Dead Serious E-Book

Lena Grace Holloway

• Herausgeber: Twist & Tether Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Derrick Lawley was the best estate lawyer in the city—sharp, ruthless, and utterly fearless when it came to twisting the law to his advantage. But his latest client, a secretive billionaire with a bizarre clause in his will, offered Derrick a challenge even he couldn’t resist: a contract designed to outlast death itself.
One fatal heart attack later, Derrick finds himself still bound to the deal… as a ghost. Tasked with delivering a soul to satisfy the contract’s chilling terms, Derrick must haunt the designated heir—Atticus Bellamy—into compliance. But the deeper he delves into the Bellamy family’s tangled past, the more the lines between duty and morality blur.
With a demonic enforcer watching his every move, a haunting that unravels in ways he never anticipated, and the gnawing suspicion that he’s been misled from the very start, Derrick’s race against an impossible deadline pushes him to question everything—especially his own role in the twisted game.
What happens when the ultimate contract lawyer becomes a clause trapped within the fine print?
And when you can no longer trust the terms—or yourself—how do you escape a deal with no way out?

Leseprobe

Dead Serious

The Contract Said "Until Death", But Not What Came After.

Grave Humor

Lena Grace Holloway

Copyright © 2025 by Lena Grace Holloway

All rights reserved. This book is protected under international copyright law. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical reviews or articles.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents, and dialogue are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is entirely coincidental.

Thank you for reading. May each twist keep you guessing—and every reveal stay with you long after the final page.

Table of Contents

Dead Serious

Description

Prologue: Closing Argument

Chapter 1: The Ghost Clause

Chapter 2: Haunt and Deliver

Chapter 3: Objection Overruled

Chapter 4: Red Ink and Salt Circles

Chapter 5: Loopholes and Lies

Chapter 6: The Wrong Signature

Chapter 7: Final Settlement

Epilogue: Addendum

Dead Serious

Description

Derrick Lawley was the best estate lawyer in the city—sharp, ruthless, and utterly fearless when it came to twisting the law to his advantage. But his latest client, a secretive billionaire with a bizarre clause in his will, offered Derrick a challenge even he couldn’t resist: a contract designed to outlast death itself.

One fatal heart attack later, Derrick finds himself still bound to the deal… as a ghost. Tasked with delivering a soul to satisfy the contract’s chilling terms, Derrick must haunt the designated heir—Atticus Bellamy—into compliance. But the deeper he delves into the Bellamy family’s tangled past, the more the lines between duty and morality blur.

With a demonic enforcer watching his every move, a haunting that unravels in ways he never anticipated, and the gnawing suspicion that he’s been misled from the very start, Derrick’s race against an impossible deadline pushes him to question everything—especially his own role in the twisted game.

What happens when the ultimate contract lawyer becomes a clause trapped within the fine print?

And when you can no longer trust the terms—or yourself—how do you escape a deal with no way out?

Prologue: Closing Argument

The blood pooling around my fingertips felt oddly warm—a betraying comfort in an otherwise surreal moment. I leaned back in my leather chair, watching the crimson ink smear across the parchment as though it possessed a life of its own. My client, the billionaire with nebulous motives, merely observed in silence, his face hidden behind half-moon spectacles that reflected my own—eyes widened, brows knitted.

I cleared my throat and grinned through the chaos. “Perfect,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely certain whether I was referring to the clause or the stain spreading like wildfire.

The room was dimly lit by an antique desk lamp whose cracked green glass cast mottled shadows across the walls. The air smelled of old paper, cigarette ash, and something faintly metallic. I tapped the pen against the contract’s final line, feeling the pressure—literal and figurative—as if the weight of centuries of legal precedent pressed down on my wrist. A bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the ink at the corner of my eye. I blinked it away and refocused on the words: Effective upon the signer’s demise, binding all named beneficiaries, indefinitely. Crisp. Unassailable. Deliciously twisted.

My client spoke for the first time in fifteen minutes, his voice low and gravelly, as if it scraped against bone. “You understand the implication?” he asked, lifting a slender finger to the clause.

I nodded, though a tiny voice in my skull whispered that I had no real idea what I was agreeing to. “Until death,” I repeated, savoring the irony. “But nothing about what comes after.”

My words echoed in the hush, landing heavier than intended.

I laid the pen down with ceremony, the nib clicking against the metal casing. The signature line groaned under the weight of the freshly spilled ink, as though protesting the unnatural terms we had penned. Simply put: I had just agreed to tether a soul beyond mortal expiration. A demonic clause, if ever there was one—and certainly enough to keep future lawyers up at night hunting obscure loopholes.

But I had never been one to shy away from precedent-shattering work. It was why I’d become the hotshot estate lawyer everyone feared and few truly respected.

My heart thudded against my ribs, a relentless metronome. I paused, hand hovering over the signing spot, as though waiting for a cue.

My client’s face remained impassive, but the corners of his mouth twitched. For a moment, I wondered if I was the mark of a sick cosmic joke.

Then, with a theatrical flourish, I flicked my wrist, sending droplets of blood arcing onto the final line. The signature revealed itself in jagged strokes—my own name, in my own blood.

“There. Derrick Lawley,” I declared, leaning forward to admire my handiwork.

The silence that followed felt deeper than any courtroom hush. Outside, rain tapped against the windowpanes, a steady staccato that seemed to applaud my brilliance. Or mock me. I wasn’t sure.

My throat tightened as I realized the magnitude of that final phrase: Binding all named beneficiaries, indefinitely.

I exhaled, attempting nonchalance. “Shall we discuss payment terms?”

My client rose, extinguishing my lamp with a gentle flick of the wrist, plunging us into near darkness. The only illumination glimmered from the contract itself—an eerie phosphorescence that pulsed with each beat of my racing heart.

Somewhere deep down, I knew I should have hesitated, questioned the logic, or at least asked for coffee. But hubris is a powerful drug, and I was happily overdosed.

“Your retainer,” I said, swiping my hand across my desk. The leather-bound attache slid toward me—no lock or complication, intentionally accessible. Money transferred silently, a final acknowledgment that the deal was done.

I tucked the attache beneath my arm and stood, stretching my back as though I had just completed a grand performance.

My client remained seated, head bowed, fingers steepled. “Excellent work, Mr. Lawley,” he intoned.

His words should have rung hollow, but instead they reverberated in my veins like victory.

I managed a cocky salute. “All in a day’s work.”

And that—ironically—was when reality cracked.

My vision trembled, as though my eyes were lenses wobbling on loose mounts. The ink’s phosphorescence sharpened, then blurred; shadows coalesced into writhing shapes at the edge of my sight.

I rubbed my temples, attempting to shake free of the mounting dizziness. My legs, which had been sturdy pillars moments ago, went limp. The attache slipped from my grip, landing with a dull thud that echoed unnaturally in the hush.

I reached down, palm brushing the carpet’s plush fibers, trying to steady myself.

Blood dripped from my signature finger, tiny rivulets tracing delicate paths toward the floor. I glanced down, curious, detached. A part of me thought: I hope the janitor hates red wine stains.

Then came the pain—a thunderclap in my chest, as if someone ignited a fuse inside my ribcage.

My breath caught, a rasping protest that morphed into silence.

The room spun, and the stained contract lifted off the desk, floating as though buoyed by unseen currents.

A whisper slithered through the darkness, curling around my eardrums:

“Your work isn’t over.”

It lacked a source, as though the room itself had spoken.

My vision tunneled; the glowing contract winked out.

I felt myself sliding into the void—less falling than being unmade.

My client’s silhouette blurred into a gaping maw of shadows.

I tried to hold on.

I tried to scream.

But only silence answered.

The final thing I saw, as the world unraveled, was the clause pulsing—binding me, indelibly, into something far larger than life or death.

Then—

***

The world tilted. One moment I was steady on my feet, the next the room spun like a funhouse mirror. My hand flew to my chest as if trying to hold my heart in place. I saw the contract slide from my desk and—impossibly—flame lick its edges even though no source of ignition was visible. The papers curled upward in a haze of glowing embers while the rest of the room drowned in inky shadows.

I tried to call out. “Wait—” My voice cracked, a dry rasp that barely echoed. The billionaire client, half-visible behind a veil of shadows, raised a pale eyebrow. His lips curved into a thin, knowing smile, as if he’d been expecting this performance.

A bolt of lightning rent the sky outside, illuminating the office in blinding white. The thunder that followed rattled the windows and sent shards of sound drilling into my skull. My vision blurred, then snapped back to witness the contract’s bottom half implode, black ash drifting upward where fresh signatures—my signature—had been scrawled in blood.

I staggered forward, catching my elbow on the corner of the desk. My fingertips pressed into the dark wood, leaving smeared red trails that glowed faintly. Pain bloomed in my chest, a cruel heat that spread beneath my sternum. Each breath was a betrayal, a burning struggle against invisible chains tightening around my ribs.

“You’re... indispensable,” I gasped, half-laughing at my own exaggeration. My suit felt too tight now, as though the stitching itself was squeezing the life out of me. I blinked and spotted the attache case on the floor, its lock broken, leather scuffed. Money lay scattered in neat stacks—my retainer—glistening under the flickering light. Normally I’d be proud. Today it felt obscene.

Time warped. The flicker-flicker of the lamp felt like a heartbeat gone mad. One flash, two flash, three—my vision pulsed in rhythm with some cosmic metronome. The contract’s glow faded, then flared again, as though reacting to my faltering pulse. I planted a foot on the attache, leaning over the desk, determined to finish the signature. My pen rolled beneath my palm.

Darkness pooled at the edges of my sight. Shapes curled and writhed in the corners—the demon auditor, perhaps, or merely my imagination. I reached for the contract, fingertips brushing ash-cold paper. The words twisted before my eyes, the text shimmering: Binding all named beneficiaries, indefinitely. My mind reeled. I’d meant “until death,” but the clause was written in starlight and blood—perhaps “indefinitely” genuinely meant beyond the grave.

“Derrick,” the billionaire’s voice came, velvet smooth. “Sign.” It lacked urgency, but carried a weight that pinched my soul. My hand trembled as I grasped the pen. The last thing I saw before collapsing was my own blood dripping onto the page, pooling and solidifying into runes I couldn’t read but somehow recognized: Do not forget.

My knees buckled. I tasted copper—my own blood—every time I exhaled. A whisper echoed in the suddenly vast silence: Your work isn’t over. I tried to focus on that voice, to ground myself. My lungs begged for air, but my throat closed like a vice. I pressed my palm to my chest, hoping to stem the bleeding—literal and metaphorical.

The billionaire remained motionless in the gloom, his silhouette unblinking. He made no move to help, no sign of concern. Instead, he folded his hands behind his back and observed.

My pride flared—how dared he watch me die? I was Derrick Lawley, master of contracts, arbiter of estates. I deserved better than an audience of darkness.

Pain flared across my shoulders, as though invisible hands were twisting me inside out. My world contracted to a pinpoint at the center of my chest. I tried to whisper another snarky retort—something about late fees or malpractice—but all that escaped was a choking gurgle.

A second bolt of lightning flashed. In that instant, I glimpsed my own corpse at the desk—slumped forward, pen still clutched in skeletal fingers.

The sight should have terrified me, but instead it felt hollowly fitting, like a final verdict rendered. My own body was proof that I’d crossed a boundary no living lawyer ever had.

“Perfect,” I muttered, voice weak as a dying candle. Was it sarcasm, or resignation? I couldn’t tell. The billionaire nodded once, sharply. Then he faded into the blackness, leaving me alone with smoke and ash.