Chapter Three
The sky was adopting a gloomy shade of gray as Dennis, feeling slightly tipsy, left Thoreau’s. He silently cursed his low tolerance for alcohol, wondering how Luke managed to continually drain beer after beer without showing any signs of intoxication... and how only two bottles had left Dennis feeling more than a little buzzed. Although he was definitely sober enough to drive, he decided to wait until his head had completely cleared before journeying back to his house in the southern part of the city. Luke’s words had given him something to think about, anyway. It was true that Dennis was prone to bouts of irrational paranoia, but something about his current fears seemed more well-founded than that. Of course, he thought wryly, they all did at the time, didn’t they?
A light sprinkling of rain began to fall, and Dennis wondered if he wouldn’t be better off just waiting in his car while his balance returned. Then, with a mild jab of irritation, he remembered that he had left the vehicle outside Harding’s office. He quietly hoped it would remain untouched, not so much worried over the possibility of vandalism as he was concerned about harassment by the city’s overzealous traffic department. Far too often, he had returned only a few seconds past a parking meter’s allotted time and found an expensive ticket waiting for him. Although the private spaces behind the large building were usually safe, Dennis could never be certain that some uppity employee hadn’t taken a chance disliking to his car’s presence and seen fit to report his lack of a parking permit.
Halfway between the psychiatrist’s office and the bar, Dennis spotted a small internet café. Similar establishments had sprung up everywhere over the past few years, and many otherwise innocuous businesses had begun overtly advertising free web access in response. The sight of the coffee shop gave Dennis an idea, and he figured that it was as good a place as any to wait out the rain. The door opened with some resistance, and gave way to a spacious room decorated with low tables and couches. Around the perimeter were a dozen or so smaller tables, each furnished with an identical computer. Dennis ordered a cup of tea from the lonely-looking barista, then selected one of the machines near the back corner of the space.
His tea arrived just as Dennis was discovering that the computer wanted some kind of code before granting him access, and he was grateful to see that the beverage had been accompanied by a small card with a password on it.
“For customers only,” the barista explained. Dennis smiled in thanks, and waited as the young woman made a show of rearranging the various magazines on a nearby table. After she was apparently satisfied, Dennis entered his code into the waiting box on the computer’s otherwise blank screen. It instantly flickered fully to life, showing him a webpage for the café. After sipping cautiously at his tea, he typed in a short web address, and pulled out his phone. A touch of a few buttons displayed the list of the calls he had recently received. At the top was the number of the woman who had spoken to him earlier, and he carefully typed the digits into the waiting page on the computer.
A brief moment passed as the directory search worked its magic, and Dennis smiled with satisfaction. He was not always up to date on the latest technology, but even he had to admit that this process was considerably easier than searching through a phone book. Seconds later, the page displayed its results, and Dennis felt his nervousness return. The number he had entered had returned no matches. He rechecked his phone, hopeful that an error on his part had happened somewhere along the line, even though he was quite certain that it had not. Sure enough, both the number on the screen and that on his phone matched. He tried to rationalize that many people had blocked numbers, or that cell phones were often unlisted, but every attempt he made at calming down was thwarted by the image of the muscular detective looking him over in Harding’s office.
Dennis stared down at his phone and considered. Then, almost of its own accord, his thumb jabbed the button to place a call. He had only enough time to raise the phone to his ear and clear his throat before a voice with a British accent answered.
“Hello?” came the strong, if somewhat suspicious greeting.
“My apologies for calling sooner than expected,” Dennis said, affecting his accent. “I have had some good fortune with my time, and I thought perhaps you would like to speak with me now.”
There was a long pause from the other end. “Doctor September?”
Dennis mentally kicked himself. “Again, I apologize. Yes, this is Doctor September.”
“Oh, hello, Doctor.” There was another pause. “I can talk now, yes, if you’d prefer.” Dennis listened for any telltale signs that the call was being somehow recorded or traced, but he quickly realized that short of what he had seen in bad spy movies, he didn’t have the slightest idea what such a thing would sound like.
“Perhaps you can begin by telling me a bit more about your problem,” he said. Even from the few sentences he had heard from the woman, Dennis was certain that she would not be interested in meeting with Harding, but something about her calm and logical tone had intrigued him. Besides, it would hardly be good for his reputation if he dismissed her without first hearing her story.
“I suppose,” the woman answered. Dennis felt a brief jolt of panic as he heard a loud click from the phone, but it quickly subsided when the woman loudly exhaled. Just lighting a cigarette, or perhaps something more noxious. “My sister has been here for close to ten years, and I thought it a good idea to have someone speak with her before I tried to sell the house.”
“Your sister has been seeing this spirit, then?” Dennis asked.
There was another pause, and the sound of the woman both inhaling and exhaling. “No, Doctor, my sister is the spirit.” She did not elaborate, and Dennis sensed that he would have to tread lightly if he was to appear at all credible.
“I see. My apologies for your loss,” he said. “You say she has been haunting you for ten years now. Is there a reason for your interest in dealing with her now?”
“It’s been eight years, to be precise. As I said, I am selling the house.”
“Of course,” replied Dennis. “I was merely curious as to why you have tolerated her presence for as long as you have.” He grimaced at his choice of words, wondering if he had just inadvertently insulted the woman’s deceased sister. If she was at all offended, though, her voice gave no sign of it.
“She was always a dreamer,” the woman said. “If she wanted to come back, I suppose she had reason for it, and I wasn’t about to argue with her.”
“Go on.”
“That’s really all there is. I don’t imagine the house’s next owners would take too kindly to someone already living in it.”
So to speak, thought Dennis. “May I be so bold as to ask the reason for your selling it, ma’am?”
“I’m dying.”
The woman’s answer sent chills down Dennis’ spine. He breathed in silently and weighed his options. Perhaps the woman would benefit from a trip or two to Sam’s office, he thought. At any rate, his fears that this was some sort of legal trap had all but evaporated.
“I see,” Dennis said. “That is… I am sorry to hear that.” He held the phone away from his face and quietly cleared his throat again. Then, as an afterthought, he dug into his pocket and pulled forth the crumpled napkin that he had scrawled on earlier. “Ms. Palin,” Dennis began, hoping he had correctly deciphered his own handwriting, “I would like to meet with you in person. I feel that there is much I could learn about your situation upon conversing with both you and your sister.” He held his breath. That was always the final test: Whether or not people – other than the ones who called him – could interact with the alleged ghost. Nine times out of ten, they would hastily explain that it either could not be seen, or could only be seen by them. The answers really didn’t matter, since Dennis had a prepared response for any of them.
“Fine,” the woman replied. “Shall I give you my address?”
Dennis blinked. “Yes, please, go right ahead,” he said quickly. He carefully transcri
bed the address onto the napkin. “Would this evening be an agreeable time for me to visit?” he asked.
“Just use the knocker when you get here,” the woman responded. After a short exchange of goodbyes, Dennis ended the call and sat, his eyes staring at the computer in front of him but his attention fixed somewhere beyond it. Only once before had he met with someone who claimed that others could see their haunt, and that particular individual had been spectacularly deranged. Still, she had become a regular patient of Harding’s, and was evidently doing well. It had been tough to sell her on the idea of visiting a psychiatrist, but Dennis felt confident that he could pull it off again.
This time, though, he’d keep a close eye out for tuning forks…