Spirit Taken

by Rachael Rawlings

  Fargo was making a thorough inspection of the floor, his nose twitching as he traced around the room, but he showed none of the characteristic heightened attention that came with a spirit. For now, he was just a dog enjoying the scent of an unfamiliar household.

  Paxton was going through the small closet, shuffling through shoes which had probably already been examined once. Cilla was sure the police had been here earlier. After all, it had been murder.

  She finished going through the contents of the second drawer, a junk drawer for all intents and purposes with pens and pencils, loose keys, more change, a few receipts, and other debris that fills a person’s pockets during the day. She knew Brandon had his wallet on him when he was found. The police had said there was no robbery.

  “I’m not finding anything here.” She looked toward Paxton, who had bent over and was shining his cell phone flashlight under the bed.

  “Neither am I,” Paxton responded, straightening to his full height.

  “Let’s go on,” she added. She tapped her leg and Fargo came to attention, trotting over to her side.

  Without speaking, they left the bedroom together and paused in the living room where they had entered. Brandon had been a good housekeeper, by and large. His living room had the usual scatter of reading material, a few remote controls for an impressive flat screen television and its accompaniment of digital accessories, and a bookcase stuffed with paperbacks.

  “Now this is interesting,” Paxton said deliberately. He held up a book, the library tag on the spine, and flipped it so Cilla could read the title.

  “Mysteries of the Paranormal,” Cilla read aloud.

  “There’s more,” Paxton went on. He was standing next to a small antique desk, and the stack of books on top appeared to all be from the library. There was a notebook next to the books, and a handful of pens stuck in a slightly misshapen pottery mug. “Looks like your man was doing his homework.”

  Cilla looked at the books, drawing closer to the desk. “I thought he was pretty serious about what he had seen,” she said softly. “He was so worried about what he caught in that picture.”

  “Appears he was trying to do some independent research.”

  Cilla looked at the books. They were all similar. Researching the paranormal, the causes of hauntings, the history of them. “I wonder if he got these before or after he decided to hire us,” she murmured thoughtfully.

  “This might have been why he came to you. He might have realized he was in over his head with this one.”

  Cilla focused on Paxton. He was gripping one of the volumes in his hand, slowly paging through it. His face was serious. She wondered for the thousandth time what his goal really was in meeting up with them. Did he have a book in the works? Was this research, as he stated? Or did he have an ulterior motive that none of them were aware of? It made her nervous.

  “What is your novel going to be like?” she asked, forcing her tone to be casual.

  “I have some research for a factual log,” he began, not looking up from the book. “But I want to have anecdotes as well.” He glanced up then. “I hope it wasn’t an imposition for Melissa to include you in the story. I assure you, I will make sure nothing is divulged without your permission.”

  Cilla nodded but didn’t comment. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of being material for a book, but there were worse things, she supposed. Right now, their concerns were more immediate, and unquestionably more serious.

  She heard the door open at the same time Fargo let out a welcoming bark and knew the others were back. She began running through the items on the table in front of the couch as Paxton sorted through the books. They worked in silence for a time, making conversation only if it pertained to Brandon’s case.

  When Smith came to the doorway, they had finished their fruitless search.

  “Find anything?” she asked her partner hopefully. The living and bedroom had been a bust, but perhaps the other men had found something.

  “No, not a thing. No phone, no incriminating notes, no receipts, nothing.” Smith ran his hand through his hair. “I wish we had those pictures from his cell phone.”

  “Don’t we have the ones he downloaded to your computer?” Cilla asked.

  “Yes, I’ve gone through those. Nothing new that I noticed. I bet he came back and took more.”

  “Then we wouldn’t have those.”

  Carlton frowned. “You know, he backed everything up to a cloud server,” he suggested thoughtfully. “He told me he didn’t have to worry if his phone broke because he had it all saved.”

  Smith’s head bobbed up. “Really? Do you know which one?”

  “He had an Android phone. I think it was just Google.”

  “If we can get his account email and password, we can access it from any computer.” Smith’s tone had started to gain enthusiasm.

  “I know his email, but I don’t know about any password.” Carlton rubbed a palm over his chin, now bristling with a little stubble, giving him a more ragged appearance.

  “One step at a time,” Smith responded. “He has a computer here, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Carlton gestured down the hall, and they all filed into a small spare bedroom set up with a student sized desk and a laptop plugged into the wall. Carlton sat in the chair in front of the computer and tapped the power button. The computer was older than Smith’s, but it was still a solid one, and the opening screen flashed.

  “He didn’t use a password,” Smith said thoughtfully as he watched Carlton bypass the home screen and go on the web. “Not very secure.”

  “He liked tech, but he hated passwords,” Carlton responded.

  Cilla watched as the other man found the cloud server and entered the email address.

  “Okay, here’s the password page,” Carlton said. He backed away from the computer, frowning at the blank box with the blinking curser.

  “Do you have any idea what he would have used for the password?” Smith was stooping over Carlton, squinting at the screen.

  “I don’t know,” Carlton said slowly. “I don’t want to get us locked out of the account, so I don’t want to start guessing.”

  “We could try some of the usual. Pet’s names, birthdays, all that,” Cilla said doubtfully.

  “Let me think,” Smith responded, walking slowly from one side of the table to the other. “Maybe…” He stopped again next to Carlton. “Can I?”

  Carlton stood and stepped away. Smith leaned over, not taking the chair, but bending over it. He spread his fingers delicately on the keyboard, and after a few seconds, hit a few keys. When he struck the enter button, the computer flashed.

  “Wrong password,” Smith muttered. “I’ll only try a few more. I don’t want us to get logged out for good.” He laid his fingers on the keys again. Cilla knew his mind was spinning. She was sure he knew all the data about Brandon including birthdays and such. Smith was good at that. But something like a password could be anything.

  He flexed his fingers and typed in another string of symbols. Incorrect password. No luck. Smith tossed a look back to Carlton, who shrugged. Then a peculiar look came across Smith’s face, and he tilted his head. He typed in a few more letters and numbers and then paused. After a second, he hit the enter key and the screen immediately opened to the files.

  “You got it,” Cilla couldn’t help the excitement in her voice.

  “Did you doubt me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “How did you figure it out?”

  “Carlton here said Brandon was only obsessed with one thing. We just went out to look at her.”

  “The car?”

  “It isn’t just any car,” Smith scolded. “And yes,” he spread his hands out to reveal the screen. “It worked.”

  They clustered around the computer as Smith navigated to the photos. Cilla saw the ones she had viewed before, the shadowy figures, the stark rectangles of an old desk, the littered floor. But there were more. They had been right when they had guessed Brandon had retur
ned to the office. There were many more pictures.

  “I want to look at these on my machine,” Smith said frowning at the screen. “I can’t see well enough.”

  “Do you have a flash drive?”

  “Don’t need it.” Smith flashed Cilla a smile. “I can look up his account from home.”

  Chapter Eleven

  They opted to reconvene at the office after they grabbed lunch on the way. It was a curious little group, all hovering around the computer, waiting for Smith to pull up the pictures on his larger and better high definition screen. All except Fargo, who had promptly collapsed in his dog bed for a nap.

  At first, Cilla suspected the shots were more of the same. Brandon had used his flash in a few, so some pictures were showing up in sharp relief, but the rest were a little blurry in the low light. They had gone through two dozen pictures when Smith stopped. Cilla felt the breath rush out of her lungs as the shapes came into focus.

  Bones. Not long bones, but small fragile ones, and most definitely human. The skull was perfectly preserved with a few strands of dark mummified flesh stretching over the ridges of what would have been a cheek pillowed with soft flesh. The forehead seemed to be rounded, the lower jaw small in proportion. It was human, but different from the anatomical models Cilla was more familiar with.

  “It’s a child,” Cilla said, her tone conveying how sick the realization made her feel.

  “It is,” Paxton agreed, but his voice was strangled.

  Smith muttered a curse, and Carlton sat abruptly on one of the office chairs.

  After a protracted silence, Cilla asked the question they were all thinking. “Where was this taken?”

  Smith used his mouse to zoom in on the subject. It looked like much of the rest of the pictures. The flash had been employed, so they could see the raw edges of wood, the dusting of plaster. Where ever this was, it had been taken inside the building. Brandon had captured some tight shots, showing the arch of bones, the stringy bits of fabric or flesh. Smith flipped to the next picture, and they all felt a spike of adrenaline. Here they could finally see some of the surroundings. There was a tall metal rack, the flat surface of a wall, and the cavity behind.

  “Do you think the body was left in the wall?” Smith’s voice was horrified.

  Paxton was leaning close to the picture. “My guess? I believe this might be in the basement.”

  Cilla stood absolutely still. She was reflecting on her earlier encounter with the spirits. If one of them had been Brandon, and she believed it was, then the other entity might very well have been this child.

  “We have to find it. We have to recover the body,” she said simply.

  “Agreed,” Paxton declared decisively, and when Cilla looked at his face, she saw the shadow of anguish in his eyes.

  Much of paranormal research is paperwork; libraries, historical societies, newspapers, and word of mouth. Cilla enjoyed the personal interviews, but she disliked the hours of paging through old photocopies.

  Paxton and Smith had accomplished much of the legwork already, but they needed to get back inside the building. There were things the papers would never tell them.

  The examination of the crime scene, or whatever the police were now doing at the site, appeared to be suspended. This time they felt much more secure in their role. They had their secret weapon, Carlton, who had permission from the deceased closest of kin to go in the building. They could perform their own study there now without fear of incarceration. At least, Cilla thought they could.

  Their peculiar investigative group gathered just after noon. Paxton met them, driving his classy sports car, and Smith and Cilla were together in her ride with Fargo riding in the back. She had offered to pick Carlton up, but he promised them he could get a ride. He beat them there. Cilla could see the dismay in his expression as he stood outside the building. It felt more real when they were standing there, so close to where Brandon had lost his life.

  Cilla observed Carlton's hesitation. “You don't have to go in,” she assured him. “We can do this on our own and let you know what we find.”

  "No, no, that's not necessary," he responded quickly. "I'm sorry, it's just..." His words trailed off, and Cilla thought about how all the words in the world couldn't express the emotions that came with losing someone. "When we were kids, I was five years older than Brandon. I always felt like the big brother. I wanted to make sure he didn't get into any trouble." He shrugged. "As teenagers, he was always begging for a ride. I lived just down the street from him, and I guess I got used to him being there." He hesitated again. "Brandon was a good guy, you know. He was a good person. He didn't deserve this." Cilla heard the anger lacing the words.

  "You are right about that," she agreed. "Absolutely."

  Carlton straightened. "Let's go," he said, and led the way into the office.

  The interior was still musty and closed feeling. The police, in their investigation, had disturbed little on the first floor. The place looked much like it had on their first visit, Cilla reflected. But this time they had reinforcements. Fargo was on his best behavior, alert and sniffing, but not being playful. He knew he was working, and he was acting the part.

  "Where is the door to the lower level?" Paxton asked, breaking the silence.

  Cilla looked toward him. In the murky light, with his eyes glittering and his dark clothes making him disappear into the blackness, he looked a little otherworldly. She thought again about how little they knew about the man and made a mental note to have Smith do some in depth research. If this guy was continuing to act as a partner, she needed to know more about him.

  "I looked at some plans," Smith replied. "I think the stairs are this way." He led them down a hallway bypassing half a dozen closed doors which may have been offices and stopped at the last door on the left. The handle for this one was different, and it was an overall heavier door, more utilitarian. It also looked newer, and Cilla wondered if it had been replaced in the last several years, or at least the last decade. Smith moved with confidence, grabbing the handle and pulling the door wide.

  The stench from below was unpleasant as it wafted up the stairs. It smelled damp and moldy, and Cilla covered her mouth and nose with her hand. There was something unnatural about the smell, and she realized alarms were starting to sound in her subconscious. She glanced down at her canine companion and thought Fargo looked like he was alarmed as well, his ears pricked, snout in the air.

  "That does not seem good," she muttered from behind her fingers.

  "Smells damp. Perhaps they have some water leaks," Paxton observed. He tilted his head, and the loop in his earlobe caught the light.

  "Not a great thing,” Carlton said darkly. “And it’s strong. Shouldn’t be this bad, should it?”

  To Cilla’s relief, she noticed the stink was abating slightly, but she soon became aware of something else. She looked down to see if Fargo was registering it. The line of fur along his back was spiking, his ears pricked, his muscular body taut. She felt reassured that he was affirming her innate senses. There was something wrong here.

  Smith, who had his own recognition of the paranormal, had frozen in place. His eyes moved first to Cilla, then to the dog at her side, and again back to her face.

  "We need to wait for a second," he declared, his hand going into his pocket to pull out the cellphone. In a pinch, the sophisticated device could be used in several ways for their paranormal investigation. Cilla wished just now they had some of their other instruments. It would have been good to measure the temperature because she was pretty sure it was dipping down about now. Her eyes darted around the group.

  "What do you hear?" Paxton's voice was quiet, but his tone was tense. He had drawn closer to Cilla, and for all the world looked like he was preparing for a battle, like he was trying to defend her from the unseen intruder.

  "Nothing so far," Cilla responded honestly. It was much more a sensation for her. She ran her hands up her arms, rubbing at the chill, feeling the sensation of a vibratio
n coming.

  She glanced toward Carlton and saw that he was feeling it as well. His eyes had widened, and he was peering around the bare corridor, staring at the doorway to the basement with something close to dread. It wasn't a good feeling, this precursor to a spiritual visitation, but Cilla knew it could be much worse.

  "It's cold in here," Carlton affirmed, his face looking a shade paler.

  "I am getting some recordings," Smith added, his expression flat and precise. He was working now, trying to be clinical and observant, not letting the fear get in his way.

  "Maybe we can talk to the spirit," Cilla said softly.

  "Do an EVP?"

  "A what?" Carlton's voice burst out, his pitch a little higher as he sensed the presence with them.

  "An electronic voice phenomena," Paxton stated from Cilla's elbow. He was close, and Cilla wondered if he actually believed he could physically fight whatever might have been in the basement. "If the spirit has something to say, it might be heard over the recorder."

  “Are you serious? You want to talk to it?” Carlton’s speech had become clipped, panic from the combination of the smell and the sensations eating away at his confidence.

  “We do it all the time,” Cilla said, forcing her tone to be reassuring. “Just listen,” she added.

  Smith held up his cell phone. "Is there anyone here who would like to talk to us?" He waited in silence for a long minute. "Are you here in this building?"

  In the gap between his words, Cilla heard nothing, but after a moment, she noticed Fargo's ears flicker forward. She made a rapid gesture to Smith, and he turned the recorder in the direction of the dog's gaze.

  “Can you tell us your name?” He waited for another couple beats. “We want to help you. Can you tell us what you need?” In the muffled silence, the scent of damp and decay came through clearly on a second waft of air from below.

  Cilla heard it then, the mumbling whispering of a thousand voices gathered into a single drawn out melody. It was the sounds she always heard, the voices of the dead, the words of the lost. She concentrated on the sound, trying in vain to focus on a single voice, to discern the message that she knew they were struggling to convey to her.