Free The Artisans by Julie Reece Page A

blocks. Fear sends prickles up the back of my neck. Adrenalin lights the veins in my arms on fire. Screaming won’t help. Even if I could unlock my jaw to do that, no one would hear me out here.
    Help me …
    He’s English, or the accent is. I didn’t notice it the first time he spoke.
    Can ghosts really kill people? Or do they just follow you around until your brain melts down, and psychiatrists put you in a rubber room with coloring books and crayons. “Are you real?” I’m an idiot. Trying to communicate with my own hallucination must mean something in the world of shrinks, right? Psychosis, a psychotic break, schizophrenia—something. I have no idea what any of those are, but I’m starting to believe it doesn’t matter because Cole raises his hand. Not in a ‘Hey, how are you doing’ sort of way, but in a ‘Hey, I know I’m freaky, don’t run’ sort of way.
    “Cole?” The word echoes inside my head. Pressure builds in my ears, affecting my hearing.
    He nods, the movement slow and robotic.
    A shudder wracks my frame. You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not—
    Help us …
    Us? When did things go from helping you to helping us? Plural ghosts … meaning more than one. Are they coming? My legs shake and the inside of my mouth floods with a metallic taste. I think I’m peeing, am I peeing? If I faint will he kill me or go away?
    I do what I always do: pretend I’m tougher than I am. My chin comes up. “What do you want?” The pressure in my head grows, as if I’m on a plane or underwater. I need my ears to pop, relieve the build. I wiggle my jaw, but nothing happens. The acting tough thing isn’t working. Uncomfortable escalates to painful. I need to keep an eye on Cole, but the dull pounding in my brain turns sharp and stabbing. The strain overwhelms me. My hands move to my ears as I double over, sink to my knees. I cry out, unable to withstand the torture in my head.
    Everything stops … the pressure, my screams. All goes quiet.
    My gaze darts to the place where Cole stood, now empty. “Where’d you go? Hey!” I snap my head around looking for him, even checking dark corners and the ceiling. Nothing. I try the direct approach. “If you’re real, and I’m not crazy, you’re freaking me out. If you want my help, stop scaring the hell out of me and say so.”
    No one answers. I really didn’t think they would, but that means I’m bat-shit crazy and for that reason alone, I wish my old buddy Cole would make an appearance. Brilliant. Either I talk to dead people or I’m certifiable. I’m going with the latter. First the loss of my mom, Ben’s addictions, the stress of moving here, the pressure to create, naturally I cracked. I heave a breath and rise. All I want is to hug my cat. I need to feel something warm, someone who needs me and loves me. I stifle a sob at how pathetic I am. Then a new thought whacks me. Oh, God! What if I have a brain tumor? A big fat hairy mass is pushing on the parts of my brain that affect my reasoning. The pain, the hallucinations, my total lack of creativity, of course! The whole thing makes perfect sense if I’m dying.
    A strange calm washes over me. My theory is weak, but makes more sense than a real live ghost. I’m at peace, almost numb. I snort. After all my fighting, the awesomeness that is Raven Weathersby will be taken out by a brain tumor.
    Well, I’ll be darned.

Chapter Eight

     
     
    Snick, snick, snick.
    Soft tapping wakes me. I sit up in bed, wondering if Cole is back. The drapes are drawn leaving the room black. I forgot to open them before crawling under the covers, but I didn’t think I’d fall asleep, not that I’m afraid anymore. I understand the visions aren’t real. They belong either to a crazy girl or to a big tumorous mass in my head.
    “Cole? Is that you?” More tapping, faint scraping shushes throughout my room. Like an army of tiny mice. Ugh, I haven’t seen one yet, but I dearly hope it’s not mice or rats! My skin