Rattling Chains by T. Strange

Book 1 in the Bound to the Spirits series

General Release Date: 1st June 2021

Word Count: 71,784
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 294

GENRES:

BONDAGE AND BDSM, CRIME, EROTIC ROMANCE, GAY, GLBTQI, PARANORMAL, THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

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Book Description

Ghosts are popping up where they shouldn’t. Harlan, a ghost janitor for the police, suspects there’s a serial killer on the loose—but no one believes him.

Harlan Brand is a medium who was abandoned by his parents at a school for the psychically gifted. He grew up lonely but safe from the ghosts that terrorized his childhood.

But now, at twenty-one, he’s out in the real world. He works as a ghost janitor for the Toronto Police Service, cleaning up after crimes and hauntings in the Greater Toronto Area. Adding to the anxiety of leaving the ghost-warded safety of his school, the cop assigned as his partner seems to hate him, he’s having confusing feelings for a BDSM club owner who brings out his deepest fantasies and ghosts are popping up where they shouldn’t.

Using the ghosts as clues, Harlan begins to suspect there’s a serial killer loose, but no one believes him. Harlan will stop at nothing to discover who—or what—is preying on his city.

Reader advisory: This book contains mention of implied rape and implied violence, references to murder, torture and body horror.

There were sheets on the bed, nicer ones than he’d ever had at the Centre. They were decorated with paisleys and whorls rather than being one solid, institutional colour and they were soft, too. Harlan had hardly noticed the night before. He’d been so exhausted that he’d simply collapsed on the bed, fully dressed, and fallen asleep almost instantly. That was rare for him. Typically, it took hours for him to fall asleep naturally—or the help of a sleeping pill.

Even safe within the ghost-warded confines of the Centre, his mind wouldn’t easily switch off at night.

He hadn’t closed the curtains—soft blue, with a subtle design that matched the sheets without being identical, and much more decorative than the beige plastic blinds in his old room—and the sun was shining directly on his face. He groaned and rolled over, covering his head with a pillow, but he knew it was useless. Now that he was awake, he’d stay that way, no matter how much he wanted to block out the world and sleep and sleep and sleep.

Rolling over again, he glanced at the alarm clock, which had glowing, red LED numbers, rather than the old-fashioned analog one he was used to. He’d have to find a way to cover the clock’s face or the light would bother him at night—when he didn’t simply collapse from exhaustion, which he hoped wouldn’t become routine. Blackout curtains, too—the blue ones were pretty but thin and wouldn’t block out much light. And a new keychain. Just like that, he had a shopping list.

Harlan was shocked to see that it was after eleven a.m. He was used to his day beginning at eight-thirty, nine at the latest, and that cycle was so ingrained in him that he usually woke at that time on his own, even on ‘free’ days. That he’d slept more than two hours late, with an uncovered window no less, was a testament to how tired he’d been. He considered lying in bed, simply because he could. No one was going to come knocking on his door, telling him he had to be in class in half an hour, and he’d already missed breakfast. He wasn’t expected anywhere. No one would be looking for him. And wasn’t that a frightening thought, one that propelled him out of bed, stumbling into the bathroom. Also, he really had to pee.

He’d packed his toiletries, but everything had been provided for him here, neatly laid out and still in its packaging.

He cracked open the new tube of toothpaste—a different brand than the half-used tube he’d brought with him—and squeezed some onto his old toothbrush then glanced at the new, unopened one, dropped the used one in the wastebasket and instantly regretted it. He hadn’t had it that long. The lines on the bristles that indicated when it should be changed hadn’t faded yet. He’d also wasted toothpaste, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to fish the old one out of the trash, even though it had an empty bag and the plastic bin itself looked brand-new.

Unwrapping the fresh toothbrush, he carefully dropped the package so it landed directly on top of the old toothbrush, deliberately hiding it.

His teeth clean, bladder empty, face freshly shaved, hair brushed into some semblance of order, Harlan considered himself in the mirror—or rather, considered the shower behind him.

Deciding he wasn’t up for the task of facing his new residence wet, he shuffled out of the bathroom, through the bedroom and into the main room he’d hardly glanced at the night before—hadn’t even seen with the lights on. A couch, two armchairs, a coffee table and two end tables—clearly, whoever had furnished the suite had expected him to be a regular, social human being, who enjoyed being around other humans and willingly brought them into his living space. He considered selling the furniture or giving it away, but that left the question of what to put in its place. And he’d have to deal with whomever came to pick it up.

There were even paintings on the walls—generic, inoffensive abstract shapes and colours that Harlan took an immediate and irrational dislike to, much like the keychain.

If he closed his eyes, Harlan could see the ghost-wards protecting the apartment. They were well done, carefully scripted in a tight, professional hand, without any added flourishes or personal flair. They’d hold just about anything out. He’d be safe here—from ghosts, anyway—not from helpful neighbours, who might not be so helpful now that he’d closed the door in their faces.

Harlan wasn’t especially hungry, even though his internal schedule told him it was almost lunchtime, never mind breakfast. He needed to eat so he could have his pills without feeling sick. A generic brand, of course—they were paid for on the government’s dime, after all. Not that he cared, as long as the pills worked. Taking away the constant, uncontrolled ghostly invasions in Harlan’s young life had mostly preserved his sanity but hadn’t touched his depression. He vaguely remembered, from the note he’d barely scanned the night before, something about calling any time, day or night. Harlan could hear the emphasis in Tom’s voice, even in writing. Tom had also listed several mental health support groups he could join. Right. Listening to a bunch of people talk about their mental illnesses was definitely going to make him feel better.

Finding the note discarded in the middle of the floor, where he’d dropped it the night before, Harlan crumpled it and threw it into yet another spotless wastebasket, satisfied by this small act of defiance and the way he’d successfully made the shot.

That was the note taken care of, but where had he put the key? He was still wearing the same clothes, and it wasn’t in any of the pockets. Frantic, he raced back into the bedroom, the bathroom…nothing. He went back to the living room and impulsively opened the front door. There was the top of Taz’s head, Harlan’s key still firmly in the lock. At least the building seemed crime-free, if he could get away with leaving his key in the lock overnight like a fucking idiot.

Setting it on one of the end tables and thoroughly disgusted with himself, Harlan stalked into the kitchen. The last few days had been hard enough on him without missing his medication. The fridge—besides being glistening white and clearly brand-new, like everything else—was full of staple foods—milk, eggs, cheese, apples. There was nothing he particularly liked or disliked. The cupboards were the same—cans of soup, boxes of cereal, flour and other baking necessities, nothing exciting. Whoever had bought it, like everything else in the apartment, hadn’t been shopping for him in particular, just for food in general.

Harlan poured himself a bowl of cereal, added milk and sat on the couch to eat it. The apartment didn’t have a dining table. He kept getting distracted, thinking of things he wanted to buy with the money in his envelope, and the cereal got mushy. Stubbornly—it was the first meal he’d prepared for himself, by himself, dammit—he forced himself to choke it down.

He spent the weekend rereading books on his old e-reader and learning to live alone. His Life Skills classes had fallen somewhat short. He had to make food for himself, multiple times a day, every single day? The thought was strangely depressing, and he hadn’t even attempted anything more complicated than reheating soup. First, he’d tried it in the microwave, then, to mix things up a bit, on the stovetop. He’d had to rummage through every cupboard and drawer until he finally found a pot under the oven. At least he didn’t have to leave the apartment.

On Sunday afternoon it hit him, abruptly, that this was his space, which meant he could masturbate where he wanted, whenever he wanted. The thought was oddly more horrifying than arousing—too much freedom. He’d had to be furtive and awkward at the Centre, where he’d constantly been surrounded by other people and had to snatch whatever moments alone he could. Looking back, he was a little amazed he’d never been caught masturbating, never mind the few times he’d managed to have full-blown sex.

He tried the shower first, because that was familiar and he was naked anyway. Then a short nap. After dinner—more soup and some crackers he’d found hidden behind the canned goods—he cautiously entered the main room, holding some lotion and Kleenex. Being naked outside his bedroom was odd and terrifying, yet also exhilarating.

He lay on the couch, the soft white leather clinging unpleasantly to his skin as he squirmed, trying to find a comfortable position. He almost gave up and retreated to the bedroom with his tail tucked between his legs, but he stubbornly pressed on. He thought about what he nearly always thought about when he jerked off—rough, masculine hands holding him down, spanking his upturned ass while another man fucked his mouth. His climax was satisfactory but not earthshattering, and he decided that—empty apartment or not—he’d stick with the bedroom from now on.

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T. Strange

T. Strange didn’t want to learn how to read, but literacy prevailed and she hasn’t stopped reading—or writing—since. She’s been published since 2013, and she writes M/M romance in multiple genres, including paranormal and BDSM. T.’s other interests include cross stitching, gardening, watching terrible horror movies, playing video games, and finding injured pigeons to rescue. Originally from White Rock, BC, she lives on the Canadian prairies, where she shares her home with her wife, cats, guinea pigs and other creatures of all shapes and sizes. She’s very easy to bribe with free food and drinks—especially wine.

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