The Ghost Chronicles Part 4

Following my lead, we walked to the top of the stairs, the meter blinking on and off, like a child flipping a light switch. "She's playing a game with you," I said, cloaking the satisfaction in my voice.

Brian spoke up, "Maureen, ask her if she's the one playing with the doll."

Echoing his question the pendulum swung wildly, a big yes.

A stabbing pain at the base of my skull suddenly broke my concentration. I cringed in pain, clutching the back of my neck. "What the heck?" The swirling energy had returned.

"What's up?" Ron asked, with a look of concern on his face.

"I don't know. My head is killing me," I said, still holding my neck. "I think the pain is coming from Becky. She must have died from a head injury."

"There's a lot of that going around," Ron Jr. snickered from behind the camera.

"Ha, ha." The apple doesn't fall far from the tree The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I thought. "You know it's not easy being empathic."

"Empathic?" Brian asked.

"Yeah. I tend to feel how the spirits have pa.s.sed."

"Good to know," Ron quipped. "Sure glad it's you and not me."

Typical, another Ron-ism, I thought. The throbbing pain began to recede, along with the spirit of the little girl. "Either she's gone or she's moved to another spot in the house," I said, tucking my pendulum into the safety of my pocket.

Ron stood for a moment, silent, pondering what had just transpired. "This makes sense. It has to be the same little girl that Brian the Monk captured on infrared film, the last time I was here."

An infrared photo by Brian the Monk of the spirit of a little girl (upper left hand corner) He grinned at me. "Good catch." He waited for a moment. "Are you picking anything else up? Is she still here?"

I closed my eyes and concentrated on my surroundings, opening myself up one more time. Nothing. "No. I'm afraid she's gone. And I'm not picking up anything else."

Ron frowned. "Fine." Then he visibly sniffed the air, winking at Ethel. "That banana bread's calling my name. Let's go back to the kitchen."

Within moments we were at the kitchen table, scarfing down the fresh-baked goodies. "Hey, why don't we pull some cards on the house? Would you be up for that, Ethel?" Ron asked.

"Sure, do you need some playing cards?"

I glanced from Ron, who had offered my reading services, to Ethel. "No, I have my own cards and crystal ball." I reached into the black bag I'd left on the table when we arrived and pulled out my tarot deck.

"Crystal ball?" Ron said, mockingly.

"Well, it's not what you think it is-well, okay, it is," I said with a chuckle. I reached into the bag once again and retrieved a four-inch round crystal. "See here," I said, rotating the quartz for everyone to see. "All these fractures in it were caused by the energy of my clients when I do readings."

"Yeah, I can see, it's fractured like your mind." Ron said, giggling like a schoolgirl at his own witticism.

I handed the crystal ball to Ethel, even though what I really wanted to do was crack Ron over the head with it. "Hold this for a minute, it'll help me connect with your energy." I looked at the way she scrunched her forehead, taking it as a sign that she was confused. "Ethel, there are lots of ways I use to connect with the energy of someone. This is just one of them. Think of it as nothing more than a tool."

"A tool, just like you." Ron piped in.

Man, he was on a roll. I decided to ignore him. It was better that way. Turning toward Ethel, I smiled and then continued, "When I do a series of readings in a row, it works as a way to break the energy from one person to another."

"Okay. Now what?"

"Shuffle the cards for me, then draw six."

Ethel handed them to me facedown, one right after the other. I laid them on the table in two neat rows. I turned each card over and studied them carefully. "Ethel, I can see you're emotionally attached to this house. Which is why you're so torn about your recent thoughts." I glanced at Ethel. "You're making a decision about whether or not to sell this place."

"Yeah, you hit the nail right on the head." Ethel s.h.i.+fted in her seat, looking a little uncomfortable.

I pointed at the card depicting a black cat and a collage of spiritual images. "See, this is the Sensor card. I believe this is why you felt the presence in the bedroom and heard the name Rosemary whispered in your ear."

"What?"

"I think you're a bit more psychically sensitive than most people, which is why you've had these experiences."

I raised my head and caught the blank stares of the group, their faces suddenly unreadable. Are they bored? Are they bored? I just had a feeling they weren't buying this. I just had a feeling they weren't buying this.

"Thank you, Maureen," Ethel said. "That was great."

"Wait a minute." I suddenly had an overwhelming feeling of unfinished business. "Let's pull one more card." With that, I spread the cards facedown on the table, accordion style. I lightly slid my hand across the cards, drew one out of the deck, and flipped it over.

Immediately the image of a little girl hugging a doll jumped out at me. I now realized why I had to pull that extra card. "Look, it's Becky!"

Instantaneously I felt the crush of the group at my back, as everyone fought to get a better look.

"Oh my G.o.d," Ethel said, excitedly. "Would you look at that?"

Brian, the skeptic, glanced at the card. "Tom, take a shot of that."

As Tom stood over my shoulder with his camcorder, Brian said, "Ethel, you'll be able to catch this episode tomorrow night on the ten o'clock news on WNDS."

After all was said and done, I'd survived the second of four investigations with WNDS, and I thought they had gone pretty well. With two more to go, I couldn't help but wonder what Ron had in store for me. I shuddered to think.

RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION.

During our investigation, the spirit of a child made herself known to us through various means. The infrared photo taken by Brian the Monk on a previous investigation, combined with Maureen's contact with the child in the '20s room and the tarot card drawn at the end of the investigation, all pointed to the conclusion that this was the spirit believed to be called Becky, the same little girl thought to be responsible for removing the shoe on Ethel's doll. Later research into the property revealed that a young Rebecca Knight once lived there and was believed to have died there. Ethel was pleased that her beloved home was once again focus of a television doc.u.mentary.

episode four

THE MEXICAN STANDOFF.

CASE FILE: 6271975.

TORTILLA FLATS RESTAURANT.

Location: Merrimac, New Hamps.h.i.+re.History: Two separate houses were joined to create this restaurant. During the Civil war, one of the structures provided a safe haven for fugitive slaves as part of the Underground Railroad.Reported Paranormal Activity: While dining, patrons have seen an image of a woman in the reflection of a window. The voices of children and footsteps have been heard. Objects move of their own accord, and people report an overwhelming feeling of being watched.Clients: Amy (dining room manager), Katie (waitress), Jenny (waitress).Investigators: Ron (lead investigator), Maureen (trance medium), Leo (photographer), Bob (videographer), Gay (Bob's wife/investigator).Press: Brian Bates (reporter for WNDS), Tom (Brian's cameraman), Eric Baxter (editor for the Salem Observer Salem Observer, Salem, New Hamps.h.i.+re), Bruce Preston (photographer for the Salem Observer Salem Observer).

Beep, beep, beep, beep...

"Maureen, they're here!" I yelled over the aimless chatter and mundane noise flowing from other rooms of the now-closed Tortilla Flats Restaurant. She hurried into the room and stopped at my side. The depth of her pained eyes revealed that she now knew it too. She reached into the pocket of her green-print fleece top, removed her pendulum, and sprang into action, a scene that would be replayed so many times in our lives together.

Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Is there someone here with us now?" The bra.s.s bobber spun counterclockwise, indicating a yes.

"Oh yeah," she said smugly, as the members of the Ghost Project, along with the wait staff, reporters, and news crews, began to drift into what the staff referred to as Room #1. It was the third installment of the WNDS series on haunted places in New England, and we'd called Tortilla Flats to see if we could check the place out, as it had a reputation for being haunted.

A fireplace and stained gla.s.s window in Room #1 at Tortilla Flats.

A quick flash of light temporarily blinded us. My eyes regained focus to see Bruce Preston, photographer for the Salem Observer Salem Observer, kneeling in front of the old brick fireplace, camera in hand, shutter aimed at us. Other media people were tagging along this time as well. Trying not to get distracted by the evergrowing clamor in the room, we continued our query of the unknown ent.i.ty.

Maureen took another deep breath, this time expelling it much more slowly. "Did someone commit suicide in this room? I think someone hung themselves in here."

Once again the spinning chain and bra.s.s bobber confirmed her question.

"Was it a man?" she asked.

"Yes," she answered quickly, visibly trembling. Her answer seemed to come with a price.

"Is there more than one of you?" I asked, pus.h.i.+ng my quest for the facts.

Maureen echoed my question and quickly said yes as my meter screamed in a never-ending series of beeps.

She paused briefly for a moment and looked up at me, as if searching for my approval. "Zechariah." Shaking her head, listening for an undistinguishable voice, she repeated the name once again, "Zechariah." Suddenly she winced in pain, placing her right hand on her chest. She breathed deeply and exhaled more quickly.

"Do you want to tell us something?" I asked Zechariah, pus.h.i.+ng my concern for Maureen's well-being to the side.

Gritting her teeth, she replied, "Yes."

I took a step closer, our forearms nearly touching. A quick jolt of what felt like static electricity charged up my arm, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand. I shuddered. "Maureen, did you feel that? It was like I stuck my finger in a light socket!"

"You stepped into the energy I was picking up on." Maureen looked at me and grinned. "I think you just felt Zechariah."

All eyes on us, I decided to turn my attention back to the questioning.

"Are you unhappy?" I asked.

More pain evident in Maureen's face, another yes.

I reached out and placed my hand on her arm in a halfhearted attempt at comfort. "Do you want us to leave?" I asked.

A long pause, and just for an instant, a small smile slid across Maureen's lips. She raised her head and slowly moved it from side to side. "No." Her smile faded away, replaced with a look of agony.

"Will you appear for us?" By the tormented look on her face, I could only a.s.sume my questions were becoming more and more irritating to our unseen visitor. Overlooking her discomfort, my quest for knowledge so great, I pushed for answers.

Again, a long pause, as Maureen swayed to and fro, unsteady on her feet. "Yes."

I thought for a moment and asked, "Do you want us to go into the bas.e.m.e.nt?" A deadly silence fell over the room.

In response, the bobber pulled straight down as if some invisible force was yanking it.

"He's leaving now," Maureen said, breathing a sigh of relief. The pain had lessened.

I grabbed her arm, and like a bride and groom on their wedding day we walked down the corridor and out the front door into the cold crisp October night air.

We were safe-for the moment. Free from Zechariah's reach. It appeared this spirit was a grounded spirit, unable to leave the house.

"Are you okay?" I asked, my concern for her now pushed to the forefront.

"Yes." Her words were a mere whisper between the heavy breaths. "Do you have your St. Michael card?" She looked up at me with pleading eyes.

"Is the Pope Catholic?" I replied, using my humor to soothe my concern.

I pulled the worn laminated card from my back pocket. She placed one hand on it, our voices resonating as we began together, "Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection..."

After I had gathered my composure, Ron and I returned to the restaurant. Almost as soon as I walked through the door, I could feel the presence. "What's next, Ron?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"We've got to go into the bas.e.m.e.nt," he replied in an almost apologetic tone.

The tranquility I'd felt just moments ago on the porch of the restaurant was now replaced with a sense of apprehension. This was only my third investigation with the Ghost Project, and since this was the second angry spirit we'd encountered in such a short span of time, I was beginning to wonder if I had made the right choice by teaming up with them.

When I'd been invited to accompany them to the Windham Restaurant, I'd been overjoyed. It finally felt as if I'd found a place where I fit in: a team of paranormal investigators who shared similar interests, and who didn't think I was crazy for doing what came naturally.

But now I was torn. I'd joined so that I could put my abilities to good use, a.s.sisting spirits in need. Unfortunately, there were times like today, when a spirit didn't play nice. The physical pain and drain on my energy made the investigation difficult to endure. I'd suddenly been reminded why all those years ago I'd taken a break in communicating with the dead. Now, I was back. What the h.e.l.l had I been thinking? A dull ache weighed heavily on my chest, a lingering effect of my encounter with Zechariah. Gritting my teeth, I followed Ron into the left-hand side of the restaurant, to base camp, in the room referred to by the staff as Room #3.

Eric Baxter, a reporter for the Salem Observer Salem Observer, approached me. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure," I replied, not revealing that I was still a little shaken.

"By the way, thanks for letting us tag along."

"No problem. How did you find out about us, anyway?"

"I saw the piece on WNDS News and thought it would be a good story. Typically, I try to remain objective, but-you're not going to believe this," Eric mumbled, looking as if he'd seen a ghost. "Earlier, when you were in contact with Zechariah, Brian and I were standing over there near the door." He ran a hand through his thick chestnut curls, and then pointed to a spot just inside the doorway to Room #1. "Well, just as you said, 'He's leaving,' both Brian and I felt a cold breeze brush between us." He paused. "Then, for no reason, the battery on my camera drained all at once." Looking a little befuddled, he said, "I just charged it. I, uh, there's no way..."

Our conversation was cut short when Ron piped in, "Does anybody know anything about the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"I do," said Amy, the dining room manager, a tall blonde with shoulder-length hair.

"Do you want to tell us about it?" Ron continued.

"Sure," she replied as she took up a position in front of the stained-gla.s.s window next to the fireplace in Room #1. Illuminated by the lights of the cameras, she seemed a little stunned, uncomfortable in the spotlight.