Chapter Three

Clarissa poured hot water onto the teabag the moment the kettle finished boiling. Then she completed her own small tea ritual by squeezing a little of the flavour from the bag out with a silver spoon before removing it and dropping it into the peddle bin on the floor. She stirred her tea. "Not sure. I will look for one when I next go into town. This might sound daft, but I think the spirit is connected to the murders on the island and not to me. Perhaps he has just attached himself to me because of the story. He might not want me to write it and expose him. Maybe he is the murderer?"

"Don't say that! If that is right, then why did he attach himself to you before you even thought about writing the story?"

"Maybe he gave me the idea?"

Clarissa took a sip of her hot tea and savoured the comforting taste in her mouth.

"No. You are wrong, and you are scaring me. Stop it. Maybe you should stop writing the

book and do something else, just in case?"

"No way. I have come too far with this. There is a real story here, and people need to know what happened to this woman and her family."

She glanced at the window sill over the sink in the rented cottage and frowned. Three ornaments of differing sizes sat on it, the tallest of which was in the middle. Unable to help herself, she began rearranging them with the tallest to the left and then in descending size in a line, the smallest on the right. She smiled with satisfaction at it and moved away.

"Clarissa, I get a bad feeling about this. If you are right, and he has something to do with the book, he might just disappear if you stop working on it. You've been through enough recently."

"I thought you were a publisher?"

"I am. But you are my friend and your welfare comes first."

Clarissa sat down again, feeling annoyed.

"Don't give up on me, Liz." Her tone was snappy. "I can do this. I have to, for some reason.

It feels like a compulsion."

 "Compulsions are something that come easily to you, darling. Let's be honest."

Clarissa's frame tightened at Liz's condescending tone. "Liz!"

"Don't Liz me! You know I am right."

Clarissa groaned inwardly as she looked over at the ornaments on the window sill. Liz knew her too well.

"Getting on track with this book will help me put the past behind me and move on. I can handle a stupid ghost. What can he really do to me, anyway, apart from be annoying?"

"I don't like it. But all right. I know you won't let this go."

Liz sighed again, and Clarissa grinned triumphantly.

"Clarissa, call me later and keep me updated. I worry about you, even if you don't. I will need the draft of your first six chapters in the next couple of weeks. And, Clarissa, be careful. I love you."

"I love you, too. I'm on it. Don't fret."

Clarissa ended the call. She spent the rest of the morning working on her book at the kitchen table. Eventually, the time to make another cup of tea came around. Three mugs already littered the sink. She reached for another fresh china mug from the cupboard. When she went to put it down on the bench, a dark shadow passed by her. She felt the strange sensation of a man's arm brushing across the side of her breast, instantly forcing her to drop the mug with fright. It clattered to the ground, breaking on the tiled floor. Turning around quickly, she found the solid shape of the mysterious male ghost in an old fashioned nineteenth century dark suit laughing at her.

"What the hell do you want? Leave me alone," she shouted at him, determined not to betray her fear at his presence.

He simply laughed again and then his image became transparent and faded into the air. Clarissa sat back down at the table, holding her face in her hands, relieved at his quick exit.

I am not going to let you get to me. I refuse to let you win.

Clarissa tapped on the keyboard of her Apple MacBook Air and brought up the local news website to distract her anger and calm herself down. The article at the top of the page immediately caught her attention.

"American billionaire, Brandon Clifford, buys Goldwater Island."

Clarissa put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp of surprise when she looked at the photograph accompanying the article. It was the handsome man in the black suit she'd seen standing on the jetty. This had to be the break she had been waiting for. All she had to do now was persuade the man to let her visit his island and house.

Outside, the ghost peered in the window behind Clarissa and read the article, unobserved. Darkness seeped into his eyes, making them narrow into sharp points as he took in Brandon Clifford's face.

Clarissa ran the shower, making sure it was on a high temperature, and undressed. Nothing like a hot shower to revive her spirits and get her creative juices flowing. She'd made several calls around the town trying to get to Brandon Clifford or someone who worked for him, but her search had not produced any results. She couldn't help wondering if he was also a recluse and trying to keep his presence in the town hidden.

She stepped her small, slender curved figure into the shower and rising steam, vowing not to let Brandon Clifford escape her. Holding her face up to the shower head, she let the hot water dance over her fine, smooth porcelain, aristocratic features. She didn't see the tall dark shadow sweep across the room at speed, not until it seeped like a dense black fog through the glass encasement. Clarissa opened her eyes, sensing a presence, and screamed. She pushed herself back against the grey tiled wall, unable to escape through the door as the black mass began to shape and take form. Finally, the ghost stood before her, blocking the door. Clarissa's heart began to pound. A strong sense of claustrophobia engulfed her. Her eyes darted back and forth between him and the door, looking for a way out past him. He wagged his finger at her and tutted at her.

"There is no escape," he told her menacingly.

She looked down at the long knife in his hand with wide eyes. Her hands pressed back on the wall at the side. She shook her head at him.

"Please. Please, don't hurt me," she begged.

He moved closer, making her let out a frightened sob, despite her resolve to compose herself as much as was possible in the situation. Maybe she could negotiate with him.

"Why do you want to hurt me? What do you want? What is it you need from me?" she pleaded.

"He can't have you. You belong to me."

The ghost raised the knife. Clarissa put her hands up to defend herself but the knife had already been thrust deep into the centre of her stomach. She heard herself scream. There was no pain, just numbness and disbelief. Crying loudly, she glanced down at her stomach to confirm the reality she feared. Blood poured thick and deep red from the wound down over her thighs to spiral down her calves. It merged with the clear water, muddying it as it flowed along the white shower tray and down the plug.

The ghost twisted the knife inside her, and this time, the pain was keenly felt. Clarissa let out another scream and felt her legs buckle underneath her. She clutched at her stomach after he pulled the knife out of her and found her knees suddenly hitting the surface of the shower tray. The hot water beat against her back but it barely registered in her mind. All she could think of was dying. A far distant memory sprung into life.

She was wearing a long black dress and struggling to breathe. Around her neck was a thick rope that burned the tender skin on her throat. Her legs kicked violently into thin air. The memory was so vivid, so real, Clarissa forgot her predicament in the shower and sank into the memory as though she were really there.

Looking upwards, Clarissa could see the rope was wound around the branch of an oak tree. The ghost stood in front of her, watching her hang. He walked towards her and thrust the knife he was holding into her stomach and then twisted it inside her body just as he had done in the shower.