April cried, “You don’t understand. None of you does. That thing is evil. It’s like an enormous black cloud that will suffocate you. The entity — this ghost — warned me something horrific will happen if anyone goes in that bedroom!”
“Where’s Michael?” Marisol asked. “He was next to me five minutes ago. He said the room looked normal to him. God, did he go in that room?”
The moment Julien realized he was missing, he said, “He’s in trouble!” and ran into the bedroom. Landry started after him, but Cate grabbed his sleeve.
“No, Landry. Call out to him, but don’t you dare go inside!”
Shadows filled the dark bedroom until the crew moved cameras and lights into the doorway and turned them on. The room was flooded with light.
There were sounds, perhaps a muffled conversation, and Landry yelled, “Julien, I can’t see you! Did you find Michael?”
“Dear God. Oh God, yes, I found him.” Julien’s head appeared through the heavy mosquito netting that hung down and covered every side of the bed.
“Are you in the bed?”
He crawled out and turned toward them, to a collective gasp.
“Julien, what happened?”
“What happened? I don’t know. It’s not my fault. I didn’t want this!”
“Julien, you’re covered in blood! Come out. Hurry!”
He didn’t move, and Landry shouted, “I’m going in to get him!”
April screamed, “No! You’ll be next!”
Henri and Cate pulled Landry back. “Listen to her,” he said. “You might die. Whatever’s in there has enormous power. My instrument readings are off the chart. April’s right. The spirits in that room are hell-bent on destroying us.”
“What about Julien? And Michael?”
“Paranormal energy fields this strong come in bursts, like a power surge. When it decreases, you and I will run in and get them. I’ll watch the readings. Be ready; when I tell you to go, we must move before the field starts up again.”
The group waited anxiously for almost two minutes while Henri looked at his dials. “It’s subsiding now,” he said. “Get ready, Landry. Five, four, three, two, one. Go!”
Cameras rolled as they ran to the bed. Henri took Julien’s arm and led him back toward the others as Landry ripped the netting. The others couldn’t see what he did, but his shout of alarm was terrifying.
Henri yelled, “Get out! The energy’s rising again and you only have a few seconds!”
As he dashed to the door, Landry hit something on the floor. It rolled away as he flew through the doorway like a quarterback diving into the end zone. He fell to the floor, and Cate dropped to his side.
“Did you see Michael? Do you have to go back and get him?”
“He’s in there,” Landry said as tears ran down his cheeks. “He’s in the bed, but we’re too late to save him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s dead, Cate. He’s covered in blood. Somebody…somebody…” He glanced at Julien but knew he hadn’t had time to kill Michael.
Cate said, “How’s that possible? He was only inside for a few minutes.”
“That was long enough for somebody to do their work. The thing on the floor I hit? The thing that rolled away?”
“Oh my God!” Cate screamed. “What are you saying?”
“That was his head. I kicked it like a soccer ball.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
No one would consider Lafourche Parish a hotspot of felonious activity, and news of another mysterious death at Proctor Hall got everybody’s attention. From the coffee drinkers at Spahr’s in Thibodaux to the mudbug fishermen in Cut Off, all people talked about was the old house, the massacre, that girl who vanished twenty years ago, and whether Noah Proctor lay in wait for his next victim.
He’s at it again, residents said, vowing they wouldn’t set foot on that plantation if you paid them money. It was a haunted, evil place. Everybody knew that. Kid killed his entire family — cut their damned heads off — and should have gone to the chair for it. Instead, they put him in a place where high-powered shrinks checked him out, and then he ended up right back at the house to do his deeds again.
The sheriff got a lot of pressure. The head of the state police called to say the governor sure would appreciate a quick disposition of this one. If the sheriff needed help, he’d send state cops down. That wouldn’t be necessary, he said, as he was determined to solve this one without the state intervening. He put every man on the case and held daily updates.
The facts of the case were baffling. Fourteen people stood in the hall outside a bedroom while someone decapitated a college student. Interviewers talked to each witness, and their accounts matched. Their records were above reproach. A noted TV personality and his camera crew. A tenured university professor and three students. The head of a state paranormal society. A prominent Texas psychiatrist and his daughter. The sheriff compared it to an Agatha Christie novel where everybody appears honest, but one of them’s a killer. One thing he knew for sure — that boy didn’t kill himself.
The deputies dissected what few facts they gathered. One bedroom contained “negative energy,” or so claimed a young psychic girl with a Ouija board and a man with a bunch of ghost-busting equipment. The girl said someone would die if they set foot in there. A muscular college football player ignored them and entered. Minutes later, when people realized what he’d done, a distinguished Tulane professor entered and found him decapitated in a bed.
Famous paranormal investigator Landry Drake followed, dodging some supernatural energy field. The death affected him, especially after he accidentally kicked the kid’s head across the room as he ran out.
This was one hell of a strange case with a diversified cast of characters, the sheriff said. Fourteen witnesses, all standing less than twenty feet from a bed with a mattress covered in blood, saw and heard nothing except for the professor, who emerged from mosquito netting in blood-soaked clothes.
During her interview, April explained what the “entity” had told her through the Ouija board. She seemed on the verge of tears at times and said she blamed herself. If she hadn’t agreed to return and contact the spirit world, none of this would have happened.
A senior investigator interviewed Landry, and his story was the same. His interrogation lasted less than fifteen minutes.
Julien Girard wasn’t as lucky. He seemed confused and claimed to remember nothing about finding the boy, even though his blood was on Julien’s hands and clothes.
Every witness listened to the words, “It’s not my fault. I didn’t want this,” but Julien didn’t remember saying them. The medical examiner believed he was in shock. People who observed horrific events — or did them — sometimes experienced temporary amnesia. It was the brain’s way of coping with the situation.
The sheriff asked Julien to come to his office in Thibodaux that afternoon. Trembling, he asked if they were going to arrest him and worried he would lose his job at the university. He begged the officers to believe him.
The sheriff said if there was nothing to hide, there was also nothing to fear.
As an active crime scene, Proctor Hall buzzed with activity. When the power came back on around midnight, the sheriff allowed the film crew to remove their lights and equipment. Officers talked to every witness again, hoping someone’s story would change just slightly and give them an opening.
Around two, the cops finished with them, and Landry drove Henri, Cate and Doc back to New Orleans. Henri fell asleep in seconds; Landry was dead tired too and thankful the rain had subsided to a few sprinkles. Cate’s dad offered to drive, but Landry said he’d be fine.
Cate said, “How could someone kill Michael in the bed minutes after we saw him? As big as he was, couldn’t he stop them? They decapitated him, for God’s sake. He would have fought like crazy. Surely we would have heard something.”
Landry hoped the authorities would find something to explain it, but he also reminded them th
e house was haunted. April’s Ouija board experience had revealed an entity buried somewhere inside. The spirit called it “my house” and therefore might have been a Proctor. He hadn’t turned up any burial records for the family. Could one still be in the house?
Doc said, “We haven’t even begun to unravel the secrets, but because we started looking, a boy is dead. If we hadn’t gone tonight, or if Julien Girard hadn’t given an assignment to those three kids, or if they hadn’t chosen the house — Michael would be alive right now. I feel responsible.”
“Dad, you’re looking at it backwards,” Cate said. “If Michael hadn’t gone off on his own, he’d be alive. April told us not to go in the bedroom, and Landry tried to keep Julien out. Everything you brought up explains how the awful thing happened, but we didn’t do it.”
Landry said, “It’s a tragic loss. It’s incomprehensible how we went from exploring the house to a brutal murder in seconds. Whoever did this is copying the Proctor Hall Massacre. It might be the same killer, but the math doesn’t support it. That person would be too old to decapitate a muscular young man. Even Noah Proctor doesn’t fit. He was fourteen in 1963 when his family was murdered. He was never charged, but even if he murdered them, and he’s been back at the house since the eighties, he’d be well over seventy years old.
“Who killed Michael — something supernatural or a living person who’s hiding there? We must go back when we can, because it may be up to us to learn how Michael died. The cops have to look at it pragmatically. They can’t consider the paranormal as a possibility, but we can. Doc, it’s your house. I want permission to go back to Proctor Hall.”
“We’re all tired,” Doc said as they passed the Superdome. “Let’s get some sleep and talk in the morning.”
Three miles behind Landry’s Jeep, Marisol was at the wheel of Julien’s Toyota. Eyes closed, April sat next to her, and Julien was curled up in the back seat, trying to sleep. Exhausted and grateful he wasn’t in jail right now, he had accepted Marisol’s offer to drive.
He had to be at the sheriff’s office in Thibodaux that afternoon. There would be tough, intense questions about things that had no logical answers. This time he had gone too far. Despite knowing the potential danger, over the years he’d encouraged dozens of students to poke around there. They saw unexplainable phenomena — how could they not have? — but none discovered the story behind the hauntings.
“Dr. Girard, April, it’s time to wake up,” Marisol said as she pulled into the campus parking lot where they’d met up earlier. She asked April if she was okay walking to her dorm from here.
She nodded and gathered her things. “I’m exhausted. I just want to get some sleep now.”
Marisol walked to her apartment a block from campus. She was tired, but her mind raced. How awful it had been — but how exciting at the same time — to be involved in a mystery that defied explanation. She didn’t know Michael before becoming his teammate, and although she was saddened at the tragic loss of life and how it happened, she was eager to learn more. Landry Drake wouldn’t stop now, and she vowed to be by his side when he went back to Proctor Hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
While Julien drove to Thibodaux for his meeting with the sheriff, Cate, Landry and Doc sat in Henri’s office on Toulouse Street that occupied the second floor of a haunted French Quarter building featured in Landry’s most recent Bayou Hauntings television documentary.
They came to discuss what was next for Proctor Hall. At noon, Cate had received a call from the parish sheriff. The cops had finished but had no way to lock up. Landry said he’d take care of it.
After a night’s sleep, Doc said he was open to further investigation at the house but wondered if it was worth the risk. Henri said he’d analyzed the data he’d collected, and his instruments recorded levels of paranormal energy unlike any he’d seen. He hoped to return and conduct more research.
Doc smiled. “How about you, Landry? I’ll bet your opinion is the same as Henri’s. More investigating, more camera crews, more everything until we figure it out.”
He nodded. “You know me well.”
“When are you thinking of going back?” Doc asked, and Henri said the sooner the better. Paranormal activity levels fluctuated over time, and they understood how intense things were at the moment. “I wonder if April’s up for another Ouija board session,” he added.
Cate said, “Henri! I’m surprised at you. Would you put her through that again?”
“For the sake of saving others? Yes, I would.”
Doc asked how he’d ensure her safety, and Henri replied, “Not to sound flippant, but I can’t ensure my safety when I walk out on Royal Street. At any point, half the people driving in the Quarter wouldn’t pass a breathalyzer. Of course we must be careful. We need April at Proctor Hall because she’s our conduit to the other world. I’m confident we can conduct another session without undue risk.”
Cate disagreed, Landry said Henri sounded more like him every day, and Doc said he’d go along with whatever the experts recommended. The majority ruled, and Landry asked if Cate would contact April about going back.
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Landry? Hell no, I won’t. I’m the only one here who thinks this is a bad idea. Henri, you ask her. I’ll be there to help you guys when you get in trouble, but I’m not burdening my conscience by asking her to go back after what happened.”
Henri said, “Get her contact information for me, please. I’ll make the call.”
Sixty miles to the southwest, Julien Girard sat in an interrogation room. Across the table were the senior investigator from earlier and another cop. The investigator introduced him as Lieutenant Harry Kanter and said he would run today’s interview.
Julien hadn’t expected to see the state police involved, and he asked why. Kanter explained, “Parish authorities ask us for help on special situations and unusual cases. I think you’d agree this one qualifies on both counts.”
Kanter seemed good-natured, but Julien warned himself to be careful. This man wasn’t his friend. He was here to solve a crime, one that Julien was in the big middle of.
After a few preliminary questions, the lieutenant asked about Julien’s connection with Landry Drake. It was an easy answer. They both knew a man named Henri Duchamp, through whom he’d met Landry a few weeks ago.
Kanter asked where they met, and Julien replied it was at Proctor Hall. He described their first meeting and how he’d joined Landry and Henri for a tour of the property.
“Let me be sure I understand. You’re saying you never met Landry Drake prior to your recent introduction to him at Proctor Hall?”
“That’s correct.”
“Does the name Andrew Arnaud mean anything to you?”
Andy? “Uh, sure. Andy is — was, I should say — one of my students.”
“And why do you say he was a student?”
“Because…because of what happened to him. He had some kind of psychotic episode and wasn’t able to return to school.”
“And where did he have this episode?”
“At Proctor Hall.”
“You have vast knowledge about that old house, don’t you, Dr. Girard? Would it be fair to say you’re an authority on it?”
Julien stumbled on his reply. “I wouldn’t go that far. I find the stories fascinating, so I’ve spent time researching it. For my classes on Louisiana culture, that is. There are a lot of things that happened there —”
Kanter interrupted. “Like the Proctor Hall Massacre and a girl who disappeared in the nineties? Are those the kinds of things you’re referring to?”
In a subtle shift, the cop’s tone had gone from cordiality to a no-nonsense line of questioning that was intrusive and harsh. He struggled to avoid making a mistake. “I was referring to the paranormal things people claim to have experienced,” he answered.
Kanter closed the tablet on which he’d been taking notes and said, “Dr. Girard, I want you to take a ride with me. Up to headquarters in B
aton Rouge. I’d like you to submit to a polygraph examination. It’s strictly voluntary. You can say no, but often clearing the air on things helps both of us. If everything goes well, I’ll have you back here by six.”
A lie detector? Chills went down Julien’s spine. He’d heard horror stories about innocent people getting flustered and flunking a polygraph.
“Before I agree, I’d like to know why you want it and if I need to call a lawyer.”
“You claim to remember nothing about lying in a bed with a decapitated body, your clothes and hands covered in the victim’s blood. You’re a respected member of the academic community, Dr. Girard, and perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation about your involvement. I just can’t figure out what it is, and you can’t remember enough to help me. Or so you claim.
The Proctor Hall Horror Page 8
