freshly-cleaned rug, the photos still on the mantle, Bumby’s new writing desk in the center of the room. His gaze returned to Bumby, and he gave him a long stare. “You take care of yourself, you hear?”
“Sure will, Sarge. I appreciate you stopping by.”
“If you do get any insight as to why he did it, be sure to let me know. It’ll help me sleep at night.”
“Of course,” Bumby murmured.
After Sergeant Cohn left, after the museum gates were closed and the old estate lay still and quiet in the night, Bumby moved the writing desk and then the rug aside, and descended into the basement, into his real writing room, the solitary desk surrounded by the secret relics of the man who was, in Bumby’s opinion, the greatest writer who has ever lived.
Bumby didn’t go to his chair and brand new computer. Instead he pulled Champ’s Ouija Board off the top of one of the bookshelves, and set it on the floor. He warmed up the planchette, then asked the question he always asked first.
“Are you there?”
I spelled out,—
OF COURSE-
“Do you think Cohn suspects anything?”
-HE IS CLEVER—
I said,
—BUT HE WILL NEVER KNOW AND I WILL WATCH HIM-
Bumby swallowed. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, are you sure you’re not upset about your son?”
I enjoyed watching Bumby’s pathetic squirming.—
OF COURSE NOT HE IS WITH ME NOW-
Bumby exhaled with relief. “Good. Because I didn’t have a choice, you know. I didn’t mean to.”
I let him stew in his own filthy guilt, and didn’t bother to tell him that it had worked out perfectly, because my son had cancer and was dying. In fact, I couldn’t have planned it better: my secret was safe, the counter ritual remained hidden within the bookshelves, some of those disgusting impersonators were disposed of in the process, and I had found the perfect successor, someone as obsessive as I once was.
Of course, even
I
shuddered to think at the things I would do to Bumby to avenge my son, once Bumby’s day arrived and I could reach him.
Bumby said, with a childlike nervousness, “Can I talk to him tonight? Please?”
-JUST FOR A MINUTE-
One day the fool might figure out that he can contact him directly from the grounds, and that I can’t intervene, which is how they reached him in the first place. A nasty little quirk in the ritual over which I have no control.
“Ernest?” Bumby said, and I faded into the background to watch.
-YES-
“Nice to hear you tonight.”
-HELP ME-
“I’m sorry, you know how much I love you, but I can’t yet. I haven’t figured out how.”
-YOU MUST-
“I’ll help you one day,” Bumby whispered. “I promise.”
-PLEASE-
“Now,” Bumby said, having to grit his teeth to block out the guilt, “let’s discuss that troublesome paragraph in chapter three again. I can’t seem to get it quite right.”
Hemingway’s ghost wailed, and the last doe-eyed tourists still standing outside the closed gates, trying to absorb the essence of the great man himself, mistook the spectral cry for the whisper of the breeze through the palms.
About the Author
In addition to writing, Layton Green was a practicing attorney for the better part of a decade. He has also traveled to more than fifty countries, and has been an intern for the United Nations, an ESL teacher in Central America, a bartender in London, a seller of cheap knives on the streets of Brixton, a door to door phone book deliverer, and the list goes downhill from there.
Layton is also the Kindle bestselling author of
The Summoner
, the first work in a globe-hopping suspense series whose protagonists investigate the world’s most bizarre and dangerous cults. See below for more information on
The Summoner
, and please visit Layton at www.laytongreen.com for a free sample and more. Look for
The Immortalist
, the next novel in the Dominic Grey series, coming soon.
The Summoner
A United States diplomat disappears in front of hundreds of onlookers while attending a religious
“Sure will, Sarge. I appreciate you stopping by.”
“If you do get any insight as to why he did it, be sure to let me know. It’ll help me sleep at night.”
“Of course,” Bumby murmured.
After Sergeant Cohn left, after the museum gates were closed and the old estate lay still and quiet in the night, Bumby moved the writing desk and then the rug aside, and descended into the basement, into his real writing room, the solitary desk surrounded by the secret relics of the man who was, in Bumby’s opinion, the greatest writer who has ever lived.
Bumby didn’t go to his chair and brand new computer. Instead he pulled Champ’s Ouija Board off the top of one of the bookshelves, and set it on the floor. He warmed up the planchette, then asked the question he always asked first.
“Are you there?”
I spelled out,—
OF COURSE-
“Do you think Cohn suspects anything?”
-HE IS CLEVER—
I said,
—BUT HE WILL NEVER KNOW AND I WILL WATCH HIM-
Bumby swallowed. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, are you sure you’re not upset about your son?”
I enjoyed watching Bumby’s pathetic squirming.—
OF COURSE NOT HE IS WITH ME NOW-
Bumby exhaled with relief. “Good. Because I didn’t have a choice, you know. I didn’t mean to.”
I let him stew in his own filthy guilt, and didn’t bother to tell him that it had worked out perfectly, because my son had cancer and was dying. In fact, I couldn’t have planned it better: my secret was safe, the counter ritual remained hidden within the bookshelves, some of those disgusting impersonators were disposed of in the process, and I had found the perfect successor, someone as obsessive as I once was.
Of course, even
I
shuddered to think at the things I would do to Bumby to avenge my son, once Bumby’s day arrived and I could reach him.
Bumby said, with a childlike nervousness, “Can I talk to him tonight? Please?”
-JUST FOR A MINUTE-
One day the fool might figure out that he can contact him directly from the grounds, and that I can’t intervene, which is how they reached him in the first place. A nasty little quirk in the ritual over which I have no control.
“Ernest?” Bumby said, and I faded into the background to watch.
-YES-
“Nice to hear you tonight.”
-HELP ME-
“I’m sorry, you know how much I love you, but I can’t yet. I haven’t figured out how.”
-YOU MUST-
“I’ll help you one day,” Bumby whispered. “I promise.”
-PLEASE-
“Now,” Bumby said, having to grit his teeth to block out the guilt, “let’s discuss that troublesome paragraph in chapter three again. I can’t seem to get it quite right.”
Hemingway’s ghost wailed, and the last doe-eyed tourists still standing outside the closed gates, trying to absorb the essence of the great man himself, mistook the spectral cry for the whisper of the breeze through the palms.
About the Author
In addition to writing, Layton Green was a practicing attorney for the better part of a decade. He has also traveled to more than fifty countries, and has been an intern for the United Nations, an ESL teacher in Central America, a bartender in London, a seller of cheap knives on the streets of Brixton, a door to door phone book deliverer, and the list goes downhill from there.
Layton is also the Kindle bestselling author of
The Summoner
, the first work in a globe-hopping suspense series whose protagonists investigate the world’s most bizarre and dangerous cults. See below for more information on
The Summoner
, and please visit Layton at www.laytongreen.com for a free sample and more. Look for
The Immortalist
, the next novel in the Dominic Grey series, coming soon.
The Summoner
A United States diplomat disappears in front of hundreds of onlookers while attending a religious
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