The Forgotten Child

by Melissa Erin Jackson

  The door clicked behind her and Jade whirled in her direction. “Where have you been!”

  “Whoa,” Riley said, taking in the pants, tops, boots—even a pair of heels—strewn across their bed, distracted momentarily from her worries about Pete. “Girl, we’re only here for two nights. Why’d you bring half your closet?”

  “I was panic-packing. I’ve been looking forward to this for so long that by the time it actually happened, I came unglued.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I told her what she has on now is fine, seeing as we’re gonna be in total darkness most of the night anyway,” said Rochelle, whose couch was just as littered with clothing and accessories as the bed.

  “Not a big fan of taking your own advice?” Riley asked.

  Rochelle turned, her cascading dark brown hair falling over a shoulder in perfect, silky waves. “Jade has Jonah. Who is she trying to impress? No one, that’s who. I have to impress Papa Xavier.”

  Riley snorted. “Wow.”

  “Don’t judge, I said!”

  Cocking a brow, Riley said, “A man worthy of your affections won’t care what you wear, for what makes a woman irresistible resides in her heart, not on her body.”

  Rochelle gasped.

  “Why do you sound like you just stepped off the set of a Victorian drama?” Jade asked.

  “She just quoted Tiana’s Circle at me!” Rochelle said.

  Jade groaned.

  Rochelle turned back to face the bathroom mirror, clad in a dangerously low top. “I want to wear something that will make Papa Xavier want to tear said something off me later. That man does things to my bits.”

  Riley and Jade exchanged looks and burst into laughter.

  “What if he’s married!” Riley said.

  “He’s not wearing a ring …”

  Jade shook her head. “Girl, you know that doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

  Rochelle sighed and switched to a black Tiana’s Circle shirt and black jeans.

  Riley changed into a long-sleeved top, mainly for added warmth. And she splashed water on her face. And dabbed on some lip gloss, just in case. Of what, she didn’t know.

  Jade and Rochelle led the way out of the room as Riley hurried behind them after she switched to her flat-heeled, low-slung boots. She was willing to admit that she was just as bad as Jade and Rochelle when it came to wardrobe freak-outs, just not to their faces.

  The sock on her right foot rolled under her heel, which always drove her insane. The door clicked, leaving her in the room alone.

  She reached up to rest a hand on the wall so she could fix her sock, but the moment her hand touched the doorjamb, she reared back as a flash of images flitted before her eyes. This room, but not. One bed, up against the wall to the left, rather than two in front of the back wall. A small table and chairs where the couch now stood. There was a sofa here, too, but it was older and threadbare. It looked like a tiny studio apartment, not a bedroom.

  Another flash of a prone body on the floor, feet tangled in sheets. Female.

  The back of another head now, one with short light brown hair. A large male hand clenched the back of the other person’s shirt. Arms and elbows flailed; feeble attempts to get away. A hand gripped the doorjamb, then the fingers lost their grip and were pried away—but not before paint was scraped off by scrabbling fingernails.

  There was a brief flash of the girl on the floor, unconscious by the look of it, then the brown-haired one was dragged away.

  Another flash of a battered face, one eye swollen shut, the other one close to it, and a split-open lip. The injuries were so extensive, Riley could hardly tell what she looked like. Pale skin beneath blue and red and purple. Same short brown hair.

  Frances.

  This all came to Riley in a matter of moments, but she felt like she’d been transported somewhere else. Somewhen else.

  Then everything snapped back to the present.

  Hands on her knees, she pulled a deep breath into her nose, slowly letting it out. In, then out. In, then out.

  Jesus. She wasn’t sure how much more of this place she could take.

  Had Frances and the other girl tried to escape? No one was certain how many of Orin’s Girls had been alive at the ranch at the same time, or if he collected one once he’d killed the last. Mindy had never divulged information about other girls. In her one formal interview, she’d talked about Orin freely, but questions about the others shut her up quick.

  This … snapshot … would suggest the girls had gotten to know each other in some capacity. They not only had to fear for their own lives, but the lives of others trapped there with them.

  Riley was glad Orin was dead—that was all she knew. Glad Mindy had escaped, and Orin had been caught and died in a cell.

  Once Riley had composed herself, she stepped up to the door, not seeing a hint of the scratches left by scrabbling fingernails. Frances’ memory painted over.

  After she took a few more calming breaths, she braced herself as she pulled open the door. No additional snapshots. She met up with the rest of the girls downstairs, who were clustered with Michael, Donna, and Carla. Brie and the couple were discussing vegan recipes again. Something about smashed chickpeas and pine nut salads.

  “Hey,” Michael said when they approached, and though he appeared to be addressing the group, his gaze was focused solely on Riley. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “Mostly.”

  The team strolled into the building. Each member had at least one duffel over their shoulder, while the two younger guys pulled black cases on wheels.

  Xavier got right down to business, assigning each group with their starting leader. “Mario’s group is in the guesthouse, Derrick takes top floor, I’ve got the bottom floor—including the kitchen—and Nina is in … the cellar.”

  The air left Riley’s lungs.

  A few gasps erupted from the group at large.

  “Surprise!” said Nina, adding jazz hands for extra flair.

  “Why do we get to go in if the show couldn’t?” Heather and Mark clasped their hands between them near their armpits. It looked like they were holding hands more to keep them from jumping up and down uncontrollably in excitement. Apparently, Heather’s fear of potentially seeing an entity had worked its way out of her system already.

  No. No no no.

  “Most groups get to go in, actually,” said Nina. “We just make everyone swear to secrecy. And sign a waiver. Since a lot of the same furniture that was here during Orin’s time is in the cellar, the house’s owners didn’t want to run the risk of a camera crew damaging anything. But with our small, contained groups, we can make sure the room stays well preserved.”

  While everyone around her muttered their excitement, Riley fought back the urge to throw up again. The cellar sat beneath a large portion of the kitchen. She’d assumed the cellar had been stripped, most of it sitting in evidence boxes somewhere, and the room bleached.

  From her perusal of the forum, it was clear the kitchen was a hot spot for paranormal activity. It had less to do with being an oft-traversed place, and more to do with it being above the room where unspeakable things had happened to innocent girls. How many of them died there? How many of them lingered?

  Riley blew out yet another slow, steadying breath. Could she could do this? Could she play the “I’m terrified!” card and sit this one out?

  She flinched when a warm hand pressed against the small of her back. Michael watched her.

  “What’s up?” he whispered.

  “Nervous.”

  He watched her a moment longer, then gave a short nod, turning his attention back to the group. Though he dropped his hand, he stayed close by.

  “You’ll rotate downward. Meaning if you’re on the top floor to start, your next location when we switch will be the first floor. Then outside to the oldest guesthouse, and finally to the cellar.” This elicited at least three squeals from the group.

  Xavier started pairing gr
oups off with their first leader of the night.

  Please don’t start in the cellar, please don’t start in the cellar.

  “Riley, Pamela, and Michael, you’ll start with Mario.”

  Which meant the cellar would be next.

  “That’s kind of a bummer,” Pamela whispered to her. “It would have been better to end up in the cellar with the later groups. The witching hour is from two to three a.m., right? We won’t be in there during the peak hours.” Then she offered Riley a strained smile. “But that might be better for you, right?”

  Riley wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

  From across the room, Nina caught Riley’s eye and the other woman smiled. A small, smug smile, like she knew something Riley didn’t.

  Dammit.

  CHAPTER 9

  With Mario, the goatee guy, leading the way, duffel over one shoulder and one of the wheeled black boxes pulled behind him, Riley, Pamela, and Michael stepped out into the cool night air. Riley tried not to think about what could be lurking in the dark forest to their right. Tried to ignore the skittering of things in the underbrush.

  The paved road they’d driven in on split off several yards away from the front entrance to the house. To the right was the little parking lot for the guests; to the left was the road that led to the guesthouses. Angela and Wilbur, the maintenance guy, stayed in one guesthouse during the weekend, and the team stayed in the other. The team’s house was much newer—added by Porter during his renovations—so it was left out of the investigations.

  The little one-story, cottage-like house blended in with the shadows, a hulking dark shape surrounded on two sides by the silent, watchful trees. The structure felt older, maybe even built before the larger main house had been constructed. It reminded Riley of a pioneer log cabin.

  Solar-powered lanterns wedged into the ground ran along either side of the path up to the short, two-stair climb to the front porch. The lanterns didn’t provide light so much as another set of creepy shadows. Riley wondered where Angela and Wilbur were while groups wandered through their building all night.

  Stairs creaking underfoot, the group climbed the steps, Michael helping Mario carry the black case onto the porch.

  “This little house was built back in the 1950s. There have been some modern touches added, but all this—” Mario knocked on a beam, “—is the original wood.”

  “They stayed in the main house during the episode,” Pamela said, a hint of disdain in her voice. “Does this place have a specific connection to Orin’s Girls?”

  They weren’t all girls, Riley wanted to say.

  “Rumor has it that Orin’s mother lived here until she died of natural causes in 1972,” said Mario. “She lived in this house while Orin lived in the main one. The Jacobs were well off, thanks to the wealth built up by Orin’s father—who died of alcohol poisoning when Orin was a teenager—while this place was a thriving cattle ranch. They owned the land and house outright, and after Orin’s mother passed away, Orin sold off the cattle—likely because he wanted as few people here as possible when his … interests changed.”

  Pete had been taken in 1973. Had Orin waited until his mother died to start his rampage?

  “No evidence of the girls was found in the guesthouse, but there’ve been reports of Orin’s mother still wandering the halls here.”

  Pamela’s chest puffed up at the news.

  “Since no EVPs have ever occurred here, we’re going to focus on that less. Keep a recorder with you, but we’ll be looking more for heat signatures, as well as setting up cameras to hopefully capture the apparition of Mrs. Jacobs.”

  With that, Mario pulled open the slightly askew screen door, then turned the unlocked knob on the heavy wooden one, swinging it open. He strolled inside, his case’s wheels offering an unsteady rhythm on the old floorboards.

  The small house had a kitchen, a bathroom, a tiny dining/living room area, and two bedrooms. It felt rustic—wooden walls, wooden furniture, red-plaid blankets draped over the back of the sofa; that overly cluttered look Riley associated with cabins. Luckily, there weren’t any mounted animal heads on the walls. The last thing she needed was Bambi’s ghost prancing into the kitchen and giving her a heart attack.

  Mario explained where apparitions of the woman were usually seen: either in the hallway, drifting from one bedroom to another, or sitting at the small table by the windows in the dining/living room area.

  A flash of Orin’s smiling face sprang up in Riley’s mind. Was this the same table where he’d had his picture taken just before breakfast?

  “You three decide where to set up the cameras and tripods and we’ll get started,” Mario said.

  They chose one of the bedrooms, with the camera facing the open door of the room opposite. If an apparition appeared, they might get a front shot of her. The second was set up to encompass the entire dining/living room area, rather than just the table.

  After hitting the record button on both devices, they huddled together in the kitchen. They were each given a cassette recorder for EVPs—Xavier swore by the older technology—and a choice between an EMF reader or an infrared thermometer.

  “There are very few appliances in here, and I’m guessing most of you aren’t carrying a cell phone given the lack of reception,” Mario said, “so there’s less chance of equipment—save the cameras—throwing off the electromagnetic field readings as much as it does in the main house. So if you’d like to get some experience with the EMF readers, that’s what I’d choose.”

  Pamela and Michael both went for the EMF; Riley chose the infrared thermometer that had something called a K-probe. All she knew was that it was supposed to help you figure out where abrupt cold spots originated, following the theory that spirits had to pull energy from the outside world to manifest themselves. Riley thought of the cold spot she’d felt just before something tugged on her jacket. Had that really been Pete?

  “We’ll start in pairs,” said Mario. “Riley and Michael, me and Pamela. That way, each group has an infrared meter between them. Wander the rooms, get a feel for them, ask questions, and listen. Ghost hunting is a lot like fishing: a whole lot of patience and waiting.”

  “I’d like to start down the hall, if that’s all right with you,” Pamela said.

  “Lead the way.”

  The pair walked off, Pamela’s EMF reader held out in front of her.

  Riley felt Michael watching her. “Where would you like to start?”

  Brow furrowed, he stared at her like he wanted to say, “Why don’t you tell me what the hell is wrong with you right now?” Instead, he said, “What if we sit at the table where they’ve seen her and see if she joins us?”

  Her stomach flopped. “Sounds good.”

  Michael made a grand show of pulling out a chair for her. Of course, it was Orin’s spot from the picture. The round, wooden table was painted white, and when Riley rested her arms on the surface, it tottered slightly.

  The table from the photo had been yellow, and not wooden, from what she could recall. Different table. Orin hadn’t sat here. Unless this table had been purchased later, of course. Maybe—

  A hand on her arm made her jump.

  “The zoning out thing is getting a little worrying.” Michael lowered his voice; she leaned in to hear him. “Are you going to keep blaming that on a lack of social skills?”

  Riley was very aware of the camera in the corner. “For as long as you’ll accept it.”

  He smiled, though she could tell he’d tried to fight it. “What should we ask Mrs. Jacobs?”

  Turning on her tape recorder, she placed it flat on the table. “Are you here, Mrs. Jacobs?”

  The little light on the recorder flickered in time with her voice, then stopped.

  “Do you know what your son did, Mrs. Jacobs?” Michael asked.

  No response from the recorder. Riley wasn’t even sure that was how these things worked.

  They tossed a couple questions back and forth. The room felt no different
than when they’d entered it. The only sound was the vague murmur of voices from down the hall.

  “Maybe we need to try harder to get a feel for the room.” Placing his hands on the table, fingers splayed and his EMF reader lying between his palms, he closed his eyes. “I’m ready to feel you, room. Let me feel you.”

  He looked so impossibly serious, Riley laughed. An abrupt, startled laugh that made Michael crack open an eye. She tucked her lips between her teeth. “You’re not feeling the room, Ms. Thomas.”

  Riley fought as hard as she could to keep the laugh in this time. Her eyes watered; her nostrils flared. It was that horrible feeling where you were desperate to laugh in a location that didn’t call for it in the slightest. And now she could barely contain it.

  He opened both eyes now. “For shame, Ms. Thomas!” he whisper-shouted at her.

  A hand went to her mouth to keep it in, her shoulders shaking. When a snort escaped, Michael slipped into silent hysterics and the two speed-walked outside onto the porch, and down the lantern-lit path before cracking up.

  “You’re horrible!” Riley said, wiping her eyes. “Pamela is going to hate us.”

  Michael had a hand to his side like he’d pulled something. “No disrespect to the spirit world, but I had to get that look off your face.”

  “I might have needed to release a little tension.”

  “Do you feel any better?”

  “A little, yeah.”

  “Good. But, uhh—” he shot his thumb behind him toward the dark main house, “—what are we going to tell them?”

  “The footage will prove later that we’re basically eight-year-olds,” Riley said. “But for now, we can just tell them I got scared and you came out to make sure I was okay.” She sighed. “On the way up here, I told them this stuff freaks me out. Pamela will buy it.”

  “It does freak you out, though.”

  “Yes. But they don’t know why.”

  Why had she’d confessed all this to Michael and not Jade? Jade loved all things paranormal. But Michael didn’t know her. If she didn’t want to see him again after this weekend, she didn’t have to.

  “Because of that little girl? Mary?” Michael asked, redirecting her attention.