Authors: Rose Anderson
Dreamscape
Dreamscape
Unable to deny his own translucence, Dr. Jason Bowen determines his lack of physical substance could only mean one thing—he’s a ghost. Murdered more than a century before, Jason haunts his house and ponders the treachery that took his life.
When Lanie O’Keefe arrives with plans to renovate her newly purchased Victorian mansion, Jason discovers, ghost or not, he’s still very much a man.
Despite its derelict condition and haunted reputation, Lanie couldn’t be happier with her new home, but then she has no idea a spirit follows her every move throughout the day and shares her captivating warmth at night. Jason soon discovers he can travel through Lanie’s dreams and finds himself reliving the days before his murder with Lanie by his side.
It took one hundred and twenty years for love to find them, but there’s that insurmountable little matter of Jason being dead.
Genre:
Contemporary, Paranormal
Length:
73,800 words
DREAMSCAPE
Rose Anderson
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
DREAMSCAPE
Copyright © 2011 by Rose Anderson
E-book ISBN: 1-61034-560-6
First E-book Publication: July 2011
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter to Readers
Dear Readers,
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Dreamscape
by Rose Anderson from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.
Regarding E-book Piracy
This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.
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This is Rose Anderson’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Anderson’s right to earn a living from her work.
Amanda Hilton, Publisher
DEDICATION
To my wonderful family who tell me from the sidelines, “Write tight mom, for God’s sake write tight.” I love you guys. There’s hope for me yet!
DREAMSCAPE
ROSE ANDERSON
Copyright © 2011
Prologue
Lanie walked up just as the freckle-faced twelve-year-old boy picked a plum-sized rock from the crumbling fence line and told his companions, “Okay, top left.” His taller fifteen-year-old friend scoffed sarcastically. “
No
way are
you
gonna hit that. It’s
too
high.”
Carl, another boy in the throng, agreed. “Max’s right. It’s too high, Paulie. You’re gonna miss it.”
“No I won’t. Watch.” He drew his arm back and let the missile fly. They were right. It missed the upstairs window by several feet.
The group of boys howled.
“Try again, Paulie.”
“
Hey
, it’s my turn now,” another boy told the throng.
Determined to save face, Paulie told them, “No wait…one more, I’m
gonna
do this.” Putting everything he had behind it, he quickly let another stone fly. This one hit the mark, cracking, but not breaking, a portion of the leaded fan window over the front door.
Amid the congratulatory hoots, another voice was heard. “Stop that!”
“Get lost, stupid bitch,” Max told the younger girl who dared interrupt their fun. “Go look in the garbage cans for your stupid bitch mother. Maybe your dinner’s ready.”
The mob laughed. Another boy chortled. “Yeah, go find your drunken mom.”
Another jeer followed from somewhere behind him. “Yeah, your dinner’s ready in the dumpster behind McDonalds.”
Those words stung Lanie, but she didn’t let it show. The whole town knew her mother drank too much. They knew too that the judge said she couldn’t live with her anymore. She hadn’t seen her mother in four months and didn’t even know where she was. She lived with a foster family now. “Stop it, or I’m going to tell Officer Bob you’re breaking all the windows in the Bowen Mansion.”
“
Oooh
I’m gon-
na
tell Of-
fi
-cer
Bob
…” Another boy mimicked in a sing-song baby voice. Amid cruel sneers and jeers, other painful words echoed.
Ignoring her now, the boys waiting their turn to throw let loose in a salvo. Their rocks hit the windows on the first floor, shattering two and breaking one of the slatted shutters that now swung by a single hinge.
“
Please
stop it!”
“Whoa,
nice
shot!” Max bent to find another rock. “Watch this one…”
“Stop it!” Seeing the boy poised to throw, Lanie ran up and shoved Max. Her slight form was just enough to make him miss, and his rock landed in the front yard. Spitting angrily, he turned and pushed her hard into the fence where she scraped her arms and palms on the jagged stone wall. A tear in her sleeve showed a cut and bloody elbow. Max, outraged that a stupid fourth-grade bitch interrupted their fun, did what his father always did to teach his stupid stepmother a lesson. He kicked her hard in the leg. He wished he wore a belt.
Crying out in pain, Lanie tumbled over the sharp stones. The sound was like blood in the water. They set on her like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Grabbing handfuls of dirt and damp slimy leaves they rubbed them on her clothes and face, and, still not satisfied, they spit in her hair.
Bloody and crying she covered her head with her hands while they dumped other slime from the curb over her head. Max drew his leg back to kick her again but Paulie grabbed him away. His finger pointing toward the top of the house, he asked in a frightened tone, “What the hell is
that?
”
“What…?”
The rattling window glowed in blue light. Anyone looking up could clearly see the man standing in it. They ran shrieking down the street leaving the sobbing girl behind. Who cared about her? They’d seen the ghost of Jason Bowen, and
everyone
knew he killed kids every time he appeared.
* * * *
Jason Bowen stood in the window looking on. For years now, every once in a while, a pack of little bastards would break his windows and the bank would come and board them up the next day. His house had sat vacant a long while with its broken windows and weeds gone wild. He could only imagine the look of it from the street. On one hand he didn’t mind really, for the sorry state of his property meant one thing—the last of
that
family had finally left his home. And it had only taken a hundred and twenty-three years.
These packs of hyenas came and went over the years. Even when Margaret was alive, the occasional rabble desiring to scare the reclusive old woman would throw a rock at the house. But this latest mob was well over the top of boyish pranks. In his opinion, that was due to the taller, obviously older boy who egged the younger ones on —a bad seed if ever he did see one.
There was nothing to be done about the window breaking. Had he flesh and bone, he’d catch them and demand they work off their vandalism. He’d demand, too, their parents keep a tighter rein on their brats. He’d been watching as the little black-haired girl tried to stop their destruction and it filled him with rage when he saw the young savages abusing her. That was more than enough. He rattled the windows and showed himself, and predictably the little bullies ran. Watching her now as she staggered to her feet, he felt his heart ache for her.
Poor little sweetheart, I’m sorry I couldn’t help more than I did.
* * * *