Ghost Chaser: The Curse of Steel: Ghost Chaser, #1

Ghost Chaser: The Curse of Steel

Ghost Chaser, Volume 1

Dedrick Frazier

Published by Dedrick Frazier, 2015.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

GHOST CHASER: THE CURSE OF STEEL

First edition. February 15, 2015.

Copyright © 2015 Dedrick Frazier.

ISBN: 978-1478750741

Written by Dedrick Frazier.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Ghost Chaser: The Curse of Steel

ACKNOWLEGDEMENTS:

I would like to thank the following people for their support while I wrote this book:  My mom, Janice Frazier; my brothers Cedrick Frazier and Demetrius Davis; Carol Edwards; Leo Ellerbe; Diane and Danny Lawson; Christy Moseley; Wendy Waters and all those I forgot to mention.  Thank you for listening to me in my constant, endless, verbose ramblings about what I’m doing now and what I’m doing next.  You are truly appreciated.  Rest in peace, Anthony Wayne Waters Jr.

PROLOGUE:

There is no struggle that has endured longer than that of good versus evil.  It is the balance of nature. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  For every night there is a day to follow.  With the presence of God, there must also exist the presence of Satan.  One cannot exist without the other.  In a world full of chaos, each individual is simply searching to find their own destiny.  The question is: do we hold our destiny in our hands or is it a matter of fate? What is fate?  Who determines it?  Is fate predestined?  Can we change it?  Is the person we are to become predetermined by someone greater than us?  Do we have a choice in whether we are good or evil – a coward or a hero? 

In this story, our main protagonist has wrestled with a special ability since his childhood.  He sees this as a curse – a true burden to bear.  He has been reluctant to let anyone enter into his life emotionally, not knowing who to trust.  He would rather make a simple living doing lawn care while disappearing into the background of life than to have the spotlight thrust upon him.  Up until this point, the harshness of his existence has defined who he is as a man.  The hardest reality in this world for any of us to accept is that we will never be perfect or achieve that perfect situation filled with money, power, and happiness without some problems mixed into the concoction. 

For our protagonist in this tale of personal growth and faith, he has made the wrong decisions many times over and chooses to punish himself rather than forgive the actions of an imperfect being.  Like the rest of us, he must learn that his actions will define what he is to become – for we are the masters of our reality and the holders of our fates.

CHAPTER 1:  THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Who am I?  I’m a loser, a nothing, nobody – all rolled up into one massive ball of comedic tragedy.  That’s just the beginning of my not-so-funny tale.  What do I do?  Funny you should ask.  I used to be a landscaper.  Now, I chase ghosts.  I don’t simply mean that I am in deep search of past glories of what once was or that I work with the FBI hunting down the scourge of the criminal underground that cannot be found.  I mean that I chase ghosts – the kind that float; the kind that show up in photographs and you only notice after the pictures come back from the local CVS; the kind that tickle the back of your neck with their fingers while you are reading a hair-raising story. 

Yes, I chase ghosts.  Well ghosts, demons, and pretty much any other unholy beings that happen to cross my path.  Though admittedly, sometimes they chase me.  It’s not that I’m popular.  They’re just attracted to me.  Maybe it’s because I have a nice smile – not that I have much reason to smile these days.  My name is Dorian Steel, but my friends call me Steel.  Perhaps it’s because of my steel-like demeanor; remember I don’t smile much.  As for my personal life, it could be better. I don’t have a lot of friends and soon you’ll see why. 

There is a small group of people that I am proud to use the term friend with.  I guess I like them well enough.  They’re worth keeping around.  I plan to, if I don’t get them killed first.  I don’t know why they put up with my bad luck, karma-catching-up existence.  Life can be a terrible thing to happen to a person. 

Mine is an example of such a life, albeit a simple one.  I am a loner, a pebble, a shell on the rocky shores of this planet.  I depend on myself because there is no one else I would place that heavy burden on.  It is who I am and that will never change.  You get the point by now, I imagine.  Needless to say, I have a few trust issues.   

Actually, I have many issues, but I have a good reason for that.  Like so many before me, I was orphaned as a beautiful, bouncing baby boy.  My Mom, I was told, died of complications during labor.  That's what I was told.  I’ve never seen a picture of her, but I imagine she was beautiful.  I can’t blame her for my lot in life.  Fate has chosen to put all of its time and effort into making my time on this earth as difficult as cosmically possible.  Sorry to be such a pessimist, but when you excel at something, it’s hard to hide it.  I brood well.

Anyway, back to those annoying spirits.  I had a hard time believing in ghosts because I didn’t know a lot about them.  They never had a hard time believing in me.  No one ever sat me down and said, This is what you’re seeing and this is why you’re seeing them.  I figured that part out all on my own.  If I saw something with my own eyes, then I had no choice but to believe.  Though my life has been challenging, I have always had faith in me.  I am indeed a loner.

I used to think that the images I was seeing were a result of my vivid imagination.  After all, I had the weirdest dreams.  When I was about six years young, I was fascinated with the art of flight, though not necessarily with aviation.  Anybody with half a brain could fly an airplane.  At that point in my life, my faith was in cartoons.  I wanted to be a superhero and I bought into it lock, stock, and barrel.  I thought that if Superman could do it, then why not me?  Plus, he always got the girl and who didn’t love Lois Lane?  Lesson one, never compare yourself to Superman.

This is one of my earliest lessons that I can remember.  Now that I am older, I am comfortable enough to admit that he had a slight advantage over me.  While Superman sported a shiny red cape, cotton blue tights, and was born with a plethora of super powers, I wore a pair of small, white Fruit of the Loom underwear, along with my Mom’s pink bath towel, which I heroically showcased around my neck.  At least I was headed in the right direction.

One cannot forget the shiny, stylish red leather boots dawned by the man of steel.  Not one to be outdone, I dawned a pair of white Hanes calf socks pulled up to my knees.  My leather church belt really tied the outfit together.  The word that best described me was dashing.  I was quite proud of myself.  I was a hero on a budget. 

I had a full-proof method of success.  I planned to soar through the friendly skies via wind drafts I would catch when falling headfirst from the roof-top while simultaneously flapping my arms repeatedly.  There was no need to worry.  I'd seen it in the movies a million times.  It always worked without failure. 

Just before I took my leap of faith, a woman in white came to me and gently held me by the arm.  She was almost transparent.  Looking at her was like staring at the sun while trying to watch a bird fly.  She looked into my eyes and tried to convey a message, but she would not or could not speak.  I felt utter and complete sadness from her.  She did not want me to jump. I did not.

Growing up, I was just like any other kid.  I had a few real friends and a few make-believe friends.  My imagination, as you can tell, was colorful.  Most kids get older and they grow out of that phase of their life.  The problem with my imaginary friends was that they were not so imaginary and did not leave me easily. 

Wait!  What was that?  I thought I heard a noise.  Was it the wind?  Yeah, it was probably just the wind.  I’ve been pretty on edge lately.  There’s a storm brewing outside.  It feels like there’s always a storm of some kind here in Mystic.  The weather is funny like that here.  I often think to myself that this little town is its own country.  It’s like no place you’ve ever seen before. 

While Georgia is known for its warm weather due to its proximity to the equator, Mystic is a different beast altogether.  The beautiful oak and pine trees, the old historic neighborhoods, and the slow-paced living are all just smoke and mirrors.  There’s something, excuse the pun, mystical about this place.  You can just feel it.

If you listen or talk with any reputable psychic, if such a person exists, they will tell you that spirits are drawn to kids.  No one knows why they reach out to children.  It could be that the spirit has a desire for his story to be heard before he crosses over to the other side.  Maybe there was a mysterious happening that took place and the spirit cannot rest until things are resolved.

In any event, the psychic community believes that children are more aware of their surroundings and of the spirit world because of their youthful innocence.  Adults miss things.  They are too busy trying to attain material wealth or simply earn a living.  I am no different.  I am caught up in the rat race like everyone else.  Once, though, I was innocent.  I guess we all were.  For me, that was a long time ago – before the visions came.

In my life, I’ve seen many unexplainable and sometimes frightening events.  Some refer to my kind as a psychic.  Some people use the term ‘seer’.  I refer to it as the curse. In no way am I comfortable talking about this affliction, but the world should know my story.  I must tell it for me.  My soul demands it.  Maybe I’ll be able to sleep again one day.  Society thinks religion is dead.  They’re wrong.  It’s not religion that’s dead.  It’s faith. 

While I've never been the most spiritual person, I have always lived my life with a belief that good always triumphs over evil.  Last night, my faith was tested.  It was yet another chapter in the tragic comedy that is my world.  Even for me, this new turn of events is reaching a distinctly high level of madness. 

I am not one to ask for help, but I needed it in the worst possible way now.  There was one person that I could trust with these issues.  Normally, I would not burden him with the sordid details in my life, but   I was out of answers.  He does not know of my curse.  After tonight, he’ll wish he never had. 

Instead of calling, I showed up uninvited with a knock on the front door.  He answered, to my relief.  After taking off my coat and exchanging some common pleasantries, I took a deep breath and exhaled, ready to spill my guts. We sat down in the living room.  Father John listened intently, as he always did. 

I could hardly look at the Father for fear of rejection, or worse – judgment.  I spoke softly.  Where do I begin?  I’m a magnet, Father, for every depraved, maniacal, remorseless, dark soul, living or otherwise.  Sometimes I can’t take it.  My life has been one bad choice after another.  Now I’ve become a shadow watcher.  Men, demons, ghosts – it doesn’t matter. Damn it!  I can’t get a break! 

Father John said nothing.  It felt like a confession. Sorry, Father, I mean it.  I didn’t want to bring my problems to you, but I have no one else to turn to.  You’re one of the few people I can trust.  You, my parents – you’re all I have.  This, however, is not something I can talk to my folks about.  They don’t need to be involved.  You don’t either. 

It’s alright, Father John replied, patting his forehead with his handkerchief.  He seemed rightfully disturbed.  I can see you’re quite troubled my son.  You don’t look too well.  Are you having problems sleeping?  Are you drinking again?

Father John is a good man – wise and knowledgeable.  He is a Catholic priest and is used to hearing confessions.  He misses nothing.  The Father could see the bags under my eyes and the worry in my face.  I didn’t have to say a word. When I was a kid, he used to visit me in the orphanage, if you can call it that.  It was more like Hell’s kitchen and I was the spawn of Satan.  I had a lot to be angry about, or so I thought.  I had no mother and no father.  The world didn’t want me so I didn’t want it. 

The orphanage itself wasn't really so bad when I look back, but I was a young kid and out of control.  To his credit, the Father was always there for me.  I can hardly remember him not being in my life.  In a lot of ways, he’s been like my father.  Father John is a 5’10" Caucasian male and weighs in at a robust 300 lbs., give or take an ounce.  He wore a thick, dark brown beard that was beginning to gray.  His eyebrows arched, giving him the look of an intense and possibly dangerous individual, especially when he was angry, which was rare. He is a gentle giant.

For a man of his unquestionable girth, Father John has the kindest green eyes.  In them you see comfort, compassion, and empathy.  He is my rock and my idol.  His past had always been a mystery to me.  He doesn’t bring it up and I don’t ask.  There were hints to his former life, however, that the Father sometimes let out unintentionally. 

For instance, I think that maybe Father John had been married at one time.  Every now and then, he’ll mention a woman in his past, but he quickly changes the subject.  Still, there is a smile that emanates when he speaks of her that I rarely see from him.  I never push him on it. Though brutally honest at times, he’s always kept his secrets close – for good reason, I presume.  I respect it.  We all have our secrets.

I didn’t answer his question about the sleeping or the drinking.  Scratching his crop of scruffy brown hair, Father John asked, Tell me, what’s going on with you, Dorian?  Does your faith waiver?  You’ve come such a long way from the angry little kid I met years ago, stealing Slim Jims out of the corner market.  Is it a question of money?  You know I’ll always help.  I just need you to be honest.  It’s the only way I can truly help you, my son. 

From out of nowhere, a loud thud from upstairs grabbed our attention and shook me to the core.  It was a thunderous, clanging noise.  Something was with us.  Simultaneously, we looked up to the ceiling, as if summoned by the voice of a higher power.  My throat was dry.  The Father’s eyes bulged.  For a moment, all was quiet.  It seemed like an eternity.  Then, another thud shook the ceiling and cracked the silence of the night.  The living room walls vibrated from the force of the impact.

Tell me that was your cat, I said.  I really need for that to be your cat.  My heart was beating out of my chest.

Father John continued to stare at the ceiling, bewildered.  My cat died last week; buried him in the backyard.

Sorry to hear that, I replied.  I could not hide the trembling in my voice.  The hairs on my neck were as stiff as a board.  My heart was racing as if I were on the 13th mile in the Boston marathon.  Sweat beads surfaced on my forehead.  They slowly trickled down the side of my face.  Time stood still.  This was not how I had pictured the night turning out.  I wanted answers, but I was only finding more questions. 

It was time to get honest with the Father and quickly.  Father John, do you believe in ghosts?  The oddest look came across his face.  Then again, it was an odd question.

He pondered the question for a moment, never taking his eyes off of the ceiling.  Well, I do know that spirits exist.  After all, if one believes that there is a Heaven, it is only natural to believe that there is a Hell.  It is what our faith is based upon.  If angels exist, then so must demons.  Why do you ask?

There was no time for small talk.  I need you to do something, Father.  It’s going to sound crazy, but I swear to you I haven’t had anything to drink or smoke.  That was a lie – at least the drinking part was.  I need you to trust me.  I wouldn’t involve you if I didn’t have to Father, but now it seems that you don’t have a choice in the matter.  It would seem that neither of us have a choice. 

Father John finally broke his staring contest with the ceiling.  Yes, of course I trust you, Dorian, but don’t you think that we should involve the police in this matter?  What if it’s a burglar?

I doubted seriously that a burglar had gotten past both of us and made his way upstairs or that he’d scaled the outside of Father John’s home in an attempt to steal some precious metals of which the Father did not own.  My mind had taken the sound up there to be something else – something other worldly.  The police couldn’t help us with that.  I hoped I was wrong. 

I reached my quivering hand into my pocket and produced a small bottle of water that had previously held some amazing smelling cologne – Eternity for Men by Calvin Klein, to be exact.  I don’t mind saying that it caught me more than a few stares from the opposite sex – the pretty kind and sometimes the not so pretty, but that’s another story. 

While paranoia can drive one mad, it also has the potential to make one alert and wise – in a paranoid kind of way, of course.  Thanks to my on-setting paranoid complex, I had come somewhat prepared.  Truth be told, I had planned to get the Father to bless the bottle of water for me so that I could spray it around my home and drive out whatever was in there stalking me.  There’s nothing crazy about that, right? 

Father John, I don’t know what’s in your home, but I don't think that it's a burglar.  You can think what you will, but I believe I know what it wants.  Call it intuition. 

What are you saying? Father John asked.  What do you think is up there?  What does any of this have to do with you?  Dorian, you have to tell me what’s going on.  This is getting serious really fast.

He was right.  Things were getting serious.  We had no idea how serious things were going to get.  If I knew then what I know now, I would have turned back, though it wouldn’t have mattered.  You can run, but you can never truly escape what is meant to be.  The events taking place on this night were about to change so many innocent people’s lives; no one could have known.  No one could have predicted it. 

I gave Father John the bottle.  Can you bless this for me?  He gave me a puzzled look, but I had no time to go into further detail.  Hell, I wasn’t sure what was really going on either, but I needed to do something.  We were not alone.  This much I knew.  I hadn’t seen a spirit in a long time – not since I was a kid.  When they are around, you just get this kind of feeling.  It’s like someone’s watching you at all times from a hiding spot and when you turn to find them, they’re gone. 

Of course a psychic has the ability to see a spirit if the spirit allows itself to be seen.  They are usually shocked when they find out that they are not completely invisible to everyone.  For me, this was a definite character flaw.  It was something I’d never wanted to tell anyone.  Some secrets should go with you to the grave.

I could hide this oddity from everyone else, but I could not hide it from myself.  Was I psychic?  Was I schizophrenic?  Maybe I was all of the above. Somehow I had really believed that that part of my life was over, dead and buried.  It turns out that it was just sleeping, like Mount St. Helens.  Now the volcano was awakening and ready to erupt.  Anyone caught in the path was going to die – no ifs, ands, or maybes. 

I had been having some weird dreams lately and I chalked it up to working too hard.  When I’m not chasing ghosts, I run a small lawn service.  It’s not the highest paying career, but at least it’s an honest living.  I tend to be out in the sun quite a bit, so I thought that maybe I was dehydrated or just pushing too hard.  The part-time guy who used to help me had recently moved out of state and I had yet to find a replacement for him.  I also thought it was stress that could be causing the nightmares, but last night was bad.  Now things were getting much worse. 

As I stated previously, Father John did not know of my secret, so he could not possibly have known of my 6th sense for these kinds of things.  For my own peace of mind, would you please just bless this, Father?  If there’s nothing up there, then you can lock me up, but if I’m right, then we need to act now.  Please, we don’t have much time.  I can feel it.  Something’s not right.

Father John stared at me as though I had sped through his prized flower garden with a Harley Davidson.  He shook his head in obvious disbelief.  He paused, looking down for a moment, and then made a cross-like gesture with his hands over the bottle of water, hopefully transforming it into a weapon of good.  He said a quick prayer, looked up at me and then at the staircase, and off we went to battle the forces of evil with a cologne bottle filled with what was now holy water.  Nothing could go wrong now, right?

In my years of knowing Father John Morneau, the time spent at his home was always peaceful and relaxing.  It was a safe haven of sorts for me.  I didn’t visit too often because of work and simply not wanting to be in the way.  Good things never seem to happen when I am around.  I am a walking curse.  Father John’s home was a place of peace.  It was a place of tranquility.  Tonight it was neither; whatever