Black Heart (Cursed Hearts #1)(11)

It helped quite a bit at the time, but none of their good intentions fixed what was really wrong. During the day he was still harassed and assaulted by the dead. He’d learned after he was adopted how to act like nothing hurt or bothered him. By the time he was ten, he could sit in algebra class answering a question while he was being punched, kicked, and clawed by the dead who were pissed at being ignored by the only person that could see them. He’d also learned that the best way to keep his parents and teachers from asking about his bruises and cuts was to keep them covered. At night he’d figured out that sleeping under his bed made it more difficult for them to hurt him.

Nothing helped the rage building inside of him. He hated his life. Most of all he hated the fact that he was different and couldn’t tell anyone or he’d be taken from his family. He lived in constant fear that he would say or do something that would ruin everything. The only time he felt at ease was when Marty was around. She made him feel almost human. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop him from getting hurt and she’d been too young to confide in.

By the time Shayne came around, Tristan was a shell of his former self. For so long he’d acted like nothing mattered until it finally hadn’t. He didn’t think anything could be worse than being stalked by the dead. The night Shayne showed up proved that he didn’t know shit.

Nothing out of the ordinary had occurred that night to clue him into the hell that awaited him. He’d said goodnight to his parents. Then after scoffing down ice cream with Denny he went to his room. He was halfway under the bed when a cold hand clamped down around his ankle.

Tristan prepared himself for a fight as he was dragged out from under the bed. He didn’t have much time to react before he was pinned to the floor and his pajama bottoms were torn from his body. To this day he could still remember that raspy voice in his ear.

“I’m going to f**k you hard, boy,” the ghost had said, cruelly laughing while Tristan struggled against the urge to scream.

He’d never been more afraid in his life. Desperately he tried to free himself, but the man had been stronger. Tristan vomited the ice cream he’d just consumed all over the floor as the man rubbed against him. He sobbed quietly, knowing there was nothing he could do or say to escape. Yelling for help wouldn’t have done anything except bring him more shame and he’d had more than enough of that. Just when he’d accepted what was about to happen to him, Shayne arrived.

“Get your hands off the lad,” Shayne had said with a thick Irish brogue.

In seconds, Tristan was free to crawl back beneath the bed where he squeezed his eyes shut and desperately tried to stop crying. He listened as the men fought, praying that they would just leave him alone.

“Come on out, lad. He’s gone,” Shayne said calmly a few minutes later when the sounds of fighting and shouting suddenly stopped.

Tristan lay beneath the bed, trembling and terrified of what would happen to him if they got their hands on him again. “N-no.”

Shayne sighed heavily, “That’s fine, lad. I’ll just sit here and make sure that no else bothers ye tonight. When ye feel comfortable, ye come on out and I’ll tuck ye into bed.”

Tristan didn’t trust him so he stayed under the bed, quietly sobbing. He didn’t know how he was going to make it through another day, especially knowing that he could be hurt in other ways now. Beatings were one thing he’d come to accept, being molested was something that he would never be able to live with.

When morning came, he had no choice but to crawl out from under his bed. He wondered how many ghosts were in his room ready to pounce on him with their demands and hurt him when he couldn’t help them. To his complete shock, there was only one ghost in his room waiting for him.

From a glance he could tell there was something different about this one. Every ghost looked solid to him. So much so that sometimes he had to pay attention to the little things that gave them away like walking through things and not being able to touch anything, but him.

This man comfortably sat on the love seat in his room. He’d never seen a ghost able to handle their form well enough to manage that. Normally they fell through the couch. This man sat there studying the welts and bruises that covered Tristan with sympathetic green eyes that matched his own.

Shayne gave Tristan a friendly smile. “Good morning, lad.” He cocked his head to the side to study Tristan. “Everything’s fine. They’ll never hurt ye again,” he’d promised.

Tristan didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him so he did what he always did with ghosts. He ignored him. Shayne didn’t seem to take it personally. He remained by Tristan’s side day and night for several weeks before Tristan slowly began to trust him. Soon Tristan was sleeping in his bed without fear and his body for the first time in his life was free of cuts and bruises.

Not long after that, Tristan began to talk with Shayne, who’d explained that when he’d been alive he’d suffered the same curse as Tristan. He’d led a tormented life because of the curse and, as a result, led his life with a death wish thinking only in death would he be able to find peace. When death finally came at the ripe old age of thirty in a violent act, he was stunned to realize that he’d been cursed in death as well.

Now Shayne was bound to earth to live as a guardian of sorts. He could touch and move things when he chose without any difficulty, but he couldn’t be seen or heard by any living souls except by someone like Tristan. The only thing that changed for Shayne was his loss of human needs like food, water, and sleep. Other than that nothing had changed at all.