Make Some Magic

by Morgana Best

  As I walked, I pulled the digital infrared thermometer from the grey case and flicked it on. I stood just outside the iron bars and swept the thermometer across my body, keeping an eye on the digital readout screen just above the handle. There was nothing to indicate a spirit or a supernatural presence. The temperature remained even.

  After making the offerings I always made when entering a graveyard, I began to make my way through. I wondered what Cordelia would say if she could see me walking around a graveyard full of people, most of whom had been dead for well over one hundred years, holding a tool designed to find ghosts. It even sounded pretty ridiculous to me, and I could see and sense ghosts. Usually, that is, I could not see or sense any here.

  I kept sweeping the thermometer back and forth, in between checking out a few of the headstones. Many of them were hard to read, and there were some that were nothing more than piles of rocks, the grave markers long since broken and destroyed by the unending march of time.

  I lost myself in the cemetery, despite the fact that the infrared thermometer did not indicate any spectral activity. It was interesting to look over the names of the dead, and to see when they were born and when they died. I found it to be a warm and comforting feeling to get close to the dead, as odd as that might sound to others.

  I turned, thinking about heading back to my car, but I saw someone making their way towards me in the distance. As he approached, I saw it was the local historian, Gerald Wakefield. He walked with a slight limp, although he was covering the ground at a good speed. I went towards him, meeting him next to a sad looking tombstone that had all but crumbled away. “Hi! You’re here again. Doing more research?”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t believe that the body was there when we were speaking last time,” he said. “What a horrible situation. Was it you who discovered it, or your friend?”

  “It was me,” I said, “Just after you left. I went back to take photos for Cordelia as she’s scared of heights, and then…” I stopped speaking and shuddered.

  Gerald flashed me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to mention it. The police interviewed me about it. They seemed to think it was an accident. They found a camera with him. They think he climbed over the rocks to take photos, and fell.”

  “How awful,” I said, while knowing that what he said was not the case at all. I wondered if the British government had put pressure on the local police to call it an accident.

  “Anyway, enough of this morbid talk. I saw your car parked here on my way to lay these flowers on graves, and thought I would see what you were up to.” He waved a bunch of flowers at me.

  I shrugged, and slid the digital thermometer into my bag. “I just like cemeteries,” I said.

  Gerald laughed. “Me too. My grandfather and grandmother and their parents are buried here.”

  “That’s right. I remember you said that your family’s been in these parts for some years.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, as long as it’s been a town. Now, what do you have in that bag? It didn’t look like a camera.”

  I paused. I didn’t want to disclose any details of my mission, but then again, Gerald already knew I was a journalist for a paranormal magazine. It couldn’t hurt to tell the truth, at least part of it, anyway. “It’s a digital thermometer. It reads heat signatures and cold spots, and things like that.”

  He nodded, but one eyebrow was raised, as if he were perplexed.

  “It finds ghosts,” I said with a laugh, simplifying it for him.

  Gerald laughed too. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever met a ghost hunter. I thought you were simply a journalist.”

  “For Ghoulzette,” I said. “It is a paranormal magazine, after all. But, yes, I’m just supposed to write stories, not look for ghosts. It’s fun using stuff like this, anyway.”

  Gerald lifted one eyebrow again, but then dropped the subject. “Would you like to come and see my grandfather and grandmother?”

  I followed Gerald on foot down Cemetery Road, past the Roman Catholic section, past the Presbyterians, and then the Wesleyans, to a far more ornate section of the cemetery. There were no broken, iron railings or overgrown grave sites here, and the monuments were tall and of marble. One large marble headstone had an angel perched on top. It was so tall that it dwarfed both of us.

  Gerald’s grandparents and great grandparents had large, rectangular slabs of marble in the ground next to one another, and nearby was one of their sons, who had died when he was only seven months old. We stood for some minutes, while Gerald told the few stories he remembered of his grandparents. They had died within a year of each other, when Gerald had only been eight years old.

  Twenty minutes later I was at my car, waving goodbye to Gerald as he climbed into his own car which was parked directly behind mine.

  I got into my car and slid the key into the ignition, after dumping the soft grey bag on the seat next to me. I cranked the engine over and reached for the water bottle that was sitting in my cup holder under the dash. The water was somewhat warm, but still refreshing, and I downed the rest of it before sliding the shifter into drive and pulling slowly onto the road, making sure I turned the car around three times.

  As I pulled out onto the main road back to town, I suddenly felt tired. My eyelids felt heavy and began to droop. I shook myself awake and then jumped as my phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket, but dropped it around my feet. I reached down, trying to pick it up, but couldn’t, so I pulled the car off the road. That was the last thing I remembered.

  When I next opened my eyes I was staring up at a white ceiling with long fluorescent bulbs behind milky white panels. I didn’t think I was dead. I tested my arms and legs; everything seemed to be working. I looked at the glass panel in the door opposite me; was that John looking in at me? I tried to focus my eyes, but then he was gone, and I fell back to sleep.

  I woke up again but did not know how long I had been asleep. I tried to sit up, but my head hurt and my ears needed to pop. I had no idea where I was. There was a familiar but unpleasant smell, and a faint beeping. I looked over and saw a small screen next to me with a bright green line zigzagging its way across it. I looked down at my arm, saw a few things stuck there, and a plastic ID bracelet on my wrist.

  I was in a hospital. How did I get here? My head was pounding, and my memories were swirling around. I couldn’t get a clear hold on any of them. I remembered my car, remembered the water bottle, remembered Gerald and his great grandparents and dead uncle, and remembered my phone ringing in my car, but I couldn’t piece it all together, and I couldn’t put it in the order it had happened. And had John been here?

  Suddenly I heard a voice, low and soft. “Are you okay?”

  I looked up and saw a nurse, a middle aged woman with curly brown hair and too much eye make up.

  “Yes,” I said. I was concerned that my voice was ragged, and my throat burned when I spoke. “What happened?”

  “Let me get the doctor for you,” the nurse said, and, without waiting for a response, she turned away and left the room. Within minutes, a man of about fifty with a pointed chin and a receding hairline came in. He took my pulse before saying anything.

  Finally, he spoke. “Misty?”

  I tried to nod, but it hurt, so instead, I said, “Yes.”

  “I’m Doctor Reed,” he said. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  It still hurt to talk, so I simply said “No.”

  “You were in an accident. You fell asleep and your car rolled into a ditch. A passing car found you and called an ambulance. You have a cut on your head, and a bruised trachea, from where your throat hit your steering wheel.”

  “I fell asleep?”

  The doctor hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, we did a drug screen on you, and we found triazolam in your system. Do you know what that is?”

  “No.” I wanted to ask questions, but my throat was so sore.

  “Basically, it’s a fast acting sleeping agent. I understand from an o
fficer investigating that there was a water bottle in your car and that it contained triazolam. The police believe that someone might have drugged you.”

  I was shocked and frightened. I had spoken with three different men that day, and any one of them had access to my car when I wasn’t around, and I hadn’t locked my doors. Of course, someone else entirely could have drugged me, but I had no idea who it could be.

  “Are you okay?” the doctor asked.

  I said, “No,” again.

  The doctor murmured something in a sympathetic voice. “You’ll have to stay in hospital overnight for observation.”

  I felt violated, and was uneasy, and as I lay in the hospital bed, hot stinging tears came to my eyes. Doctor Reed patted me on the shoulder and then left, telling me I’d feel better in time when I’d processed everything. I kept crying after he left, holding my palms to my eyes and letting everything out. When I had finished crying, I looked down at the cotton blanket over my legs.

  I soon began to feel better physically, but I was quite alarmed that someone had tried to kill me. I lay in bed watching The Biggest Loser on the television above my head. I ate tasteless, bland, hospital food and watched The Biggest Loser contestants eating chocolate cup cakes in a Temptation. It didn’t seem fair somehow. I was also feeling strangely dizzy.

  After a while, the fear gave way to anger. I wanted to find out who had drugged me, and I thought of all the horrible things I’d like to do to the culprit.

  Chapter 15

  I was certain the curator of the Hillgrove museum was the one who had put the substance in my water and tried to kill me. After all, he had been outside twice when I was still inside the museum, and he’d had plenty of time and opportunity to put the drugs in my water bottle.

  The day after I was released from the hospital, I drove back to Hillgrove museum to judge the curator’s reaction to me. Surely, he would give something away when he saw me alive and well, given the fact that he had tried to kill me. My only other two suspects were the wildlife photographer, Ethan Williams, and Gerald Wakefield.

  Whoever had murdered the man on the cliff had also tried to do away with me. Both incidents were related. The common link was SI7. The evil spirit had to figure in there somehow—I just hadn’t figured out that connection yet.

  When I reached the museum, I was disappointed to find it empty again. Still, I had an assignment: to find out about the evil entity at Hillgrove. I wasn’t sensing anything in the museum, so I walked behind the building to the displays of old agricultural machinery to see if anything would come to me.

  “Misty!”

  I jumped and spun around. Walking towards me was Gerald Wakefield.

  “I thought I saw you walking around down here,” he said. “I’m looking for the curator. Have you seen him?”

  “No,” I said, and just managed to stop myself saying that I was looking for him too.

  “Anyway, a good thing I ran into you. I found an old newspaper article you might be interested in. I live not far from here, on your way back to Armidale. Would you like to come over for a cup of tea and a piece of cake and have a look at what I’ve found?”

  I looked him up and down. He was one of my three suspects, but he didn’t seem surprised to find me alive. It was the mention of tea and cake that did it. I would just have to watch him make the tea, to be on the safe side, and make sure he ate some of the cake too. Without any further thought, I graciously accepted his invitation.

  I followed Gerald’s car down a bumpy dirt road. Just as I was wondering how much longer the road would stretch, he turned down a long dirt driveway to his house. The house was a surprise. I had expected a little old wooden building, but Gerald’s house screamed luxury and expense. I wondered where he’d made his money. Maybe he had inherited it.

  The interior was also a surprise. I had expected traditional, but it was sleek and contemporary. Gerald showed me into the living room, which had expansive views of his property through massive floor to ceiling windows.

  He went into the adjoining kitchen to make me a cup of tea and I followed him in, just in case he slipped something into my tea. I wasn’t taking any chances. He was one of my suspects, after all. I saw that the kitchen was full of stainless steel appliances and granite bench tops. It was quite posh for out here in the country.

  I devoured the offered piece of carrot cake in about three mouthfuls, not caring that I must have looked as if I had no table manners. There was a sudden temperature drop, so the cup of hot tea couldn’t come fast enough. I sat with my hands wrapped around it, and listened as Gerald read from an old newspaper.

  “I didn’t find anything about massacres, but this is a grisly murder from 1888. A party of hunters found the body of a man at night. Anyway, this is what it says: The corpse was found in a very peculiar place. The man’s throat was cut from ear to ear, and his skull battered in. The sight was a most ghastly one.”

  Gerald took a deep breath. “It’s best if I summarise it. The body was dragged for some distance, and covered over with bushes and bark. The newspaper said it was a brutal and cold-blooded murder. It says he was cruelly murdered in a secluded spot and that his head was battered in with a pick. The murdered man’s head was nearly severed from his body. The newspaper describes it as a terrible violence.”

  I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach, but Gerald didn’t notice. “I’ll read this bit to you: The place where the deed was done is a prominent point, overlooking the Falls, disclosing a fine view of the rugged scenery and the Baker’s Creek mine. Close to a stump, about thirty yards from where the body was found, seems to have been the place where the murder was committed, as there is a great quantity of blood on the stump and about the ground all around. My opinion is that the victim was leaning against the stump (which is amongst a lot of granite boulders), and while in that position received a deadly blow. It is quite certain that the deceased was murdered at this spot. The body was afterwards dragged to the edge of the Falls for the evident intention of throwing it over, but by some means or other the body got caught in a few dogwood branches, which prevented it from descending some hundreds of feet down the falls. In this position it was found as already described.”

  I shuddered. This was way too gruesome for me. “That’s, err, helpful, thanks for that, but I need to find out about massacres.” I looked up and saw that Gerald was staring at me strangely.

  “I have never heard about any massacres,” he said, “but there have been strange murders here ever since Hillgrove was settled. I read you this newspaper article because it’s typical of the murders that have been recorded. The others actually had severed heads. They were all thrown over the cliffs into the gorge.”

  I shuddered again and said, not very intelligently, “Eew.”

  Gerald raised his eyebrows. “Would you like me to make photocopies of the articles on murders? I have the newspaper clips on file.”

  “Yes please. Thanks.”

  Gerald took himself out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I could hear his printer churning out copies. I drained the last of my tea and saw more cake on the bench. Would it be rude if I went over and helped myself? Probably, but I did so anyway. I was in despair of finding out any information whatsoever about the evil entity.

  Gerald returned and handed me a folder. “Wherever you have cliffs like the ones around here, there will be rumours of people being thrown over. Plus the mining accidents. Well, wherever there are mines, there are accidents. I don’t think you can read anything sinister into that.”

  I nodded. He had a point.

  “Have a look through that folder,” he continued, “because I have every newspaper clipping in there of murders in this district, to my knowledge anyway. My family’s been in this area for generations, and I have quite detailed family history records. If it would help, I could go through them and see if there’s anything there that might help you. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

  I was delighted. Gerald had given me
a lead about the evil entity, and could possibly turn up more.

  He hadn’t tried to kill me, but that didn’t mean I could rule him out.

  Later that day, I arrived back at Brandon’s place feeling tired and not too well. Brandon and Merlin were both pleased to see me. I had planned to have a nice, hot shower and then go through the photocopies of newspaper clippings kindly provided by Gerald. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the chance.

  Chapter 16

  Brandon took me by the arm and sat me on the sofa. “Guess who I saw today?”

  I shrugged.

  “Fred, silly.”

  “Oh.” For a moment, don’t ask me how, I’d forgotten about Brandon’s crush on the so-called Fred. “Did it go well?”

  “We didn’t speak,” Brandon said. “I don’t think he saw me, but I saw him.”

  “Oh,” I said again, and made a move to get up. Brandon pulled me back down.

  “Do you think he’s here to see me?” Brandon leant forward and peered anxiously into my face.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have a crystal ball.” I kept my tone gentle. I certainly hoped that Fred was here to see Brandon, and I hoped that Fred would turn up right now so I could have that shower. “Brandon, do you mind if I go and have a shower now, and then I’ll come back and we can talk some more?”

  “Of course.”

  I made to get up, but Brandon said, “Just one more thing. If he does come here, could you please watch how he is with me, so we can compare notes afterwards?”

  I nodded and took a step closer to the bathroom. “But if he does come here, won’t it be to see you anyway?”

  Brandon looked crestfallen. “No, we just work together from time to time.” He sighed and leant back into the sofa. “I’m sorry to go on like this. It’s just that I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I don’t even think he’s gay, but that doesn’t help how I feel about him. You know, last time I saw him, he said that I looked well. What do you think he meant by that? Was that his way of saying that he found me attractive? Or do you think he was just being polite?”