With Steven leading the way, we walked to a bar just down the street called Down the Hatch. "Quaint," I said as I read the sign.
"Not on the inside," Steven countered. He was right. Inside the place was definitely a dive bar, with wood-paneled walls, dirty floors, and the smell of grease and old beer hanging in the air.
We found a booth and settled in. Steven flagged a waitress, and, after we gave her our order, I scoped out the place while Gilley and Steven struck up a conversation. I didn't join in on their banter. I was still a little miffed at Gilley for bolting so quickly. We had a reputation to protect, and if word got out that one-half of our team was a big fat chicken, then our referral business could be in jeopardy.
My eyes wandered around the bar from patron to patron, taking in the locals, when I felt a thud against my energy.
The way I'm able to pick up the presence of someone who has crossed over is by feeling a sense of pressure against my energy. Think of it as if your eyes were closed and you felt someone invade your personal space. For me the feeling is a hundred times more pronounced, and there's no way to turn away from it once it happens.
When I feel this, I have two choices: I can acknowledge the energy and strike up a telepathic conversation with it, or I can ignore it and hope it goes away. I tried the latter route, as all I wanted to do was have a drink, head back to the B and B, and do a face plant into a pillow, but the energy thumping against mine wasn't having any of it.
Finally, after taking a sip of my cranberry and vodka, I opened up and thought, I am open. What is it you need to say to me?
Immediately I felt a powerful shattering sensation around my chest. My eye was drawn to the doorway and a dark stain imbedded in the wood floor. Getting up from the table I walked over to get a better look, and when I came close to the stain I saw in my mind's eye the body of a man lying on the floor.
Coming back to the table where Gilley and Steven were both watching me warily, I asked, "Who was the young man murdered over there?"
"What?" Steven asked as he looked from me to where I was pointing.
"There was a young man murdered in that doorway. He says someone shot him."
"You're telling me this place is haunted too?" Steven asked, his eyes large.
"Get used to it," Gilley explained. "Any structure older than fifty years usually has something walking around inside of it."
"I have never heard of a murder here," Steven said.
"His name begins with an L," I said, still conversing with the young man. "Larry, like the Three Stooges."
"He's talking about the Three Stooges?" Steven asked me.
"You know them?"
"Of course. I have watched them in both Argentina and Germany. They are very funny men."
"I think so too!" Gilley said with a dreamy look at Steven.
"As I was saying," I said, wanting to pull them back to the murder here at the bar. "If he's able to reference the Three Stooges then that would give us a time frame of within the last seventy-five years or so."
Steven got up suddenly and headed over to the bar. We watched as he motioned for the bartender and spoke to him briefly while pointing to our table. The bartender nodded and headed into the back. Steven then returned to our table and said, "The owner's a guy named Chris. His family has owned this place for fifty years."
A minute later a short and extremely rotund man with white hair and pronounced jowls waddled over to us. He looked like one of the Weebles I had when I was a kid. Stopping at our table he said, "Good to see you back in town, Dr. Sable. Jeb said you wanted to ask me about the history of this place?"
The thud against my energy increased tenfold, and I blurted out, "Who was killed over there?"
Chris's milky eyes swiveled to me. "Excuse me?"
"That old stain on the floor," I said, pointing to it. "Someone named Larry was shot over there, wasn't he?"
"You a reporter?" he snapped, suddenly defensive.
"No," I answered. "I'm a medium."
"I don't care about your size, honey. How do you know about Larry?"
I smiled. "I wasn't referring to my size. I'm the kind of person who talks to dead people, and right now this guy Larry is saying he was shot in your doorway."
Chris's jaw dropped slightly, and he looked from me back to Sable. He barked, "This some kind of joke?"
"No, this is no joke. I have seen it for myself. She really can talk to the dead."
Chris waited a moment, perhaps to see if any of us would burst out laughing at the prank we were pulling. Larry buzzed in with another message. "Larry says you've been talking about putting in a new floor, but it won't help. You'll always see a stain over there," I said, pointing with emphasis back to the bloodstain.
Chris looked to where I pointed, then narrowed his eyes at me. I looked him straight in the eye, my expression calm but serious. After a moment he seemed to make up his mind and turned away from our table to waddle a few steps and drag a chair back to us before taking his seat.
"That was over forty-five years ago," he began. "My dad had just bought this place. There was this group of young punks in town, good-for-nothin's. They had been causing a lot of trouble for the local businesses, smashing windows, breaking and entering. They'd rob you blind, then go that one step further and trash up the place. Back then, not a lot of people carried insurance, so it was even harder to recover from something like that. A few folks even went out of business.
"The police weren't much help; our sheriff had been injured in WW Two, and he was useless. My dad knew it was just a matter of time before the gang targeted him, so he spread the word that he wasn't going to let the punks get away with it. He and I camped out every night for a whole week with our hunting rifles, taking turns on watch as we waited for them to strike. Sure enough, one night the gang broke a window and three of 'em piled in."
Larry had stopped banging on my energy. It seemed he was listening to Chris too. "There were only three?" Gilley asked.
"Yeah," Chris said. "We learned later that they called themselves the Stooges. I guess they were big fans of Larry, Moe, and Curly."
Steven looked sharply at me and mouthed, Whoa.
I winked at him as Chris continued. "Dad and I watched from behind the bar as they came in and were about to trash the place. Then Dad yelled, 'Freeze!' and they did for a second, but then one of them picked up a chair and tossed it at us. We ducked and came up shooting. I was so scared; I mean, I was only about nineteen at the time."
"And Larry was killed," I said.
"Yeah. When the dust settled one was injured, the other had run off, and the third was dead on the floor, right where you pointed. To this day I'm not sure if it was my bullet that killed him," Chris said sadly.
Larry buzzed a thought into my head. The message had a sense of urgency. "Larry says he's sorry, Chris."
"So he's really here? You can hear him, for real?"
"I can," I said. "He keeps repeating, 'Tell him I'm sorry,' over and over. I think that's the reason he's been hanging out, refusing to cross over. He wants to apologize."
"Please tell him I said all's forgiven, and I'm sorry for the way it worked out."
I felt Larry's energy begin to recede—he'd heard. "He's stepping back," I said. Before Larry had a chance to completely disconnect from me, I encouraged him to leave this dimension. "He's gone," I said when he severed the connection.
"This is some friend you've got here, Steven," Chris said.
"She's been one surprise after another," Steven replied.
I felt my cheeks grow hot. "It's nothing," I said.
"Sorry about your granddaddy, by the way," Chris said to Steven, then added, "Say, you should have your friend see if she can talk to him."
Steven gave a wink to me. "That's the plan."
"You on your way to the lodge?" Chris asked.
"We just came from there," Gilley answered.
"Oh? Felt the need to check out the town while you're at it, then?" Chris again.
r /> "Actually," Steven said as he swirled his drink, "we're staying at Helen's for the night. There have been some rather… uh … unusual things going on at my grandfather's which we plan to investigate in the daylight."
"Yeah?" said Chris, motioning to one of his waitresses. After she brought him a draft, which he took a huge swig of, he continued, "I heard there've been some weird lights and noises coming from the house ever since Andrew died, and I know Maria gave you her notice. She get spooked and quit?"
"The housekeeper?" Gilley asked. I smirked, because the only way Gil could have known that was by eavesdropping on the conversation I'd had "privately" with Steven in my office.
Steven nodded at Gilley and answered Chris. "I'm not sure it was that. She told me that now that she had her retirement fund, and there was no one to look after at the house, she was better off moving in with her sister closer to town."
Chris chugged the last of his draft like water, giving me a good indication of where his significant girth came from. "Well, I better get back to work. Your tab's on the house, Steven. And thanks to you, miss. That was quite a performance."
I smiled at him, knowing he'd probably felt guilty about Larry's death for decades. "Anytime, and thanks for the drinks."
After Chris had gone, Steven said, "Come on, it's getting late, and I'm thinking Miss Holliday will want to get an early start."
"Miss Holliday wanted to get started earlier, but was hampered by her two fleeing accomplices," I said with a chuckle; then I got serious. "Listen, fellas," I said to Steven and Gilley. "If we're going to do this, I need your solemn vow that no matter what happens, we're not leaving until we've done our best to make contact with Andrew. Deal?"
"Deal," Steven said firmly.
Gilley fiddled with the zipper of his jacket for a moment until I poked him; then he finally gave in. "Yeah, okay. But I still reserve the right to head to the van and monitor the equipment if things get too dicey."
I sighed, patting Gilley on the back, and settled for that.
* * * *
The next morning I came downstairs with Doc on my shoulder and was greeted by a tall, rather plump woman who looked to be in her late fifties, with tight, curly blond hair and smooth, creamy skin. "Good morning!" she said cheerfully. "I'm Helen Scottsdale, the proprietor."
"Nice to meet you," I said as I shook her hand and introduced myself. Doc gave a whistle and cocked his head.
"Oh, what a pretty bird," she said, noting Doc.
"Doc's delicious!" he chirped. "Doc's a pretty, pretty bird!"
"Parrots," I said with a chuckle. "They have such big egos."
Helen giggled. "Steven's in the dining room. There's scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Would your bird like some fruit?"
"Doc's a pretty bird!" Doc said, bobbing his head.
"One order of fruit for the Froot Loop," I quipped, giving Doc a playful tug on his tail. He turned in a circle on my shoulder to show me he was all that and a bag of chips.
I headed into the dining room and found Steven seated at the head of the table reading a paper. "Morning," I said as I took my seat.
He looked over the top of the paper and said, "Good morning, M.J. Did you rest well?"
"Not really," I said honestly. "It's hard for me in strange places."
"Hard for you?"
I took a scoopful of eggs from a dish in the center of the table before explaining. "Let's just say I'm like a pay phone, and on the other side pay phones like me are really rare. So when I show up in a neighborhood, there's a line of people waiting to make a call."
Steven set the paper down completely. "I don't think I am understanding this pay phone analog."
"Analogy," I corrected, and took a bite of eggs as I thought about how to better describe my struggle to get some sleep. "Helen's deceased relatives all wanted to talk to her last night. As if they were trying through me to make a long-distance phone call. They were all fighting to be heard, from a woman named Betty or Betsy, who I think is Helen's mother, to a brother figure named Brian. And some guy named Arnold was truly obnoxious. He would not let me sleep. He kept going on and on about going to the lake, and he didn't know it would happen while he was on his fishing trip. Whatever that means."
As I finished that sentence there was a loud crash from behind me and Steven; we jumped at the noise. I turned in my chair and saw Helen standing there, a shocked expression on her face, and a shattered plate that had held fruit for Doc on the floor. "Did you say Arnold?" she asked breathlessly.
"Uh …" I said, looking at Steven. I hadn't realized she was right behind me. "Yes. Did Steven tell you that I can hear people who've died?"
"He mentioned it," she said as she bent over to pick up the pieces of porcelain. I set Doc on the arm of my chair and came over to help her.
"I'm sorry," I said as I bent beside her. "I'm not the most sensitive person sometimes."
"No, that's fine," she said quickly, and I noticed her hands were shaking. "But could I just ask you … what did Arnold say again?"
I met her eyes—there was something there that clearly tormented her—and without warning I felt Arnold come thumping into my energy. I got up holding some of the porcelain and fruit, and she stood too. "He says that he never would have gone to the lake if he'd known something was coming soon. He says he never should have left you alone."
A tear formed in Helen's eye and slid down her cheek. She gulped and turned away into the kitchen, and I stood there stupidly for a beat or two, still holding the broken plate and fruit. Steven came up behind me and held out his hands. "Give me those," he said gently, and I handed him the shards. He followed after Helen as I went back to my seat feeling totally ashamed of myself. Me and my big mouth. "Good job, M.J.," I said, swirling the eggs around on my plate.
"Good job at what?" Gilley asked as he took up a chair across from me.
"Nothing," I said dismissively. "Just making an ass of myself."
"Again?" he quipped. "I would have thought you'd had enough of that by now."
"Gee, Gil, gonna take that comedy routine on the road anytime soon?" I snapped.
"Hey," Gilley said, becoming serious. "M.J., don't be like that. I thought we were making fun. What happened?"
Before I got a chance to answer, Steven came back into the room. Taking his seat, he put his hand over mine and said, "She's fine. Just taken by surprise. Arnold was her late husband. When she was pregnant with their son, he went to the lake to do some fishing and Helen went into early labor. A neighbor took her to the hospital and word finally made its way out to Arnold. While he was rushing back he lost control of his car and was killed."
"That's terrible," I said. No wonder Arnold was bombarding me. I'd have been doing the same thing. "I feel like crap. I had no idea she was behind me."
"No harm, no foul ball, M.J.," he said to me, and gave my hand a squeeze.
I smiled at his blunder as from behind us we heard a sniffle, and Helen came back into the room carrying a fresh plate of fruit for Doc. "Sorry about that," she said, setting the plate down in front of him. "It was just a shock…." Her voice trailed off. She gave me a small pat on my shoulder and hurried out of the room.
"What did you say to her?" Gilley asked.
Before I had a chance to respond, Steven cut in. "What's the plan for attacking today?"
Gil flashed me a grin, and I was grateful for the change of subject. "The plan of attack is this," I said confidently. "The first thing I think we should do is remove all of the televisions from the house. Normally, I'd prefer to keep them to monitor the ghost's movements from floor to floor, but with so many for him to play with, I think it could get a bit chaotic."
"Good," Steven said with a nod. "Then what?"
"Then Gilley and I will need to do a baseline test."
"What is this baseline test?"
"We record the dimensions, temperature, layout, and electromagnetic energy in every room of the house."
"What is that for?" Steven asked.
> "So that we can monitor changes throughout the day. A sudden drop or increase in temperature can indicate a ghost is afoot," I explained. "We also put some trigger objects in those rooms we think are most active—and before you ask, a trigger object is something that can be easily moved by a spirit and may attract their curiosity. We use things like a small dish of sand, or a house of cards, or a book stood on end. We know we've got spectral activity when one of these objects has been moved or shows signs of being tampered with," I explained.
"We'll also need to take a digital photograph of each room," Gilley said.
"I know I sound repeating," Steven said with a grin. "But why?"
"We'll be looking for orbs, corkscrews, vortexes, and sparks," Gilley said, and just as Steven opened his mouth to ask for another clarification he said, "Orbs are small balls of light that are the easiest form a ghost can take. Corkscrews are swirling bands of light, indicative of a ghost or spirit coming in from another dimension to ours. Vortexes are the portals spirits travel through when they go from this dimension to the other."
"Yes, M.J. told me of these portals earlier. Do you think my grandfather is using one?" I knew why he looked worried. I had told him that only bad energies needed them.
"No, I don't think he's using one. But there may be another energy in the house, and we definitely want to clear the lodge of all grounded spirits, both good and bad."
"If my colleagues back in Germany could see me having this conversation," he said as he shook his head. "I am afraid they would pull my medical license."
I smiled. "It can be a little surreal. That is, until you've experienced what I have."
"You two ready to get going?" Gilley said, wiping his mouth and scooting back his chair.
"Ready," I said, standing up and taking Doc off the arm of the chair. "Do you think someone should check on Helen?" I asked.
"I think it's best to leave her alone for now. I'll call later and make sure she's okay," Steven said.
* * * *
We decided to leave Doc at the B and B, thinking that with a mischievous and energetic poltergeist loose it might make sense to keep him tucked away at the inn. Twenty minutes later we'd made it back to the Sable hunting lodge without incident. Gilley drove with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel as we came down the long driveway. "You sure you're up to this?" I asked him seriously.