecture all under the same roiling gray clouds. She was glad she’d come to Scotland a few days early. She’d had a chance to see and enjoy the city before she, Laszlo, and several other writers disappeared into the Highlands for their retreat. And now that she’d gotten to know this city, it felt like she was meant for this place.

“You made it!” Laszlo called, rushing through the crowd. The passersby parted for him, rolling their eyes as the tall, gangly American swerved between them. A lock of his blond hair slipped out from beneath his beanie, flopping into his eyes as he laughed and threw his arms around Pen. She couldn’t help but smile as he picked her up and squeezed tight, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

“Laszlo,” Pen wheezed, patting his back, “I can’t breathe.”

He set her down gently, hands on either shoulder to steady her as he leaned back to get a good look. She’d changed a lot in four months; even she knew that. Her skin had become paler, her cheeks gaunter. Her freckles stood out starkly against her pale skin, a spattering of galaxies across her face, disappearing down her neck. She looked as though she hadn’t seen the sun in months. Which, truthfully, she couldn’t remember the last time she basked in a warm ray of sunlight.

Though she hated to admit it, Pen had become a homebody. This was her first time out of Seattle since the Incident, her first time out of her apartment and away from her fluffy black cat, Apawllo. But if there was anyone to convince her to leave her little nest in a city of rain and hate and fly halfway across the world for a writing retreat, it was Laszlo.

When she’d disappeared from the world, she’d hardly spoken a word to her author friends, assuming that, like the rest of publishing, none of them wanted anything to do with her. Except for sweet, sweet Laszlo with his clear caramel eyes and sandy blond hair. Since Book Con, he’d texted and called, checking in on her. He’d been the only one. And despite his close friendship with Neil Storm, she loved Laszlo like a brother. Not that it was easy being friends with someone who talked regularly with one’s enemy, but timed rants, no-Storm zones, and the adoption of her cuddly companion, Apawllo, to help ease her loneliness had gone a long way in repairing her complicated friendship with Laszlo.

Just as Laszlo took a step back, a tall woman wrapped in a puffy blue jacket launched herself at him. Grinning like a fool, she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, eliciting a wheeze from Laszlo.

“Pen,” Laszlo choked, prying himself free with a laugh, “this is my sister, Louise. Louise, this is Penelope Skinner.”

Louise smiled at Pen with soft brown eyes, her blond curls bouncing as she held out a pale, slender hand. Her nails were trimmed short, and several small scars crisscrossed her hands. “The famed Penelope Skinner! I liked your handiwork.” She winked conspiratorially.

“My handiwork?” Pen asked with a raised brow at Laszlo.

“Hope you don’t mind me joining,” Louise said, ignoring them. “I don’t get to see Lasz too often these days, and I’m visiting from London before I head back to the US for work.”

Pen smiled warily, taking the offered hand. “Not at all. What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Archaeology. I’m working down in Georgia now with a colleague.”

“And she wonders why I don’t visit her,” Laszlo muttered.

Louise shook her head. “There’s some beauty there, brother. If you would just visit me for once instead of making me chase you across the planet—”

“No, thank you.” Louise raised a brow, and Pen stifled laughter as Laszlo shot her a look. “So,” he said, actively ignoring them and starting down the Royal Mile, “are you ready for a bit of a fun surprise?”

Pen narrowed her eyes. “A good surprise?”

“All surprises are good surprises,” Louise countered.

Pen frowned at Laszlo, fight or flight taking shape in her gut like a stampede of butterflies. With a sigh, she hooked her arm through Laszlo’s and followed him down the street.

Now that she was actually in Scotland, the writing retreat felt more and more like a mistake. There were a million reasons why going was a bad idea. While Pen had the money to take a few weeks off for the first time in four years thanks to her side (now full-time) hustle as a freelance editor under an anonymous name, she’d never traveled outside the US, her passport tucked away in a drawer.

Besides preferring the quiet of her small apartment and judgment-free cuddly companion who consistently looked at her with round, bottomless eyes like she knew the answer to everything, there was Storm to think about. She hadn’t seen him since the Incident, and though Laszlo had insisted he wasn’t coming on the retreat, he’d paused on the phone. A short pause, possibly caused by a mere tickle in his throat, but Pen felt a strange nagging at the back of her mind nonetheless.

Except this would be good for her. This retreat could fix whatever was broken in her head, in her heart. She hadn’t finished a book since her debut, and with five years of blocked-up creativity, Pen had begun to wonder if she should give up. If she should stop trying to write. Her agent had dropped her, and she and her book had become public enemy number one. What was the point?

“You look like you’re thinking really hard about something,” Louise observed.

Pen winced. “That easy to tell?”

“You have one of those faces. I know this is kind of nosy, but if you don’t mind me asking, why haven’t you put out another book?”

“Sorry?”

“Lou,” Laszlo warned.

“Laszlo told me not to say anything, but I read your book a few years back when I was visiting him. You have such beautiful, heartfelt writing … but you haven’t put anything else out.”

Because I can’t.

“So, any plans?” Louise went on.

Pen wished she could tell Louise yes. She wished she could promise something else soon, but she couldn’t. “It’s kind of why I’m here,” she admitted.

“In Scotland?”

Pen nodded as they came to a halt behind Laszlo. “I don’t really do this.”

“Traveling?”

“Going to retreats or buying last-minute airfare.” Pen worried her lip, swiveling to the large cobblestone square. “I don’t do things on a whim. But I’m hoping this will be good for me. Getting out of my apartment, seeing the world. Inspiration, you know? I just need a bit of inspiration, and I’m not finding that back home.”

Pen didn’t say that she’d also made a pact with herself. If she walked out of that castle with nothing, then it proved she wasn’t meant to be a writer, and she’d finally give up for good. She deserved more than half-assed promises of a better future. She deserved to really try.

“Ta-da!” Laszlo sang, waving his arms at a sandwich board.

“This is your big surprise?” Pen asked, raising a brow.

“Oh, come on! Haunted tours are fun. I figured it would be good preparation for the castle.”

“You don’t really think the castle’s haunted, do you, Laszlo? It’s probably just a gimmick to pull in more tourists.”

He shrugged. “Won’t know until we go.”

Pen frowned, but Louise smiled and nudged her. “I’m game if you are.”

The black sandwich board was covered with bloody lettering and a terribly photoshopped ghost that looked remarkably like a human draped in white sheets. It was kitschy, yet the longer she stared at it, the more she wanted to go. It was probably the most touristy thing she’d ever do in her life, and damn it, Laszlo was right.

“Fine,” Pen relented, the corner of her lips curling.

“Good, because I already bought tickets.”

He hauled her and Louise toward a crowd of tourists beside a church. It was a gorgeous cathedral illuminated from the inside with candles. The soft, ethereal glow shone through beautifully crafted stained glass depicting religious scenes. Louise elbowed Laszlo when a balding, middle-aged man with a thick accent and a silky red cape appeared, checking their tickets. Laszlo held up his phone and nodded to their guide.

“Welcome to the City of Ghosts,” he called in a great, rolling accent, turning to their group. His cape billowed out around him, the cheap, luminescent fabric catching the last of the day’s faint sunshine peering in from between stormy clouds. With dramatic flourish and a coy smile, he waved his arms and bowed before walking her and their small group of tourists through a narrow alley, across a lit lobby for the tour company, and down a set of stairs into what appeared to be a tomb.

“What have you gotten us into?” Pen murmured.

“This trip is about inspiration,” Laszlo insisted, “so take it all in while you can.”

“It’s perfect,” Louise murmured, eyes round and excited.

Grumbling under her breath, Pen clutched her jacket close, the cold of the underground creeping in past her layers as the guide swept their group through the narrow rooms and farther under the city. The crypts were crumbling, stone lying in heaps at the base of faceless walls, and Pen shivered as a chill crept across the back of her neck.

“These vaults were built in the 1700s, expanding to well over a hundred separate chambers for storage. They even housed taverns and businesses at times. But because of the porousness of the rock, they were subject to flooding. And as the vaults were abandoned, another group began to take over the secret chambers under the city.”

They meandered down through a narrow doorway and into a large, open room. This one was taller than the others, and Louise and Laszlo stretched out, lazy smiles gracing their lips, but the large space, left empty but for a single light, only made Pen shiver more.

“Are you scared?” Laszlo asked, catching her eye.

“No.”

“Many claim to hear the heavy breathing of a man in this room or see a glowing orb of light lingering in the farthest corner.” The guide rounded the group, bent low and creeping as his voice filled the room. Pen rolled her eyes but curled her hands into her jacket as he stepped between her and Laszlo. “Maybe they were just seeing things, hmm?” He raised a brow. “Or were they?”

Laughing, he urged them on, and Pen followed behind Laszlo and Louise as they leaned into each other. She didn’t like this place. She captured Laszlo’s hand with hers, and though he raised a brow, he didn’t say anything as he squeezed her fingers. Louise followed the movement with a question in her eyes, but her brother only shook his head.

“While people without housing ventured here for a reprieve from the streets, the seedy underbelly of Edinburgh trickled down to these vaults. Illegal gambling dens, distilleries, and even the storing of illegally obtained corpses all took place here not long after the businesses fled. But the cold, damp conditions of these vaults led to many, sometimes gruesome, deaths.”

Pressing a finger to his lips, he motioned them on. The group stopped in a small room, and he continued, “Perhaps the most beloved ghost of these vaults is the Watcher, or Mr. Boots if ye will.” The group laughed, and Pen chuckled along with them, ignoring the creeping feeling of something on her left shoulder. The tour guide held up a finger, expression suddenly serious. “Many say he was a city guard, but all know him by the sound of his boots.”

“Is he real?” someone called.

The guide shrugged. “There’s only one way to know for sure.” Silence filled the chamber, and Pen straightened, searching the group as they waited for some sound, some sign that this ridiculous tour wasn’t all just a way to scam them out of their money.

And maybe she was imagining it, maybe it was someone else in the tour company, but she could have sworn she heard the sound of heavy boots on stone.

“And to this day,” the man drawled in a slow, deliberate tone, “ye can hear the sounds of his boots on the stone.”

He flicked off his lantern, plunging them into darkness. Pen froze in place, fingers tightening around Laszlo’s. The underground rooms were pitch-black without his guiding lantern, making the nerves in her gut twist. The guide laughed, but before he could turn the light back on, someone squealed. Pen screamed and stumbled back into the wall, pulse thundering in her ears as she scrambled for purchase before righting herself.


Copyright © 2024 by Colby Wilkens