by Etta Faire
"You don't say!" Jackson said, gasping, something I didn't know non-breathing entities could do. "Did you hear that, Carly doll? A ghost."
I shot him a look, then went back to Rosalie. She caught on. "Are you experiencing Jackson's ghost right now?"
I pointed. "He's sitting in that chair. He flicked the doohickey."
Rosalie looked over but I could tell she didn't see anything. "I see," she said in that tone people use with the unstable. "You mentioned getting rid of him. Do you still feel that’s appropriate?”
I turned to my ex. "With every fiber of my being."
Jackson's face dropped. "This is insulting. I can't believe you're going to try to get rid of me after you promised to help me."
"I promised to help you, and I will. That doesn't mean you need to be around when that happens."
Rosalie pretended to be interested in her box of stuff and the movement of the doohickey, but I could tell she was listening to me, watching me with a curiosity that should have made me feel self-conscious, and normally would have, if I weren't so used to arguing with my ex.
I went on. "You had far too much control over my life when we were married. I'm not sure why I gave you that control, but it's a regret I have to live with. You, on the other hand, are not something I have to live with. So bah-bye."
Rosalie heard her cue and quickly dug into the cardboard box in front of her, pulling out a thick bundle of sticks and a lighter. Jackson disappeared when he saw it, making me think this "fruitcake" might actually be onto something.
Rosalie held the bundle up as she spoke. "This is sage. It's been used to get rid of ghosts for centuries. When it comes to apparitions, you simply have to tell them that you no longer want them in the house. But there can be no ambiguity. You have to forcefully tell them to leave immediately and mean it, wishing them nothing but the best, of course. And then, after you've done that, we perform a smudging, which is just what we call it when we 'cleanse' a house with burning sage to rid it of spirits, and welcome the peace."
"It will get rid of Jackson for good?" I asked, not really caring what in the world it was called or why we were doing it, just so long as we reached the outcome we wanted.
"Yes," she said. "Ghosts build energy the more they're allowed to stay in a house, meaning the longer you don't ask them to leave, the more power you're giving them to stay."
I swallowed. "Okay, spark up the sage. Let's do this."
Jackson reappeared. "I can't believe you don't find my presence useful, or at least entertaining.”
I ignored him, again.
He continued. "Shouldn't you take her on a tour and ask about the curse some more before you get rid of me? I might be able to confirm a few things for you?"
The man was desperate, so at least I knew this sage-thing was probably going to work later if I needed it.
"Oh, all right. You're stalling, old man, but all right," I said.
Rosalie was looking at me sideways. I could tell she was starting to question my sanity about as much as I was.
"Jackson thinks we should go on a quick tour before we begin exorcising his ghost, or whatever this is. He said he'll try to confirm the rumors you've heard about the house."
She tossed the sage bundle onto the table and stood up. Her 60-year-old face practically glowed with excitement in the little bits of light streaming through the curtains. “Sometimes, even a jerk has a great idea.”
Rosalie swayed awkwardly when she walked like one side of her had to propel the other side forward. But she'd always refused to go to the doctor, the stubborn woman. She stopped every once in a while on the stairs to catch her breath. "When I was a kid, we always heard Gate House had a curse on it. It was built by Jackson's great grandfather, Henry Bowman, a man who made his money exploiting women." She raised her eyebrows at me, apparently expecting me to catch on. I didn't.
"He owned a number of," she lowered her voice. "Houses of ill-repute, back in his day, before he got married and had children. It was how he made his millions."
"Millions? Off a brothel?"
"Several. He had a whole chain in New York," she said, matter-of-factly. She held onto the railing tightly, and the perfectly smooth decorative wood swayed under her weight. "This was back before there was birth control, or proper meds for STDs, so many women went mad from syphilis. Many were forced to have abortions and even more had children. Unwanted children. I heard Henry Bowman put those children to work as soon as they could sit up..."
I gasped.
"Not like that. He had them make awful clothing for the women, do the cleaning and stuff. Finding dresses for his high-end call girls wasn't exactly something you could just head over to the mall and pick off the racks. This was back in the late 1800s, back when women wore heavy dark dresses that reached the floor and went all the way up to their necks..."
I thought of Mrs. Harpton.
“We heard he treated all of his workers terribly, long hours, kids with stunted growth from malnutrition, fingers worked to the bone, poor things." She shook her head. "But, one time, he took in the wrong girl..."
We headed down the hall toward the nursery, our footsteps creaking along the floorboards underneath us. I looked around for Jackson, wondering why he wasn't confirming or denying things. That was his job here.
“How do you know all of this, and I don’t?” I asked.
“It’s just the rumor. You know how small town’s are. Probably nothing.”
“That’s exactly what you said about Jackson being connected to the missing strippers.”
She looked down at her feet as we stopped in front of a large door down the hall to our right that was decorated around its trim with birds gripping leaves. Rosalie grabbed the knob and opened it. It was just a wall.
"There are two of those like that here," I said. "If you figure out why, let me know."
She turned to the room on our left and opened the door there.
“Oh good. An actual room,” she said when it creaked open to more than just drywall.
“Only the nursery,” I said, trying to get the woman to move on. I quickly pointed down the hall. "The maid's quarters are on this level too, the real bedrooms are one more flight up."
"One more flight up, huh?" she said, sighing like she might not make it.
The darkened hall around the nursery felt about five degrees colder than the rest of the house. And I always got the feeling the old Victorian didn't want me on this floor. So I rarely even paused on my way up, instead pretending this whole floor didn't exist. Rosalie, apparently, didn't share that feeling. She motioned for me to follow her into the pale pink, mostly empty nursery.
The room smelled like a well oiled antique and was spacious for a nursery, with two twin beds pushed up against the back wall next to a tiny wooden crib with the kind of solid, boxed-in sides that seemed more like a cage than a bed for human babies. A large fireplace took up most the wall by the door, its opening a gigantic mouth ready to swallow any small child dumb enough to sleep here. And above the mantle hung one of the creepiest things of all: a strange wooden horse art piece with large, bugged-out, dead eyes and a tongue flopping loosely to the side.
Still, as creepy as all of that was, none of it bothered me as much as the thing in the armoire.
I tried to distract Rosalie and get us out of the nursery before she could notice it. "You should see the maid's quarters," I said, taking a step for the door. "If you think this room is bad..."
She lifted her little doohickey contraption above her head and over to the fireplace. It went crazy with movement, and Jackson wasn’t even flicking it this time. "This house holds more than one ghost. You know that, right?" She could barely talk, her voice heavy and out of breath. I wondered if it was nerves or the stairs.
"Never thought about it," I replied, pointing toward the door. "I can only communicate with Jackson, though. Should we see the rest of the house? And weren't you going to finish talking about the curse? Who was the wrong girl that Henry Bowma
n took in?"
"Yes, yes," she said. I could tell she was more interested in the room and her spinning-out-of-control EMF meter than finishing her story. "The woman who put the curse on the family. This is all rumor, dear, just some kids talking. And this town has had some crazy rumors."
I chuckled. "Like the Dead Forest being a home to shapeshifters?”
She looked at me sideways. "Yes, that’s one of the craziest."
The white armoire off by the fireplace suddenly caught the woman's attention and she waddled over to it, throwing open the cabinet door as if drawn to do so. She let out a small guttural scream under her breath when she saw what was there front and center. The reason Jackson always called me Carly doll. The thing I hated the most.
A doll mostly stuffed sat on the first shelf next to an old worn-out Bible. It had an overly large porcelain head, hands, and feet. Gently, Rosalie picked it up and studied it a moment.
"What the..." She lifted the thing up to my face, her gaze shooting from the doll to me and back again; the thing's lumpy little legs dangled and clanked together by my ear. Its hair was painted on but it was light brownish blonde with curls just like mine and its face... the resemblance was spooky, especially with how well the delicate paint job had held up over the years. From the shape and color of her hazel eyes to the mole on her neck, we were the same.
She had a black dress, very similar in material to the high-necked one Mrs. Harpton always wore, only hers was a lot shorter.
"I know," I said. "Isn't it creepy? Jackson always called me Carly doll because I look just like that thing. Her name's Eliza, I guess. I actually pity the little girl who played with such an odd, creepy doll long enough to have named it."
Rosalie didn't say a word. She gently set the doll back down and backed away from the cabinet. "Like I said before, I honestly think we should do a seance, here in this house, and soon," she finally said after about a half a minute of silence.
"What about the smudging thing and asking Jackson to leave?"
I went to shut the cabinet. The creepy doll stared at me with eyes that looked exactly the same as my own, almost pleading with me not to close the cupboard door and leave it. I turned away and headed out to the safety of the cold, dark hall, quicker than I’d intended.
Rosalie stumbled behind me. "I could be wrong," she said. "But I'm pretty sure the woman I was talking about, the wrong one Henry took in because she cursed his family forever, was named Eliza, too."
Chapter 11
My Destiny Awaits
Rosalie and I decided to do the seance next Wednesday night. But she left me the sage and some do-it-yourself instructions on the smudging in case I wanted to get rid of Jackson myself. She strongly encouraged me not to, though. "If this house is cursed," she said, tugging on one of her long dreadlocks. "Jackson might just be your liaison to it."
I stared at her a second like that made sense. As soon as she left, I stuffed the sage into the top drawer of the credenza, catching a glimpse of what had to be one of the last photos taken of my dead ex-husband. The police had rummaged through everything, and what was tucked at the bottom of some drawers was now at the top, and vice versa.
I pulled the photo out and examined it. It was strange to see Jackson in full color and non-transparent. His beard was grayer than I remembered it being when I left four years ago, his hair just as dark. He was standing with his cousins and his uncle at what was apparently his uncle's re-election campaign kick-off party or something just a few months back. Caleb’s father was mayor of Potter Grove. Balloons and mayoral posters plastered the background of the photo.
I shouldn't miss the old days.
"I'm even more handsome in person, wouldn't you say?" he said behind me.
I quickly stuffed the photo back in the drawer. "I will use that sage someday. You know that right? This... whatever this is, it isn't normal.” I wanted to ask him about the doll upstairs and the rumors about the curse, but he disappeared again, and I didn't feel his presence.
One thing was for sure, I was going to do as much research as I could on Gate House before Rosalie and I did our seance next week. I also wanted to pay a visit to Destiny to find out about the last few years of Jackson’s life. He said someone had been trying to kill him. Maybe she knew more about that. .
I knew she wasn't going to be happy to see me. I was right.
Destiny liked the early shift at the Starlight Lounge. I'd heard her regulars were older men who needed to fit their jollies in sometime between dinner at 5:00 and being tucked into their Depends at 9:00. After a quick call to make sure she was there the next day, I was on my way. The police had already finished up at my house, and thankfully, I hadn't had to talk to the press yet.
I stopped by the Shop-Quik and picked up a bottle of Destiny's favorite rum. I only knew this because it was in one of the first boxes the movers brought to Gate House the day I moved out four years ago. I held the bottle for a full minute, talking myself out of spitting in it.
Right now, standing in the liquor aisle of the Shop-Quik, all I could think about was Tina and how her schizophrenia had first manifested itself at this very shop years ago. I needed to call her to see how she was doing and be the friend I regretted not being. “Tomorrow,” I told myself like always.
Once again, I talked myself out of spitting in the bottle. Instead, I tossed it into the trunk of my Civic, along with a two-liter of Pepsi and a couple of plastic cups I took from the fountain drink area when no one was looking.
The Starlight was in Landover, a city that got its name because so many people referred to it as that "Land over there." It was the big city near us, and a lot of people in Potter Grove commuted in for work, school, or, apparently, watching strippers.
I parked in the lot under the large sign that read, "Totally Nude Dancers," and shook my head. I couldn't believe I was actually doing this. This place represented the beginning of the end for my marriage to Jackson. It was all part of the humiliation that kept me from reconnecting with this town for the last four years, and yet here I was, about to go through those carefully blacked-out memories to save my perverted husband's reputation.
What in the hell was I thinking?
I strutted over to the door and yanked it open before I could talk myself out of it. A humungous man with neck tattoos and an intimidating glare sat on a little stool just inside. "Ten dollar cover," he said.
"I just want to talk to one of the dancers."
"Doesn't matter. Same for everyone."
I only had ten dollars in my purse. And I was planning on using that as a “tip” to get Destiny to talk to me if I couldn’t leave a message with management that there was booze in my car waiting for her.
The club was much classier than the neon sign out front led me to believe it'd be. But then, I'd only seen strip clubs in movies so I imagined nothing but sparkly gold curtains holding back all sorts of weird splatter in the back. The room I was looking at was a nice cocktail lounge area, tastefully decorated with crisp white linens on the few tables it held and napkins stuffed in glasses in the shape of fans.
These ladies were making bigger bucks than I could afford, even in a small city like Landover, Wisconsin. Destiny wasn't going to be enticed by the lukewarm booze sitting in my trunk or my ten-dollar bill. She probably had Dom Perignon chilling in a VIP room somewhere, about to cuddle up to another rich old guy with a drinking problem and a wad of cash bigger than any other wad he had on him.
"Can I leave a message with you then?" I asked the bouncer.
"Nope." He took his phone out from his back pocket and clicked open an app like I was no longer standing there.
"I'm an old friend of Destiny Bowman's," I lied. "I just want to leave a message for her. Can you please tell her..."
He turned away like the conversation was done.
I yanked my wallet out of my purse and fished out my last ten dollars, gripping it tightly like it hurt to let go of it for something so stupid and unnecessary.
He snatched the money. "Tell her yourself," he said, pointing to the door that I was one-hundred-percent certain led to the splatter part.
I gulped. "Okay," I said. "Can I borrow some paper and a pencil?"
I plopped down at one of the tables, tearing the paper in half, erasing and rewriting the ridiculous note to Destiny. I waved off the blonde in the halter top again and again when she came around to ask if I was ready to order.
It wasn't perfect, but I'd already used every part of the paper and I was sure neck-tattoo-guy wasn't going to give me another one without charging me.
Hi Destiny. I'd really like to talk about the creepy murderer we were both apparently married to. I have Captain Morgan's and Pepsi waiting for you in my car, so please text me to let me know if you want to talk at your break. I don't think anyone else will understand what we're going through.
I scrawled my name and number at the bottom. Then, held my note out to the bouncer.
"I'm not the messenger," he said, pointing, once again, to that door.
"You could consider the ten dollars payment for helping me with this favor."
He went back to his phone and I took a deep breath. "You're not Carly Mae anymore," I reminded myself as I opened the door. Still, my heart raced and my nervous facial tic spasmed just thinking about the whole slew of women behind this door, ones my disgusting husband used to prefer when we were married, along with a group of men who were just like my disgusting husband.
Thankfully, no one turned and noticed the door opening. I walked right by the back of many patrons' heads. Most were sitting, zombie-like, along the various parts of the stage, but there were also a few at the nicely decorated tables, similar to the lobby. I kept my head down, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone here, only looking up to make sure I was heading toward the right naked lady.
Destiny and I made eye contact and she shot me a dirty look. She was a large woman for a dancer, taller than Jackson, and probably weighing just as much, thick but not fat, with straw-like bleach blonde hair that she liked to keep in little-girl ponytails.
