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It Comes in Waves - Ch 2

In which you attempt to solve a crime, the ghost in your house shows you what you want, and a deer has a very unfortunate ending

ouh ouh more Ghost! Lorenzo everybody! yay yay!

longer chapter! about 5k.

ch1 can be found here

mdni, its not smutty in this chapter but there are suggestive parts and i don't want to be responsible for your media consumption.

Be forewarned, this one is darker than the last. Not so much as in violence but well... you'll see.

Maybe don't read if you're sensitive to car crashes or dead animals. Its just one but it is kind of gory. I don't wanna spoil any more of it, so just... buckle up.

Side note, this is gonna attempt to be updated every Saturday, but as you can see, I'm posting this on a Friday because i got it edited earlier than I thought. So, expect ch 3 next weekend but watch out because it may be early if I get my shit together.

I'll shut up so you can continue. and as always dear, beware of the thing in your walls <3

The beauty of isolation was that in theory, no one would bother you.

You found out the hard way that this was not always true. In the span of three days since you had introduced yourself to the one hardware shop owner in town, no less than 7 people had brought you food/flowers/housewarming gifts etc.

Though you suppose that knowing the townsfolk would come in handy eventually, it was still odd.

You had grown up in a town where everyone minded their own business. If you weren’t causing trouble, no one looked at you twice. A town where someone showing up at your door unexpected was enough reason to grab the 9mm out of the safe.

So needless to say the first man that knocked on your door was greeted by you, in a sundress, with your deep purple Taurus GX2 strapped to your thigh.

Maybe could have made a better impression with that one. But you were a young woman living alone in a country where the only person you knew was at the American embassy in Edinburgh, 300 miles away. A stranger knocking on your door was bound to raise some suspicion.

On the other hand, it was nice to know a man that could repair things.

He asked very little questions as he took the large shattered mirror off of the wall for you. Repeating in your head the whole time the words “okay fine mom, you were right. But for the record I could have done it myself!”

You come to find out that the kind older man’s name is Charlie, and while you were perturbed by his presence at first, he has come to be one of your favorite neighbors. (The word neighbor is used lightly. They live a 6 minutes drive away.)

His wife is lovely as well, only having met her in passing however. He says she doesn’t like going to others’ houses, and in a way, that’s wholly understandable.

You now sit at the new wooden coffee table — that you managed to order online and build yourself (take that mom) — eating reheated pasta that you made the other night.

The sun had set long ago and you begrudgingly decided that some work needed to get done. Your solve rate was… admittedly not the highest since you had moved (your latest rating from your manager just said the word abysmal written across the top. It was not looking good). And you really doubted that you could find another remote forensic investigator job that would supply you with a visa in a short amount of time.

So work you must.

Pulling up a recent case file, you open the crime scene photos to start from the very beginning. There’s a nude woman laying on the large bed, her hands are covered in something green and her body is littered in defensive marks. Bruises, gashes, stab wounds, etc. But the biggest wound on the woman is the words carved into her chest. It reads “a debt is paid.”

The photo makes your stomach hurt.

The next photos are of the room surrounding the woman. It’s pristine. “No blood pooling under the body, implies victim was positioned post mortem,” you write in your notes.

Clicking on the description of the victim, the case files read “Genevieve Smith. 25. Female. Mexican-American. Apparent homicide.”

That’s it? That’s all they’ve got?

You freeze at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Hello?” you question at the sound, sure you didn’t have any guests. But nothing ever rounds the corner.

Assuming it was just the house settling, you continue with your work. Pulling up Instagram and typing in the victim’s name into the search bar. A couple of accounts come up but it’s not long until you’re staring at the social life of the victim.

The last picture is of her and her wife on their honeymoon 6 months ago.

“Talk to wife” you write down for the investigator.

You pull your cardigan closer around your shoulders at the sudden chill of the room and continue your sleuthing. The woman worked as a relationship therapist.

“Request redacted client notes.”

Nine months ago she posted a photo at a family reunion, she’s holding a swaddled baby. The caption reads “hopefully soon for me, but before the title of mama, I’m happy to be an auntie.”

“Check local fertility clinics. Victim appears to be seeking fertility treatments in order to conceive. Talk to family and friends to determine a motive.”

When you look at the clock you see that it’s ticking closer and closer to two. You had told yourself that you would be going to bed by 10 tonight. You sigh and run your hands over your face, the rough skin of your palms feels scratchy against your cheeks.

“Lotion” you write on a separate page. A grocery list, you decide.

Pulling out your phone, the cool metal blinks the battery symbol at you.

“Of fucking course.” You pull up messages on your computer instead, typing in your best friend’s number and hitting record on the voice memo button.

“Hey babe. I know it’s dinner time there but I wanted to let you know that I’m alright. It’s been a few days since we’ve talked and I just wanted to let you know that I’m livin’ la vida loca.” You pause, taking a deep breath before continuing. “How are you doing? How are the kids? Tell Diana that her favorite auntie misses her! How did your doctor’s appointment go today? Anything juicy? I love you, and that’s all. I just wanted to check in real quick.” You hit the stop button, and then send without listening to it.

The read receipt is immediate.

“Hey love! I’m glad you’re okay, you know I worry for you when you’re alone up there. Speaking offffff… wanna tell me who the man you’ve got there is?

And the kids are fine. Diana’s an angel, finally sleeping through the night. Damian just lost his first tooth. He keeps asking if auntie is gonna be there for Di’s birthday.”

You smile at your computer at the reminder of your godchildren. Texting her back, you quickly type:

“Girl what man would I have over? Charlie? James? I’m pretty sure everyone in this town is married and over the age of 40.

I’m gonna try to make it out for Diana’s birthday! I don’t want to miss my girl turning one!

And tell Damian that his favorite auntie is very happy he’s thinking about her.”

The FaceTime call is immediate. You answer on the second ring.

“Hello?” you start, more than a little confused as to why she was calling, but happy to talk to her regardless.

“Just wanted to see who was worth lying about,” she jokes. She’s folding laundry while she talks. The sounds of her house bringing an odd comfort.

“Girl who do you think I am? You think I pull bitches? I’m home alone. I’m sitting at my kitchen table doing work.” Picking up the laptop and turning it around so she can see that you are indeed alone.

“Girl I swear to God… also plug in your phone. I got the Life360 notif like two hours ago that it was about to die. I’d appreciate being able to contact you since you insist on living across the world.” She scolds you in only the way a mother could. “Go listen to the voice memo you sent me. There is very distinctly a man talking to you. I don’t know why you think you can lie to me. You know I know things.”

You laugh but are set on edge a little bit. You hadn’t told her about the mirror incident yet, and weren’t sure if now was the time to do so. Maybe she was just mishearing. Renavigating out of the main call screen and back to her messages, you hit play. Your voice comes through the speakers slightly muffled from the sounds of your best friend folding laundry in the background.

“Hey babe. I know it’s dinner time there but I wanted to let you know that I’m alright. It’s been a few days since we’ve talked and I just wanted to let you know that I’m livin’ la vida loca.” You take a breath, you remember the silence throughout the house when you recorded this. The footsteps, house settling earlier, and your typing being the only sounds in the house over the past few hours.

“Come to bed, my love. It’s late,” a man says and you nearly jump out of your skin. He sounds so close. Like he’s speaking directly next to you. You swivel your entire body around to look at the wall behind you, but nothing is there. No man has been in this house since Charlie left.

The voice memo continues without problem but you’re too busy attempting to reason with yourself. There had to have been a technical malfunction or something. Yes, that’s what it had to be. A technical malfunction.

You switch back to the call tab and tell your friend, “No. I’m alone. I heard him, but I’m alone. I’ve been alone since my neighbor left earlier today. I don’t know what that is. It’s weird.” You say, attempting to hide the tremor in your voice.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she says. “Who was that?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Breathing is suddenly impossible as you gasp for air. “But uhm. I think I need to tell you about this thing that happened the other night. So I regrouted the master bathroom the other day.”

She laughs. “Yeah because that’s a secret. You’re always doing something.”

“No listen dude. So I couldn’t take a bath in that bathroom and I don’t have a shower installed yet, so I went into the other bathroom. The one that feels weird. And I was—can anyone else hear me?” you interrupt yourself to ask and when she shakes her head you continue. “ I’ve been having these really vivid wet dreams about this guy that I’ve never met? I don’t know. It’s the best dream sex I’ve ever had though. I would say I’m kidding, but I’m not. Some of the dreams are weird but I think that might be from looking at crime scene photos too late at night. Anyways so I’m taking a bath and out of nowhere my phone flies across the room and the mirror of the vanity just shattered. Charlie had to come help me tear the whole thing off of the wall today and I’m not even kidding, we could not get this mirror off in a piece larger than like 4 inches at a time. This mirror reaches from the counter to the ceiling. It’s not a small mirror. I have no idea what made it shatter like that.”

“Girl” is the only thing she says.

The hopelessness really was drowning you. Why was this happening to you of all people? You don’t believe in this shit. And now you’re, what? Being haunted? No. There had to be another explanation. You don’t believe like your best friend does. Like your mother did. But you can’t explain away the fear.

“Hey, I’m gonna go to bed actually. Can you call me when you wake up? The time difference is getting to me and I think I need to sleep on this before I start believing whatever you’re about to pitch to me.”

She looks disappointed when she says, “Baby, I love you. Please don’t hurt yourself with this. If going to bed is what you need then I understand, but please don’t brush this off. If this…” she hesitates, “thing, is violent, then you can’t just ignore that.”

“Can we talk about this when it’s light outside, please?” you interject. The feeling of being watched intensifying as you walk the narrow steps to the second floor with the computer in tow. Your bedroom is lit up, trying to not think about if you were the one to turn on the light or not, you get into your pajamas and climb into bed with her still on the phone. Playfully kissing your hand and pressing it to the camera, you hang up. Closing your laptop and plugging in your phone, setting it on your nightstand.

You pull out The Portrait of Dorian Grey. and make it through about three pages before you’re falling asleep.

He came to you again tonight.

You’re cooking in the dream, though you’re not sure if it’s a dream after all. It’s so vivid. The dust particles are alive in the bands of light that stream into the kitchen window. The sounds of children and dogs playing in the yard. It was breathtaking.

And when you turn around it’s made better. The man from your dreams sits on the kitchen island with a baby swaddled in his arms. He looks up at you and smiles.

“Is this what you wanted? I saw you looking at that woman’s photos earlier. You looked sad at first. But when you saw the kids… happy. And when you were talking to your friend I could hear her children in the background.” he says. His smooth British accent fluttering something in your heart.

“I’m sorry I cannot give you this” he says, and you feel your face fall. He had already given you everything. Your reoccurring dream husband. Boyfriend? You weren’t sure honestly, but the term husband seemed more fitting. He looked like a husband.

You reach for him, the skin of his arms warm when you caress his forearm under the baby. “What do you mean? Look at what you’ve already given me. How could I ask for more?” You grab the baby from him so he can hop off of the counter. Looking down from the man and at the baby, you’re immediately stunned. The baby looked just like him. The prettiest little boy ever. Your finger moves to gently caress the child’s face.

“What is his name?” you quietly ask the man, who is now standing behind you, his chin on your shoulder as he watches the baby as well.

“Whatever you want. He’s yours. This is all yours. Whatever I can give you.” His arms wrap around your waist from behind, his left palm coming to rest protectively against your lower stomach. It takes you tearing your eyes away from the little boy to realize that he’s stroking small circles against what you now see is a baby bump.

“He’s mine?” you ask quietly, turning your head to look at the man.

“Ours,” he corrects.

The feeling is indescribable, to be loved like this.

“What’s your name?” you dare to ask quietly.

He looks a little sad as he says, “Lorenzo. Lorenzo Berkshire. I wish I had told you this upon our first meeting. I apologize.”

“There’s no need to apologize. It’s nice to know who I’m dreaming about. It’s nice to meet you, Lorenzo.” You lean deeper into his chest, the baby snuggled in your arms fusses a little bit, and you shush the little being. He slowly opens his eyes and your breath catches in your throat.

He has your eyes.

Waking up alone the next morning had you silently crying in your bed, as you tried your hardest to fall back into the dream.

There’s a new cafe in town. Well… “town” is used loosely, but regardless, there’s a new cafe twenty five minutes from home. (You’ve taken to calling it home. For all its intricacies and terror, it’s all you have. And putting any spare moment into any reno you can has, in a weird way… bonded you to the house. Seeing where it came from vs where it is now? You could see yourself here relatively long term. So… “home” it is.) The cafe was bought off artists from Edinburgh and resold at a higher price to “maximize profits” for a corporate conglomerate. Unethical, but you couldn’t deny that they could make the fuck out of a latte.

You were out looking for a new bookshelf for your living room. Having recently commissioned a nearby carpenter, you had a bench built to fit inside the bay window. You were planning on turning it into a place where you could drink your coffee every morning while reading. Reading required books. Books required a bookshelf. So here you are, looking for a shelf to store the books.

After venturing into the coffee shop, ordering a medium iced vanilla latte and a warmed slice of lemon poundcake, then struggling to find a place to sit amongst the other patrons, you squeeze into a small table in the corner. Opening your computer that you brought for the sake of doomscrolling Facebook Marketplace, and putting your off brand AirPods in to listen to a podcast.

A horror podcast is automatically queued and the irony is not lost on you as you hit play anyways. Whatever these podcasters are going to say cannot be worse than what is already happening to you at home, you suppose. Though it does strike you as odd that a podcast you’ve never listened to is what Spotify chose to play today.

The podcasters begin talking in your ears. Conversing as if they’ve been comfortable in front of a mic for their entire lives. The first story is a ghost story, some American haunted house that tourists claim is far more haunted than it probably is. The Sally House, they call it. A demon apparently haunts it.

You continue scrolling Facebook Marketplace as the podcasters continue to talk. The scary story really isn’t that scary, and their banter has you laughing against your will. Probably looking like a maniac in the corner of this cafe.

You send a message to someone with a bookshelf that looks kinda like something you want. Not perfect.

The podcast switches to its second topic. A true crime segment. The American podcasters laugh as the woman says, “Okay guys I’m sorry if I butcher this. English isn’t my first language.” The other podcaster chuckles as the first continues, “This is in Scotland. And the village is called… Gairloch? I’m sorry if I’m mispronouncing that. I’m sure you’ll tweet me about it later if I did.”

You freeze, hearing the name of the town you’re in. Your head shoots up, scanning the room. Someone has to be fucking with you, you decide.

“They call it the mercy killings of Scotland.” the woman says, her tone suddenly serious as she continues. “Our story begins in the early 1940s. The war had just started raging throughout Europe, and Great Britain had put in place a draft. Drafting men ages 18–41 into World War Two boot camps across Europe. Nine young men in this town of only 130 would later mysteriously die before they could be taken to France.”

The podcasters converse a little, bantering with inside jokes about theories and motives.

The woman continues, “So anyways. Listen, I’m not saying they were murdered. But I don’t believe the draft dodger story. Nine 18–22 year old men have never agreed to do one thing simultaneously in their lives.” She laughs. “Iiii… think it was murderrrrr,” she says in a singsong voice. You switch tabs, quickly typing “Scotland mercy killings” into Google. Scrolling past the AI result because you refuse to allow your brain to dissolve, you see the first article. It’s titled “What really happened to the 9 Scottish boys that died in the small town of Gairloch in October of 1940.”

You click on the sketchy website. Beyond the pop ups and the ads, there’s a story. You continue listening to the podcasters speak.

“Okay, so listen, I want to try to be as sensitive as I can when I’m covering this because I’m aware that it is a mass casualty. But I don’t think anyone from this story is still alive so bear with me. So these nine young men all from the ages of 18 to 22, are drafted into World War Two. They’re ready to go fight, there are journals and letters from a few of the boys detailing their reluctance but acceptance of being deployed to Nazi occupied France. They have enlisted, they are ready. And then the day they’re meant to leave, none of the boys in town get on the bus to Edinburgh.” The podcaster breaks to sip from her glass of wine.

“Sorry. Wine break!” she exclaims before clearing her throat and continuing, “So none of these boys show to the enlistment bootcamp thing. The military sends a notice to the town, and the mayor later finds all nine of them have died of arsenic poisoning.”

The other podcaster — who you’ve come to learn through their banter and commentary, is nonbinary — gasps and the woman responds, “I know right! So—”

A man taps you on the shoulder and you nearly jump out of your skin. He apologizes but the damage is done, you’ve spilt your entire latte into your lap. Telling him it’s not a problem when he begins apologizing profusely.

He doesn’t help you clean up and then doesn’t look away when you catch him staring down your shirt as he asks your name.

You have been a forensic investigator for only 6 months. But you know better than to give your name to strangers in a cafe.

“Genevieve Smith,” you say, lying. Sending a quick mental “sorry” to the victim of the case you’re working on.

“Well Jenny. It’s lovely to meet you. I was just here with a few of my mates and we were speaking about how we haven’t seen you around before. It’s a pretty small town and everyone knows everyone, so I was just coming over to introduce myself. And I— well I was wondering if you’d like to go out for a pint sometime?”

Would it be rude of you to say ew to this man’s face?

“Oh I’m sorry, I don’t drink.” You settle for. Standing and attempting to gather your things.

“Alright, then dinner!” He beams. God this man was not taking the hint.

“Okay. Sure. But uhm, my phone is dead right now so can I give you my email address instead? Would that be alright?” You rush out. He stands there looking stupid, not helping in the slightest while you’re obviously struggling with all of your things. Yeah there’s no way in hell you were giving this dude your phone number or real email address.

You make it out of the cafe in one piece, your dress only partially covered in coffee. Getting in your car you decide to just go home. Between the spilled coffee and the fact that you had been looking for this damned bookshelf all day, to no avail, it was turning out to be a medium shitty day. Buckling your seatbelt, starting the engine and immediately turning onto the street that you came from. Apple Play connects and you hit rewind a few times when you reach a stoplight.

Picking up from where they left off, the nonbinary podcaster says, “Arsenic? And they thought this was a mass suicide? Yeah that’s like men. I thought there was that thing that like… men commit grizzlier suicides. Arsenic seems like a tame way to go.”

You take a deep breath, knowing what arsenic does to the human body.

“… I see what you mean, but it’s important to me that you know that arsenic is so much more painful than I think you think it is.” The woman telling the story says, “A few of the boys documented the early symptoms in letters and journals. Here, listen to this.” The sound of her pulling the written notes from her bag echoes through the car. “A boy named… Seumas? — again I’m sorry if I’m mispronouncing that — wrote the day before he died, that he was quote ‘in insurmountable pain, the stomach cramps enough to render any man completely immobile. My soul feels like it’s trapped in a birdcage of a body. Longing to be free from this torment.’ And he was reportedly hospitalized a week prior with similar symptoms but they dismissed it as an attempt at draft dodging!”

“Ow.” You think aloud, driving along as they continue reflecting on the story that she is telling.

“Another boy, named Eachann… — you know what, German is my first language, sorry if I’m fucking all of this up. I should have chosen a story with names easier for me to pronounce, but it’s too late for that — he reportedly came home from his friend’s house and told his mother that he was worried for his friend. Some… Lorenzo?” The name has your brain slamming to a halt. “And by the next night both men were dead.” She audibly takes another sip of her wine. The sound of the glass clinking against the mic, ringing throughout your car.

The nonbinary podcaster laughs a little. “Christine. Lorenzo? Seriously? All of these old timey Scottish names, and a Lorenzo?” They gasp. “Oh my God wait was he Italian? Were they going to put him into an Allied war against the Axis powers, WHEN HE WAS ITALIAN!?”

“Oh my God Em no calm down,” the woman — Christine — laughs. “I don’t have many notes on him. I don’t think he was Italian, I think that was just his name. I don’t want to speculate. All that I have on him is that he was very popular in town. A ‘sweetheart,’ noted one of the boys’ mothers. And apparently a total bachelor. To the people watching this on YouTube, I got a picture. Spotify listeners I’m sorry.”

Em gasps. “Wow. No because if I was into men—” they let the sentence hang and you and the podcasters laugh at the joke. “I’m sorry for making fun of his name now. Damn.”

“He looks like he whimpers.”

“CHRISTINE THAT’S FOUL.”

“Whattttt he’s dead!!!”

Their banter has you giggling aloud and absolutely making a mental note to look this up on YouTube so you can be sure you’re not insane for connecting the dots. As you turn onto the main road that leads to your house, the long road stretches ahead of you and you hope absently that the UV rays aren’t too high today. You were hoping to get some gardening done.

A man standing in the trees on the side of the pavement pulls you out of your own world, turning your head to look at him as you drive past.

Your head turns back to the road and you’re met with a deer staring at you from 10 feet away.

The squealing of the tires is deafening as you attempt to slam on the brakes and swerve your car all at once. You scream when you feel gravity tilt on itself. Rolling with the car as you land in a ditch.

The ground is moist above you, and when you stick your hands up to steady yourself against the roof, the glass from the windshield shattering digs into your palms.

The pain in your hands is disregarded as you try to move them to feel around. Your hands are met with warmth. The wet fur scraping across your bloody palms. Peeling your eyes open against the pain in your head, you’re immediately hit with overwhelming nausea.

The deer’s decapitated head sticks into the windshield, inches from your face.

The metal groans when you attempt to flail backwards. Terror radiates from you, and you can’t scream. No matter how hard you try, the air won’t come out of your lungs.

You attempt to press the emergency button on the ceiling of your car, but your hands are weak, giving out as you slam your palm repeatedly against the buttons.

A man’s voice carries throughout the car. “You’ve reached 999, what is your emergency?”

“I’ve uhm. I’ve hit a deer,” you say between gasps, “and I can’t get out of my car.”

“Okay ma’am, slow down. You’ve got to breathe. Can you do this for me?” You can hear him typing in the background.

“Y-yeah. I’m trying. Sorry. The deer is in my car with me and I can’t move.” You think you’re beginning to hyperventilate.

“Ma’am can I get your name? Paramedics are on their way but I need a way for them to contact you.” You hear him saying. But everything is fuzzy. You can’t speak. You can barely even hear. Your eyes close and when they open again you are on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance.

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