Undercover Reaper, page 1
part #1 of Eerie Valley Supernaturals Series
Undercover Reaper
Eerie Valley Supernaturals Book One
RaShelle Workman
Polished Pen Press, llc
Copyright © 2020 by RaShelle Workman
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by: Jen Hendricks and Debbie Davis
Cover by: Cover by: Dark Imaginarium
Contents
Inntroduction
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
Also by RaShelle Workman
About the Author
Inntroduction
New town. New job. New supernatural power. I reap the dead and there's plenty of work in Eerie Valley.
My name is Faith Ghraves and I'm a detective in the small town of Eerie Valley, just outside of Los Angeles, California. A few months ago I started to see the spirits of the recently deceased. On one fateful night, I accidentally touched one and without knowing how sent the spirit to the after life.
No one knows my secret because how would I tell them.
Instead, I pretend to be just an average woman with a badge and gun.
There are two cases my partner and I are working. The first is that of a child who's gone missing. The second involves dead strippers. The FBI is also involved. They believe the murders are the work of a twisted serial killer and they want to use me as bait.
That means going undercover. As a stripper. The prospect is terrifying. Even more scary than seeing the dead. But I never was one to back down from difficult obstacles.
As we uncover more about each case, it becomes apparent nothing in this town is ordinary and the supernatural are everywhere.
Chapter 1
Her death called to me.
My flesh tingled and the closer I got, the stronger the feeling became. When I arrived on the scene, smoke spewed from the demolished front end of her white pickup where it broke through the metal barrier and met with a thick redwood tree. “Probably texting and driving,” I muttered, getting out of my car. The door squeaked as I slammed it.
After checking to make sure my gun was tucked into its holster under my right arm, I dialed 911. Looked both ways and crossed the winding two-way road. When I reached the double yellow lines, I heard the woman whimpering.
Still alive. But not for long.
The woman let out a little cry. After giving the operator the details on location and the nearest mile marker, I hung up and ran over. “It’s going to be okay,” I said to her through the shattered window.
Her eyes blinked open and she tried to smile. “Th-Than-”
She was struggling to speak, struggling to move. She hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt. The windshield was smashed, leaving red in the glass. Chunks were caught in her bloodied blond hair. Her body was completely broken, a rib protruding through her clothing as gore spilled out everywhere. I quickly assessed the situation without touching her. Could she survive?
The tingling got stronger as though my body was telling me what to do. Gently, I took her hand. “Help is coming,” I said, but it was no use. I felt her spirit separating from her body.
There was a surge of energy and a pulling as her spirit drifted, then hovered a moment. She glanced around as though confused before focusing on me.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” her spirit asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” I said, knowing there wasn’t an easy way to break such devastating news to someone. Even the ones who thought they wanted to die didn’t mean it once the end came.
She shook her head, staring at her shimmering hands. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I was driving along and the next I was like this.” She glanced at her body. Then back at me. “Who are you?”
“My name is Faith. Faith Ghraves. I’m a reaper and I’m here to help you move on.” It was better just to tell the dead the truth.
“A reaper?” Her eyes got wide. “You don’t look anything like what I imagined. Where’s your skeletal body, dark hooded cloak, and scythe?” Her question was serious, but I didn’t have answers.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m kind of new to this.”
That frightened her. I would need to remember that for next time. Always pretend I know what I’m doing, I thought and tucked the information away.
The wail of an ambulance could be heard in the distance.
“So what, do I just float up to Heaven?” Her eyes flicked back and forth in fear.
I lifted my hand to her shoulder, like I was going to console her. “I hope so,” I said, resting my fingers on the outline of her spirit. As soon as I did, she vanished. “Good-bye,” I whispered.
I waited with her body until the ambulance and police arrived. Gave my statement to the officer in charge and watched them load the deceased, Beverly Evens into the medical examiner’s van.
Free to go, I drove slowly, making my way back into town. With the window down, the wind whipped my hair around my head like a fluttering fire. The fresh air felt good against my skin, but the dead woman’s eyes still haunted me. I wouldn’t forget her so easily. Really, I didn’t forget any of them. I understood the pain of losing someone. But since becoming a reaper, death was different and felt very personal.
There were many ways to die. Too many to count. And I’d seen a good number of them in the months since this reaper curse came upon me. With a sigh, I stuck a hand outside the window, fighting the pressure as the airstream cruised past my vintage VW bug. At one point, when the Bug was my dad’s, it’d been shiny, but now, it was worn and faded, and exactly the color of dirty water.
The WELCOME TO ERRIE VALLEY sign came into view. The small town in California was a seldom talked about and generally forgotten. A sleepy, pleasantly mediocre place tucked in Los Angeles’ side pocket. Before being drawn here, I hadn’t known it existed.
Admiring the view, I drove into the heart of downtown along Messenger Road. It put on a good show, hosting several parks, well-crafted subdivisions, complete with beautiful trees and landscaping, and gardens that grew everything from avocados to lemons. There were even multi-million-dollar mansions in the area. Along the outskirts resided half dozen cattle ranches and acres and acres of uninhabited fields.
Many of the thirty-three hundred residents of Eerie Valley didn’t really consider themselves part of the town. And every Monday through Friday around six in the morning, they would get in their uppity cars to begin the commute to L.A.
Only sixty miles from Los Angeles, most interstate travelers drove right by Eerie Valley without giving it a second thought. But if one by chance took the Messenger Road exit off I-5, they would be led right into the heart of the city. There they would find everything from Belinda’s Gas Station, Eerie Valley Bank, Frankie’s Grocery to Casper’s Bed and Breakfast, a recreation center complete with racquetball court and swimming pool, and Howl’s Hot Eats.
On the corner of Messenger Road and Supernatural Lane stood Magic and Cross. A brick building with a vinyl façade, it was one of the newer stores in the area. Built a few years ago by Julian Maccon, one of the town’s most prominent contractors, the store didn’t appear very large nor did it look very magical. Not long after the sign was hung on the front of the store, Julian disappeared, leaving the current owner and his wife Kara to run the shop alone.
The new proprietors sold everything, from the silly to the serious. Whether a client wanted tarot cards, a magic eight ball, a dream catcher, or glass-blown fairies, they had it all. And if someone sought a love potion or something more sinister, Kara would sell that too—for a price. In her twenties, she was friendly, if slightly reserved.
Next to Magic and Cross stood Quill’s Bakery. Each morning at five a.m., the six-foot-five owner whipped up the most delicate and delicious pastries along with the finest coffee. He was in his mid-thirties but had a baby face that made him appear much younger. More than once over the years he’d received an odd look from an outsider. Quiet by nature, he had a great smile but didn’t say much, a gentle giant.
Taking up the opposite side of the street was the Eerie Valley police station where I worked and the Eerie Valley Town Hall. Behind them sprawled the parking lot they shared with the recreation center. The police station lived in a somber building with yellow and tan brick, an occasional window, and a glass front door that didn’t offer much by way of protection but did allow for marginally more light. Erected in the late fifties, the brick was crumbling in places and the flat roof was in serious disrepair. During any one of the many torrential rainstorms that passed through Eerie Valley, there would be more pots catching water leaking through the roof than there were officers working inside. Of course, Chief Collins put in an annual request for repairs, and equally dutifully, the higher ups claimed there was no budget. The Eerie Valley police department just wasn’t a priority.
Back on Messenger Road was two strip clubs and a bar. The owner of the establishments, Walter Wilson, kept to himself. Most of us hadn’t seen him, but I heard stories—like that he was tall, taller even than Quill, and weighed nearly three hundred pounds. He was Mr. T. meets Mike Tyson. Others thought he was a tiny, mousy man with pasty, leathery skin and a frizzy gray beard.
Once a driver reached the end of Messenger Road, they could take a left, heading onto a ramp that led back to the interstate, go straight toward some of the smaller residential homes, and several apartment buildings, or turn right past the church, the cemetery, and the parish house toward more private homes and further on, to the cattle ranches.
A few of the locals gossiped that there was something menacing about the city. It was one of the first bits of conversation my neighbor, Ina shared while I was moving in. She said there was evil lurking deep below. Surely it was just talk. Something made up to go along with the city’s name. But even the resident priest, a Dr. Riff Jordan sermonized about it during more than one of his blistering speeches each Sunday. He lived in the small wooden house to the right of the church but seemed to spend most of his time inside the chapel. Most of us listened to him carry on out of respect for the man who’d been part of Eerie Valley since before anyone could remember. He looked ancient and youthful at the same time, with medium dark hair and a medium build. Everything about him said ordinary, except the feeling one got when around him.
As I drove past the church, I waved at the reverend.
He returned it. “Hey, Faith,” he said.
I smiled as I continued on to Angel Ave, where I turned right. My neighbor, Ina, was outside pruning her rose bushes. I nodded to her before pulling into the gravel driveway of my pink Victorian house. Even a month after buying the place, my house still filled me with happiness.
Lemon trees lined either side of the large front porch, distorting the white lattice fence and avocado and lime trees grew sporadically throughout the front yard. Since it was December, some of the leaves started to fall, diminishing their fullness. Concrete steps led up to the front door where my giant white Persian, Fluffy Fantastico, sat at attention, looking grumpy as always. Fluffy had shown up about a week after I moved in, microchip-less and tag-less. A quick check with the neighbors confirmed he didn’t belong to anyone, so he became mine and immediately made the large house feel less lonely.
Fluffy blinked at me, and I could almost hear his unsatisfied whining. He was hungry. Because of the accident, I was home late and Fluffy was obviously unhappy he still hadn’t been fed his dinner.
I rolled down my window. “Hey, Fluff.” It was silly I talked to the cat when he couldn’t talk back but I did it anyway.
He yowled in response, licking his chops deliberately.
I drove past the house toward the detached garage in the back. Painted the same colors as the house, it could almost be mistaken for a cottage. I sometimes thought about turning it into one. I certainly didn’t need more storage. But I didn’t need more room either, so for now it would stay as it was. From my rearview mirror, I watched the cat follow a moment before running past and up the steps leading to the back door where he sat impatiently waiting for me.
Outside, I headed toward my back door. The ground shuddered and I stuck out my arms to balance myself. A quick glance underfoot revealed nothing menacing. “Stupid earthquakes.” They were a part of life here in Cali, and even though this earthquake didn’t feel exactly like a regular one, it had to be. “You feel that, kitty?”
He blinked, his blue eyes speaking volumes. With a shrug, I went up the steps and let Fluffy inside.
Chapter 2
I took the boiling water from the microwave and poured it into the Styrofoam cup of instant noodles. Steam struck me in the face along with the aroma of chicken broth. I didn’t know why I liked them so much. They tasted like the container they came in. But there was something about the texture on my tongue that had me craving them at least twice a week. Also, they were cheap and easy. And since I was cooking for one, it didn’t make sense to do more.
I picked up the Styrofoam container and went to the fridge. Some of the hot water splashed onto my hand, then the floor. “Owwww-ch.” I switched the container to my other hand and stepped over to the sink to run it under cold water. A red welt had already started to form. “Fluff. Here kitty kitty.” He would lick up the contents on the floor. The cat wasn’t too picky, especially when it came to people food, a thought made obvious when he bolted into the kitchen. “Right there.” I used the tip of my shoe to tap the spillage. He gave me a wicked glare, one that said, “You called me over for this,” before licking it up.
“Thank you, Fluff.” I turned off the water and opened my retro pink refrigerator that came with the house. It was cute. After grabbing a vitamin water, I took a drink.
My kitchen and the rest of the interior were mostly white with pops of pink, like the appliances. The exterior was the opposite. It had been painted pink with white trim and a black roof. Despite its extremely girly color scheme, I had fallen in love with the Queen Anne style house. Constructed in the early nineteen hundreds and refurbished the year before, I’d purchased it at full asking price. Everything from the birch wood floors to the circular library had been updated in keeping with the original style, and oozed charm. The pink and white might be a touch too cotton candy for my usual tastes, but they reminded me of my mom, and I liked that.
Finished with the floor, Fluffy jumped up on the counter. He wanted more.
“Get down!” I shooed him off before grabbing a fork and a napkin. Mortally offended, the cat meowed with attitude. “Fine, fine, I’ll add a little something to your bowl.” I poured some of the juice from my dinner in with his food.
The cat ran over and ate like he hadn’t eaten in years.
I took my dinner into the living room. It’d been decorated simply with a gray couch, matching loveseat, and two button-tufted pink chairs. In front of the couch sat a wood coffee table with a stack of coasters, my laptop, and several knitting magazines on top. Across from the couch sat a distressed entertainment center. On top was a TV and more knitting magazines. I wanted to learn but hadn’t taken the time yet.
I checked the clock hanging next to the front window to see the time. Eight fifty-eight. After locating the remote, I flicked on the TV, and took a large bite of noodles. That was the only way to enjoy them, if they overfilled my mouth. While I chewed, I found the correct channel.
Of course, my noodles were nothing like Steve’s. My partner on the force could whip up a gourmet meal. The man loved food. Shopping for it. Preparing it. Cooking it. And I loved eating it.
Leaning back, I propped my feet on the coffee table and thought about my partner. When I first moved here, we went on a few dates, but it hadn’t gone anywhere. Sure, he was hot. We were partners though and it felt right to stay friends.
Work today was long. As two of only six detectives, we handled everything. Today, we conducted three drug suspect interviews and talked to the victim of a home invasion. Of course, not much had come from our cases, except a lot of paperwork.
My phone pinged.
A text from Steve. Watching America’s Miss Beautiful?
I laughed. We hadn’t known each other long, but he was a good detective.
What? No, I fibbed as the show’s theme music came on. I hummed along. The show was a cheesy, obnoxious, and shameless mash up of Celebrity Apprentice and Miss America, and I was thoroughly addicted to every frou-frou moment.
