Bump in the Night

by Meredith Spies

  Weems shrugged and took another bite of the peach, this time closing his eyes as he sucked at the succulent flesh between his teeth.

  Bastard.

  “Alright, Oscar. Ready?” Jacob didn’t give me time to answer, counting down from three with his fingers in what I thought was a needlessly dramatic bit of posturing. “Action,” he whispered. Even the camera man looked irritated by him.

  Here goes nothin’. “Hendricks House is known for it’s ghosts,” I began, doing my best not to look at Weems fellating the last few bites of that damned peach. “A string of unsolved deaths in the early 1900s have resulted in quite an active location. However, that is not why we’re here.” Jacob was making some weird motion with his hands, either warning me of a large monster about to eat me or he was making mascara face. I couldn’t help my frown as I continued, trying not to get distracted by Jacob’s faces and Weems’ love of stone fruit. “Um. What’s brought us here is the death of Paul Hendricks, born Paul Lacroix. In 1935, a man arrived at Hendricks House, claiming to be the only remaining heir of Matthew Hendricks and the rightful owner of the house and land. He was found dead just days after taking up residence, well before the truth of his claims could be determined. His spirit lingers, violent and angry, a danger to all who stay within these walls.”

  Jacob gestured for the camera to cut. “You need to really sell the scary, Oscar,” he said with a disappointed sigh. “Try and punch it up a little, will ya?”

  Stella approached before I could snap my carefully considered arrangement of two particular words at Jacob. “The storm’s about to get worse,” she murmured. “We might want to try and get as much of the investigation in as we can before it gets too bad, just in case.”

  “We have night vision equipment,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, but, um…” she trailed off, managing to look sheepish and annoyed at the same time. “Well, Ernest says it’s worse when the weather’s bad.”

  “What’s worse?” A loud banging sounded throughout the house. One, two, three times. The fist of a giant knocking on the door. “Oh, right, sorry. My mind was elsewhere, of course he meant the ghosts.”

  Julian’s wide eyes found me. For just a few seconds, he thought maybe… I knew he did. I could see it on his face, that look of fear, of animal back-brain flight about to kick in. But his expression shuttered just as quickly as it had been revealed and he tossed his peach pit into the trash. “I hope that wasn’t that huge oak I saw next to the drive. I can’t imagine what a new roof for this place would cost.”

  I’d like to say I wasn’t disappointed, but I’d be lying.

  We started upstairs. The very top floor. It had never been an attic, even in the original days of the house. Ernest and two of the crew members went outside to check on the giant oak. The weather was turning again, clouds going from dove to steel gray and the wind freshening by the minute. “If that wasn’t the tree,” Weems said as we reached the final flight of steps to the third floor, “something must’ve blown from the roof. That definitely hit the house.”

  “Do you know about poltergeists, Doctor Weems?”

  “They’re here,” he singsonged, mimicking the old movie’s tag line. “Other than that? Not much. Just that there seems to be evidence poltergeist activity is closely associated with pubescent children and, after that, the next largest category of reporters are women undergoing great deals of stress.”

  I stopped on the stairs. He kept going for a few more steps, following the camera man and Ezra. When he looked back to see where I was, I could only grin up at him. “And you didn’t even try to call it bullshit.”

  “It’s been written up in quite a few publications,” he allowed, waiting for me to draw even with him on the stairs. I could hear Ezra talking to the camera guy—Carl? Charles? C…something. They were arguing about the night vision camera, moving further into the low-ceilinged space, away from where Weems and I stood on the steps. He was taller than me, meaning I had to tilt my head a bit to look up at him. I found him looking down, our faces inches apart. There was a quiet, odd little hesitation before he spoke again, rocking back on his heels just a little. “I mean, there’s no actual proof that it’s spirit activity but I’m willing consider the idea that there’s something traumatic going on, on some level, for the people experiencing the activity and maybe it’s manifesting in odd ways.”

  “Like…?” I goaded gently. “Come on, Mister Skeptic. How would you explain disembodied sounds, things being moved about when no one is in the room, lit matches dropping out of thin air?”

  “First of all, that’s Doctor Skeptic—and do not repeat that to Jacob or I’ll have to do a spin off show—and second, lit matches constitute a very small percentage of reported poltergeist activity. The rest can be explained with denial—the family of the focal figure doesn’t want to admit their loved one is acting strangely. Or,” he rushed ahead when I started to put in my two pennies’ worth. “Or, there’s the possibility no one involved is aware, things like the focal figure opening cabinets in their sleep, et cetera.”

  “Or maybe just trying to explain normal forgetfulness or unusual noises as a poltergeist?”

  “There we go,” he smiled, the expression flickering away a moment later. “Why aren’t you trying harder to get me to believe it’s all spooky shit?”

  I tilted my head towards the landing and raised a brow. He nodded and we started up the rest of the steps. “Maybe because it’s not all spooky shit,” I admitted. “Most of the places Ezra and I have investigated had easily explainable phenomena. And people don’t always like to hear that, but I’m not going to lie for the sake of a good story.”

  “Charlie’s about set up,” Ezra called, noticing us at the top of the steps. “I’ve got the meters ready. What do you want to do first?”

  “The usual.”

  “What’s the usual?” Weems asked, making a beeline for the array of equipment Ezra had laid out on the floor near the camera rig. “Are those stud finders?”

  “Handy and cute,” Ezra snarked. “No. These are EMF meters,” he said, touching the first two items. “This is a voice activated digital recorder. And this,” he tapped the last one. “Is my phone. It has an app that can detect infrasonic sound.”

  Weems’ delighted chuckle did funny things to my belly. “Infrasonic sound is one of the current theories regarding reported hauntings,” he said. “Sound too low for us to register but still screws with our brain. It can cause feelings of dread, dizziness—”

  “Yeah, we know.”

  “Don’t be an arse,” I murmured, kneeling on the floor next to our equipment. It put me right at mid-thigh on Weems and I was not going to complain about the view. Ezra grunted but didn’t otherwise respond, checking the batteries on all of the devices while Charlie recorded it.

  “Are you going to use your plumb bob?”

  “My pendulum?” Weems knelt beside me, his eyes never leaving what Ezra was doing. “Not yet. I tend to save that for specific communication needs.” It looked easy, but it was draining to use the pendulum for spirit communication beyond simple yes/no questions. Allowing a spirit channel through me and write with the pendulum and salt was not as exhausting as full channeling but it left me feeling a bit punch-drunk afterward. “If we don’t get anything by the end of tomorrow, I’ll bring it back out,” I added.

  “Using the instruments is easier to track,” Ezra said. He sounded terse but not as bitchy as before. “Something you’ll appreciate, Weems. The data we collect can be analyzed and isn’t just taken on faith.”

  “Excellent.” Weems picked up one of the EMF meters and winced as it shrieked at him. “Christ!”

  “It’s sensitive,” Ezra said, snatching it out of his grasp. “Make sure your phone is off. We need to get some preliminary readings to see how these will react to the camera equipment up here.”

  Weems stood back as Ezra and I went through our usual pre-investigation warm up. Really, I hated using the gadgets and devices but Ezra lov
ed it. His own gift lay in another direction than mine, and while he would easily, readily, put his faith in his own skills, he needed the reassurance of his electronics when it came to mine. I wasn’t offended by it. I really did understand. As much as he was loath to admit it, he feared the unknown represented by ghosts. Being able to feed it through a computer made them a bit less scary to him. Ezra handed me the recorder and rose to his feet. “Right,” I sighed. “We’re going to do this like Charlie’s not here. No offense,” I added. He waved me off, already filming us. “Weems, feel free to ask questions but if I tell you to be quiet, be quiet. It’s not because I don’t want to answer but because I’m listening.”

  “I’ll save all questions till the end.”

  “Good boy.” I avoided Ezra’s gaze. I knew he’d be giving me a look for that one. Weems pushed a lot of my buttons in the attraction department, and I was already planning on how to get him alone for an (innocent) drink later. Even tea would do, or coffee. Something benign, no pressure. Something so I could stare at him a little bit without cameras in the way. “Let’s begin.”

  Ghosts are notoriously recalcitrant. For every story you hear about a chatty specter, there’s easily a dozen who won’t make a peep even if you pull out all the stops. The spirits at Hendricks House seemed to be of the latter persuasion, save for the maid in my room who seemed to be spending her time on earth in a perpetual state of boredom. “Paul Hendricks, ne Lacroix, was found dead in similar circumstances to those of the Hendricks family members in the early 1900s,” Weems said softly from his side of the open area. The entire third floor had been a sort of dormitory for the female servants when the home was originally built, with all but the head cook and Mrs. Hendricks’ personal maid staying in the long, narrow room with the dormer windows. The space had been untouched by the renovations over the years, serving as storage space for the most part until the house was deemed of significant historic value and refurbished to it’s previous glory. That made it easy for us to investigate, thankfully, and was a good spot to start since we could all spread out yet easily stay in contact.

  “How’d you find that out?” Ezra asked just as quietly. He was on my side of the floor, checking for unusual EMF spikes and cold spots. I could feel the racing tingle of a spirit present, but it was a faint and nebulous sensation. Someone just curious, I thought. Or a very weak grasp on this side of the veil, more gone than not.

  “One of the PAs mentioned it before we headed up. The red head.”

  “Karen?” Ezra asked, turning to look at Weems. “The one with all the silver in her face?”

  “No, the one with the ponytail.”

  “Jess. She’s cute.”

  “Jess?” Weems nodded, repeating her name to himself. “Well, Jess, then, told me that tidbit.”

  As glad as I was to see the two of them interacting without Ezra snarling like a hurt beast, I was starting to feel a more insistent pull. “I need a minute.” They fell silent. Even Charlie stopped his shifting about behind the camera, holding still so as not to make the floor creak. The tingling feeling was still faint, but something else was pulling me towards the far side of the room, where the shadows were thickest. “Did we scan here yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Ezra said. I knew he’d been hoping Weems would do it and had put it off himself. He cleared his throat. “Um, I can go ahead and—”

  “No. Just wait.” Charlie was moving slowly towards me, his soft foot falls like elephant stomps as I tried to focus. “Seriously. Just…stop.” Finally. Silence.

  Almost.

  No one else could hear her. The crying was too soft. Even if she’d been alive, it would have been easy to miss the tiny sounds of her sobs, the broken gasps as she tried to calm down. She was just sound, and barely that. Whatever was left of her lingered in the dark corner. The darkness was thicker, almost tangible, wedged where the roof and wall made a tight, low corner. I imagined, at one point, the beds of the youngest servants were tucked into that little nook, children barely old enough to have lost their first teeth being made to work twelve and twenty hour days. But this cry, I knew as soon as I heard it, was no child. This was an adult, this was someone on the edge of breaking into a thousand pieces. “Hello,” I said quietly. “Can you hear me?”

  The crying intensified.

  “My name is Oscar. Would you like to speak with me?”

  Silence.

  Uncomfortable shuffling behind me that could only be Weems. Charlie and Ezra would know how to stay quiet and still for this sort of thing. “Maybe you know about us, what we’re doing here. We’re supposed to find out what happened to a man named Paul.”

  Loud bang, right over head. Singular, heavy.

  “Do you know him?”

  The crying began again, ratcheting up to a wail within seconds. It was deafening, throbbing in my head as her wails grew so loud I had no idea how no one else could hear them. I clutched at my ears but the sound felt like it was echoing inside my skull. The banging resumed, bouncing from wall to wall, frantic fists beating against the wood and plaster until, with a gut-wrenching gasp of a sob, it all stopped.

  Dead silent in a heartbeat.

  “The fuck,” Ezra breathed, rubbing at his breastbone. “Oz, sit down!” He rushed to my side and guided me to the floor. “Jesus, you look like you’re going to faint. Do we have any water up here? Weems, check my bag!”

  “I’m okay. I mean, for certain values of okay. I just… I need a minute. Oh, fuck me, my head.” There was a tug of pain behind my right eye that I knew meant a migraine was at hand.

  Weems crouched next to me on my other side. “Do you need help down the stairs?”

  “Wait,” Ezra said quietly, barely loud enough to be heard. He glanced towards Charlie meaningfully. We were still being recorded.

  Weems’ eyes narrowed but he bit back whatever he’d been about to say. Instead, he rose to his feet and helped me to stand once I was sure I wouldn’t fall over. Charlie had me say for the camera what I’d experienced. They had heard banging, but not as loud as I had. And they hadn’t clocked the crying at all, but Ezra had felt a wave of horrible sadness, like nothing would ever be right again he said.

  “Empathy,” he said when Weem’s gave him a mildly confused look. “I may not hear what they’re saying, but sometimes I can pick up on their feelings.”

  “That…” Weems trailed off. “Okay. Sure.” His lips twisted into a little half-smile that was nothing like the adorable smirk I’d seen on him before. This one chaffed. It reminded me that he was there to poke holes in what I did, something I hadn’t forgotten but had definitely tried to ignore.

  Fuck me, this was going to be a mess later. Weems broke away to peer out of one of the tiny dormer windows at the weather outside. “There’s branches on the lower roof,” he said after a moment. “The banging.”

  “That didn’t sound like branches,” Ezra said. “When the storm is over we can try to recreate it.” They fell into a discussion, surprisingly polite, regarding the accuracy of said recreation.

  A quiet sniffle was nearly lost under their lower voices. Charlie was still focused on the pair of them so I took the opportunity to ease back towards the corner. “Hello?”

  A soft, dull thud sounded from the floor.

  “What fell?” Ezra demanded. He, Weems, and Charlie swung their attention to me. “Are you okay?”

  Shit. She was definitely gone now. Not even the faintest tingle of energy left.“Just checking on something.” Weems swung his phone up, shining the white light in my direction. “Damn it!” I scrambled back, the desiccated body of a mouse dangling from the ceiling near my face. “Not fucking funny,” I muttered, even though I was sure the ghost couldn’t hear me anymore.

  Weems gently pulled me away, sweeping the light around the corner. “Looks like part of the ceiling fell,” he remarked, pointing his phone at a crumbled, moldy pile of plaster at our feet. The hole in the ceiling was barely larger than a doubled up fist, the poor mouse hanging from one
edge by virtue of its curled, mummified foot. “Oh. Huh…” He held the light closer to the hole, one hand still on my arm so I could feel the way a tremor ran through him before he checked himself. “There’s something in here.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Julian

  January 12, 1903

  I hate him.

  January 13, 1903

  How long will it take? Everyone will know soon what he’s done. How can I show my face at the Clairmont’s? And that cow just simpering like her wanted her in the first place.

  I hate them both.

  February 20, 1903

  IhatethemIhatethemIhatethemIhatethemIhatethem.

  I’m cordially invited to attend afternoon tea with Mrs. Hendricks.

  Cordially.

  Cordially invited.

  Mrs. Hendricks.

  And, no doubt Mr. Hendricks, too.

  And that mewling little bastard.

  They think we can’t count.

  “No name, I take it.”

  Baxter answered Jacob before I could. “People don’t often sign their own diaries.”

  I was hyper aware of the camera pointed at my face, cramped as we were in the small, modern office that had been tucked away in the carriage house, the only place that had power at the moment thanks to the noisy generator running behind it. The run over from the house had been an exercise in balance and intestinal fortitude as the rain lashed down in dense sheets, making midday look dark as dusk. “If the historical society’s kept as good of records as they claim, they might have a list of household servants from that time and we could start narrowing down names. The spelling and handwriting are excellent, and based on the penmanship I’d definitely say it’s a woman.”

  “How the Hell can you tell that from the handwriting?” Baxter demanded. I saw a smirk flirt across Jacob’s lips and groaned inwardly. This was going on some sort of a preview reel, I just knew it.