Ryan Avery is a young skeptic tired of living in the peculiar town of Wrenoakey, where ghost stories are as common as the wind. Residing at the renowned Bramble Farm with his ghost-enthusiast Aunt Hattie, Ryan is convinced her ghost tours are just e...
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Ryan stood at the back of the darkened office gulping at the air. It stuttered in and out of his lungs. His fingers clenched the metal desk to steady himself as his body trembled with the effort to contain the rage boiling within him.
When he heard Sullivan's lowered voice on the other side of the door, asking him again if he was okay, he seized the nearest object and hurled it across the room. The satisfying crash as it shattered against the floor released some of his pent-up fury and enacted the result he wanted; Sullivan's footsteps retreated, leaving Ryan alone.
Gasping for air, he sunk into the desk chair, the weight of panic pressing down on his chest, while memories of Warren's attack ignited fresh waves of anger. He clenched his fists, the urge to destroy something, anything, became almost overwhelming. He glared at the stacks of ghost books and little ghost figurines on Aunt Hattie's desk, and then he saw the ghost box sitting by one of her notebooks. He swung his arm across the desk, sending all Aunt Hattie's things crashing to the floor.
It had always been the dead who mattered to Aunt Hattie, Ryan thought bitterly. He'd been the only real ghost living in this house. She looked right through him like he wasn't there.
He slammed a fist on the desk and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stop destroying anything else before he couldn't stop.
Slowly, agonizingly, Ryan fought to regain control.
As the minutes stretched into eternity, Ryan's racing thoughts finally began to settle. The jagged edges of his rage softened, and his breathing returned to normal. What was left was a dull ache of exhaustion making his body feel weighted to the sofa. He pushed himself upright, his hands still trembling as he surveyed the wreckage of Aunt Hattie's sanctuary.
He didn't belong in this office. He didn't belong on this farm. He didn't really belong anywhere.
He was leaving.
He tugged his backpack from a box the movers had packed haphazardly when Sullivan had commandeered his room. He shoved a change of clothes inside. Then he moved around his aunt's boxes until he found the one labeled "Camping". He pulled out a rolled sleeping bag, then rummaged through the box stuffing items into his backpack he thought he could use. He slung the backpack over his shoulders, tucked the sleeping bag under one arm, and headed for the window, but he paused. He turned to look back at the door.
He could feel bits of his aunt's broken ghost figures crushing under his sneakers as he walked across the room to retrieve the key, wincing slightly at the destruction he'd caused. She would never have approved of him leaving like this, and he could almost hear her telling him he had to stop being so reckless and think things through. But she wasn't here anymore, and being reckless was the only plan he had.
He yanked the key out of the locked door and pocketed it. At least he could keep the Brambles out of this space, so they couldn't entirely strip Aunt Hattie's memory from this farm. Neither of them would fit very well through the narrow office window, and he doubted they'd have much interest in poking around her ghost-hunting journals.
