Modern Pantheon: Ghost
Grayson Barrett
Ghost
Modern Pantheon book I
By Grayson Barrett
www.grayson-barrett.com
Copyright © 2015 by Michael T. Gravelle
This eBook is licensed for personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
About Grayson
Other titles by Grayson Barrett
Prologue
As he topped off his glass of top-shelf whiskey, Emmitt Cane heard a floorboard creak in the darkness behind him. With an exhausted sigh, he turned to look down the stairwell.
“Daniel?”
Emmitt’s voice came out raspy in his whiskey soaked throat, and far harsher than he’d meant. But then why not get mad? Daniel, his fool of a brother, knew his place in this family. He knew that when the boss goes upstairs, he’s to just leave Emmitt be, and after a week as tiring as this one Emmitt figured he’d be up in his watchtower for a lot longer than usual.
For a moment, Emmitt thought he heard his brother whispering up at him from the darkness below. He couldn’t make out any words, but could make out harsh syllables over the otherwise serene silence.
“God damn it, Daniel. Is that you?”
The disheartened man stared down for a few seconds longer, but the sounds faded away. This is a new house, he reasoned. It must just be settling on its frame. He took a deep sip of the smooth whiskey, acutely aware of the clinking ice against the side of his glass.
Probably just the wind, he figured, and didn’t give it another thought as he slid the stopper back into the ornate flask.
As Emmitt turned away from the staircase, and with glossy eyes, he stared down over the expansive sodded yard that stretched out below. ‘Why now?’
Those two words had been running through his head all day. Of course Emmitt wanted to be there for his father’s final days, but the timing was so inconvenient. Cane Industries had just taken control of yet another once-major company, and the final assets were going to be signed over next week. There was still a lot of work left to finalize. Plus, it was nearing the end of the quarter, which would mean he’d have to recheck all of the board’s figures. These tasks were important. Tasks he simply couldn’t set aside, so why did his father have to die now?
When Emmitt designed his house five years back, the turret was an afterthought. A thing he’d added to give the house an old time, majestic feel. He didn’t keep any lights up there. During the day, the eight, ceiling to floor windows let in all the light needed. At night, the security lights cast out a white glow upon the perfectly tended yard, and that shed enough residual light to let him see just fine. Besides, sight wasn’t much of a necessity up there since there was nothing there except the small, round table that held the whiskey.
Had Emmitt chosen lakeside property as he initially wanted this building would likely have been one of the most expensive in the Midwest. Money wasn’t the issue, but Emmitt simply couldn’t find a lake secluded enough, even in the land with over ten thousand of them. Now, Emmitt was pleased with his choice, for there was no more solitary place than his watchtower. For the CEO of one of America’s largest conglomerates, he couldn’t hide from his work, but he could at least minimize the distractions.
The stair creaked again, unmistakably under the weight of someone coming up the steps. ‘I locked that door. I know I did,’ Emmitt thought, spinning around in annoyance, letting a few droplets of his drink slosh up onto his hand.
“Daniel, what the hell do you think–”
Emmitt stood, glaring at the darkness, but didn’t see his brother, nor anyone else for that matter. If he’d heard it again, he’d call a repairman tomorrow. This was his sanctuary. With an angry exhale, the man decided to down the rest of his glass.
The moment he the cold glass touched his lips, however, the security light died. The luminous glow that sprawled across the lawn suddenly and abruptly ceased, leaving him in perfect darkness on the cloudy midnight.
A voice pulsed through the room. Though barely above a whisper, it rocked the house like it a strong gust of wind.
“You have no right.”
The sound seemed to simply spill forth out of the many windows surrounding him. Emmitt Cane’s jaw clenched as his perfectly organized thoughts fought with something else. Something distant, that he hadn’t felt in years. Fear, perhaps?
No, he told himself, holding the emotion back. I know it won’t hurt me.
“Gregory,” he asked the darkness. “Who sent you?”
“You have no right,” his wind-slashed voice slithered through the air, louder this time.
“Your daughter is not here,” Emmitt explained. “Nor should you be.”
“I know what you’ve done,” the entity said, and for the first time Emmitt saw it.
He, or rather, it, appeared over his shoulder in the glass’s reflection. The intruder’s eyes burned with the essence of pure rage. Scraggly locks of hair clung to his greasy face.
Emmitt spun to face the entity. He found not a man, but a semi-tangible mist that inhaled warmth out of the tower around him. Emmitt took a small step back, holding his ground as the mist took the shape of a translucent man.
Within seconds, the ghost of Gregory Scythe hung in the air, his eyes glowing with contempt, and his toes grazing the floor.
“You are not welcome here,” Emmitt tried to explain, surprised to hear a tremor in his voice. “You–”
The flask of whiskey flung off the small table and crashed into the side of Emmitt’s head. Blood flowed across his tongue as a pain speared through his jaw. When he tried to spit out a chunk of something – a tooth, perhaps – he found his jaw wouldn’t respond. There was so much pain. A lesser man would have been knocked out immediately, but years in the military allowed him to thrust the agony aside.
Instead of falling to his knees, Emmitt thrust his shoulder into one wall to keep his balance. Emmitt then saw himself in the glass. His jaw was definitely broken, hanging loosely down to one side. The ghost stood sullenly in the reflection, looking upon him with dark-ringed eyes. An insane glint reflected venomously off every one of those eight windows around the room. Each window revealed the same man, yet none in the same way. All eight glared at Emmitt. Several of them screamed, making a choir of nonsensical hatred, while others grinned, relishing the violence. All the while, the ghost itself simply hovered in the center, waiting for him die.
‘What will happen to Cane Industries without me?’ Emmitt Cane thought franticly, for there were no other Canes – he didn’t count his idiot brother. I’ve worked too hard for my life’s work to fall.
Without me, Cane Industries will die.
The flask whipped toward his face again, but he saw it and ducked. Still, it pelted his eye hard enough to make a loud pop.
The flask wavered several feet in the air above him, readying for a final strike. Emmitt Cane knew he was going to die, alone in his tower of solitude.
