Halloween Moon: A Samantha Moon Story by J.R. Rain

Author:J.R. Rain [Rain, J.R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rain Press
Published: 2012-10-29T00:00:00+00:00

7.

“What evidence do you have, Samantha?” asked Detective Sherbet of the Fullerton Police Department.

“A ghost told me.”

Sherbet had been about to lift an old-fashioned donut to his mouth when he paused in mid-lift. I opened my mind and memory to him and invited him in. He squinted irritably, then scanned my thoughts like an old pro.

“Jesus, my life is weird,” he said.

Sherbet, of course, had been psychically linked to me for a few months now, whether he wanted to be or not. Mostly not. But in this situation, our telepathic link worked miracles. He saw the ghost boy as I had seen him.

“Is that a real ghost?” he asked.

“Welcome to my world,” I said.

“Jesus,” he said again, and finished his bite. A helluva bite. Most of the donut was gone... or in his mustache. He cleaned himself with a napkin, picking up on my thoughts. As he masticated the greasy donut, he frowned briefly, then looked at me. “What’s wrong with his arm and leg?”

We were sitting in a donut shop off Harbor Boulevard. Midday traffic crept by. The day was surprisingly cool, considering the warmth of the night before. I continued holding Sherbet’s eyes and let him figure it out.

It took him only a moment. “The bastard broke his arm and leg.”

I nodded minutely.

Sherbet went on. “And the slashing wound in his chest?”

“A stab wound, Detective.”

He sat silently, his partially-finished donut momentarily forgotten in his oversized hand. “And these... ghosts or spirits... how much can we trust them?”

I knew what he meant. He wanted to know if we were being fooled with—or goofed with—perhaps by a mischievous spirit.

So, I explained to him how spirits often take on their appearance at death. That this wasn’t a mischievous demon or imp or whatever the hell else was out there. I also explained the darkness I had seen around the old man.

“He killed the boy,” said Sherbet, not so much to me, but to himself, or to the heavens. Sherbet, I knew, had a precocious little boy of his own.

“He did, Detective.”

“How sure are you?” he asked.

“More sure than anything in my life.”

“The evidence might be long gone, Sam.”

“I understand,” I said. “Unless he’s killed recently.”

“Do you feel like he’s killed recently, Sam?”

I thought about that. “I don’t know that, Detective, but I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“He wants to kill again.”

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