Tormented by Robert J. Crane

place besides Brant, who was holding court at the bar, talking to a dark-haired guy in a police uniform that was somewhere between grey and black. He was holding one of those large-brimmed lawman hats under his arm and leaning against the bar, smile creasing his handsome profile as I walked in. Brant was nodding along with whatever the lawman was saying, and I watched them stop talking as I approached, making my way across the restaurant portion of the establishment.
    I ignored the other groups seated at the tables around me and headed for the bar, feeling another rumble in my belly. I’d hung around my cabin for a little while, Jacuzzi’d for a bit, tried to ignore that uneasy feeling that someone was messing with my head. I hadn’t heard any more voices, so that was a plus. Part of me was staying just to show the voice I wasn’t scared, I think.
    I watched the lawman draw his head back from Brant as I walked up, regarding me with a cool glance as I plopped down on one of the barstools. Music was playing in the background, slow and full of feeling. The lawman nodded to me and moved off down the bar as Brant broke off and headed my way. He caught my gaze and smiled. “Back for another round, eh?”
    I paused, finally realizing why the music playing sounded so familiar. It was Scott Bradlee and Postmodern Jukebox playing their Haley Reinhart-fronted version of Radiohead’s “Creep.” It was slow and lovely, full of soul and feeling. I looked into Brant’s smiling face as he leaned against the bar and nodded toward the ceiling to indicate the music. “They’re playing your song.”
    Brant just grinned in reply. “You think so?”
    “Jury’s still out,” I said. “Though I did have another, presumably-unrelated-to-you haunting experience at my cabin a little while ago.”
    One of his eyebrows arched up. “You seem calmer than I’d expect from someone having paranormal experiences.”
    “First off,” I said, “I’m not having a paranormal experience because there is no such thing. Someone is screwing with me, and I’m going to give them enough rope to twist in.”
    He nodded, cautious. “Nice. And second?”
    “It takes a lot to scare me,” I said, putting my elbows on the bar.
    “Is there a third point?”
    “If I get boozy enough, point three may be graphic and oddly specific promises of violence for the parties responsible,” I said. “I’m not the forgiving sort.”
    “I’m getting that,” Brant said. “Was there a drink order hidden in there somewhere, or am I wishfully thinking?”
    “Well, I certainly didn’t come back for the ambience,” I said, looking around at the newly semi-crowded room. “Though I like your music choice. I’ll have what I had before.”
    “Non-booze-flavored beverage coming right up,” Brant said, nodding as he turned back toward the bar.
    I watched him work for a minute before I spoke again. “You’re not afraid?” He glanced over his shoulder at me as he poured amber liquid into the mixed drink he was making me. “Of my threatening nature?”
    He shrugged. “I’m not responsible, so … no. Though it might be interesting, purely from an intellectual standpoint, to hear these threats that you’ll make later.” He set the drink in front of me on the bar.
    “And you’re not afraid of me?” I asked. “You know, as a patron who wandered in this afternoon sounding crazy as hell and talking about hearing voices?”
    That brought him up short, and he took a few seconds to craft an answer. “Well, I guess my natural curiosity is overcoming my caution in this case, because … well, you’re sort of a celebrity, and we don’t get many of those around here. It’s like if, you know, one of those drunk and crazy actresses came wandering in and trashed the place. Sure, I’d have to clean it up, but at least I’d have a hell of a story to tell.”
    I snorted into my drink. “The girl at the rental place asked if I was going to trash my cabin. That’s the