Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
About the Author
THE SHEM BAY HAUNTING
∞
ROBIN G. AUSTIN
Kindle Edition
© 2017 Robin G. Austin. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic or electronic process or by photographic recordings nor stored in a retrieval system transmitted or otherwise copied for public or private use including words and illustrations, other than brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews, without written consent of the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Reference to brands, media and trademarks are used fictitiously and under the fair use doctrine.
The Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Series
The Roxbury Haunting
The Cathville Haunting
The Shem Bay Haunting
The Eton Bluff Haunting (June 2017)
Prologue
§
March 18, 1977
Sopron, Győr
“I’ve come for one of your potions,” the girl said.
The old man smiled and put his hand to his chest. He had been waiting so long for her to come to him, another innocent to set free. Another minion in his army. It was time to touch her soul and steal her fate.
“Of course. I have just the potion for you, my chosen one. Your burdens are now lifted, your path made clear, your purpose determined.”
“What?” she whispered, with wide eyes. “A chosen one? Will I grow up to marry a rich man? Live in a palace? Have servants who look after me? Tell me, please.”
“Much, much better than all three. You will suffer beyond hope. Your belly will go empty, your home will be the streets, your skin will become leather.”
She turned to leave but the old man stopped her. “I have all those things and want none of them,” she said, and struggled from his grip.
“Let me finish.” He released his hold. “When you are ready to lie down and die, you will rise up with the strength of a thousand. You will travel across the ocean. You will meet a man who will need you beyond all others. Because of you, the man will grow very rich. He will live as a King and bring you into his home to tend to his needs.”
“And my needs? What about my needs?”
“Hush. You will no longer have needs. By then you will come to know your purpose. A purpose far greater than earthbound creatures.”
“I am destined to become a Queen?” she asked, with stars in her eyes.
“More than a mere Queen,” he answered. “One by one others will fall away. It will only be you who remains, and everything you could ever imagine will be yours. Stay strong as you will be tested by one who will try to destroy you. Guard yourself with the cloak of righteousness, but in your mind curse the pious.”
The old man dropped six tiny black eggs into a gold bottle before sealing it with wax and string. One for the man and one for each who would stand in her way.
“Come,” he said to the girl. “Take this bottle and guard it with your life. When you are victorious, throw it in the wild, raging sea so it can return to me for another.”
She took the bottle and he smiled and said, “From this moment forward, lidérc létezik -ben önt.”
Chapter One
§
Today, I’m doing a podcast with the Alberta Paranormal Research Institute. I was excited about doing it until I found out the Institute is in some guy’s garage– actually, his parents’ garage.
Still the guy, Randy, has a website and traffic that occasionally sees it. Now I’m just excited that it’s free advertising: thirty minutes of me answering ghost questions in exchange for my ad on the Institutes’ site for a month.
When I check my email, I see that the ad I had made for Randy’s site has arrived, and just in time. I decided after my last job in Cathville, Arkansas, which paid nicely, that I’d splurge for a more professional looking ad. I lack the patience with Photoshop to ever get beyond good enough. I’m not disappointed in the designer’s work; I just don’t get the ghost vibe I was hoping for.
The graphic artist convinced me to go with a Navajo theme. “Use who and what you are to your advantage,” she’d said. We did business over Skype. She had green hair and four facial piercings, including a giant ring through her nose. I’m not sure what advantage she was using, but she did manage to sell me the design.
In the ad, I’m standing with my arms folded across my chest looking dangerous or just unpleasant. My partner, Mojo the wolfdog, is beside me, also looking dangerous and as usual, unpleasant. We’re staring into the New Mexico mountains, at what I don’t know because we were standing in my friend Char’s living room when she took the photo the designer requested.
Besides the background, the woman added my business name, Raven Eradications, in big purple font at the top– a spiritual vibe. At the bottom she listed Apparitions, Shadow Beings, Ecto-mists, Poltergeists, and my phone number.
Good enough, but I wish I had opted for a graveyard background. Those who are haunted seem to relate to that scene best. I’m thinking I can squeeze in a headstone or two without messing things up too much.
With the influx of ghost hunting TV shows, competition in the business of helping the haunted has been brutal lately. It’s been over two months since my last job so I’m hoping someone who’s being tormented by an earthbound spirit calls soon.
The thought of someone calling has me checking my phone again. I feel like a teenager, and I don’t like anything about that feeling. I’m not checking for clients. I’m checking for a call from Clayton Acker, the Texan detective I spent five fun-filled days with in the Colorado Rockies three weeks ago.
We had a good time; I kind of wish we were still having a good time, but the miles between us put a damper on that possibility. Neither of us is moving anytime soon so I need to stop checking to see if he’s changed his mind. For now, we’re doing a weekly phone call– testing the waters without diving in.
I make myself a cup of green chai tea and start setting up for the podcast. I’ve long since accepted that I have to play the part of the brazen psychic medium who banishes ghosts with gusto. I spread out a Navajo blanket on my desk– going with the designer’s just-be-me theme– and load it up with smudge sticks, sh
ells, feathers, and my clueless crystal ball.
Thirty minutes before Randy’s scheduled call, Mojo starts looking around then he stands as still as stone– his ghost pose. I can’t believe my luck. The ghost tracker has sensed a spirit in the house at the perfect time.
“Hello, Neil?”
I close my eyes and try to tune into the spirit of Neil Franklin, my very own resident ghost. Neil is shy or he’s having a difficult time connecting with the living– that is me. The man, who was alive when I first met him, was supposed to be my online tarot card client just before I got the job in Arkansas.
He gave me the name Anna then he was a no-show. The morning after I returned from Cathville, two unfriendly FBI agents showed up at my door, took my computer, and told me Anna was a man and the man was dead. They never revealed how they knew Neil had contacted me or how they knew I was back in town.
A few days later an agent returned my computer, and he was looking way too nervous considering his profession. He was acting like I had bugs and refused to come inside my house or answer questions about what happened to Neil. I got the feeling a copy of my hard drive was turned over to some paranormal group in the CIA.
If the agent had come inside, I might have told him that Neil has been hanging around. Might have, but probably not. Besides having a bug phobia, he didn’t seem the type to entertain such a possibility. I’ll wait until the CIA comes calling, but there’s no guarantee I’ll be giving up the ghost. Neil’s a less than dependable roommate.
He was here when I returned from Cathville but stopped communicating shortly afterwards. I came to believe that he’d moved on and didn’t need my assistance after all. Mojo– half wolf, full time ghost tracker– is telling me he’s back or some other spirit is here.
Don’t think badly of me, but I’m hoping it’s Neil and that he’ll join me on the podcast. I’ll get out my Ouija board and make contact; the podcast will go viral. Dollar signs are lighting up my eyes when Mojo grunts and lies down. I get the vibe that Neil just read my greedy mind.
When my new business line rings, I think it’s my lucky day until I see it’s from a private number, also known as a marketer’s sales call. I’ve had the number two weeks now, and they’ve flocked to it like roaches on day old pastry.
“Jack Raven. Raven Eradications,” I say. I’m testing a professional but hard-nosed intro to scare them off. It seems to be working. “Hello?”
“Yes, hello.”
It’s a man and he’s whispering. At first I think it’s Neil testing a new way to communicate.
“Is this a legitimate service or some kind of scam?”
I start to say I was thinking he was the scammer, but the whisperer isn’t waiting for my reply.
“I’m dealing with a situation. I don’t believe in the supernatural, and I think you’re probably a con artist. I’m running out of options, so tell me— I’ll call you back.”
People these days have zero common courtesy. I blame it on social media. Nothing’s off limit, nothing’s too ill-mannered including calling someone a con artist and hanging up on them.
The Skype screen rings and it’s Randy. Before I answer, I yell, “Hey, Neil. You want to join us on the podcast today? You can tell the world your side of your story since the FBI men aren’t talking.” The house is silent so I give up and answer the call, “Hi, Randy.”
“Bonjour, Jock,” the barely past junior high looking Canadian says, with a big grin. “Sorry, I’m not Randy. He had an emergency. No worries though. I’m his business partner, and I’ll be doing the podcast today. I’ve done almost four so far, so just relax and let’s get to it, eh?”
“Okay, that works. What’s your name?”
“Oh, yeah,” he laughs. “It’s Neil here with ya.”
Chapter Two
§
The podcast started fifteen minutes late due to my having to switch from my desktop computer to my laptop. Liquids, including chai green tea, and keyboards don’t mix.
I’d asked the kid if he’d ever had any run-ins with the FBI and got icy silence. Then I got a shaky and unconvincing no. I just hope Neil– the dead or living one– had nothing to do with Randy’s emergency.
Overall, my doing the podcast was time well spent. The still living Neil asked intelligent questions and didn’t once ask if I’d ever encountered a poltergeist. I haven’t, but I have met enough dark spirits in my day to know I hope I never will.
Unlike most things on television, what they show about poltergeists pales in comparison to the real thing. This is according to my grandmother, Maybelle, who doesn’t even own a television.
I email my new ad to Randy’s address, and Neil responds back that he’ll put it on the website as soon as he gets the login information. The vagueness of just when that will be concerns me, but apparently Randy’s emergency is going to take some time.
I’m in the middle of getting ready to go to Lacey’s Diner for dinner when my phone rings again. It’s another private number and I’m thinking about cancelling my business line. My finger hovers, my stomach growls.
I’m used to a fair share of bogus inquiries. In my line of work, I get more than a few callers who are just pranksters and an equal number who are just psychos. Despite my empty belly, my gut is telling me to answer.
“Hello,” I say, skipping the professional greeting.
I get a long exhale in my ear. “Yes, I called earlier today. I’m interested in your services.” He hesitates when saying services. I’m sensing doubt and confusion and a short conversation.
“I recently moved into a new home and… well, my daughter, she says there may be some… abnormal activity in the house.”
I’ve got my eyes closed hoping to sense more between the cell towers. He’s definitely nervous and nervous is good. Someone with a ghost problem should be nervous. Plus, he sounds somewhat sane, so far.
“How about you? Have you noticed any activity?”
“I…. I’d like to know more about your experience, your credentials before we discuss anything further.”
Being used to nonbelievers, I launch into my usual spiel about my Navajo ancestry, my psychic grandmother, my twenty plus years communicating with the dead, my YouTube video, and my money back guarantee– the one detail that usually silences the most hardened skeptics. It seems to do nothing for the guy.
“Any references?” he asks.
“All my work’s confidential. Most people prefer it that way.” This I can sense relaxes him, but I don’t even hear him breathing anymore.
Then he’s breathing and wanting to know exactly what I’ll be doing in his home, how long it will take, and if it will involve war paint ceremonies.
Seriously? I’m back to thinking this is a prank call, so I give vague answers and skip the comment about war paint.
Most people who have a ghost in the house want me to listen to their stories– in blow-by-blow detail. The caller, who still hasn’t given me his name, isn’t telling me anything. I feel like I’m being interviewed all over again, but not even Neil asked these types of questions. I’m wondering if the caller is a blogger who wants to write a scandalous post on me or worse, a novice competitor who is trying to educate himself.
My stomach is growling again and my patience is running out. “Why don’t you think over what I told you, um…. I’m sorry, you didn’t give me your name.” I figure this will put a quick end to the conversation.
“Yes, well it’s difficult.” He pauses, and I start to tell him to call me back when it’s not so difficult, but I don’t get that far.
“My name is Dr. Douglas Pratt.” This he says like it really should mean something to me. I search my memory banks and come up penniless. Apparently, my silence prompts him to tell me he’s a highly respected orthopedic surgeon in Oregon.
Awe, yes. That’s the reason I couldn’t get a read on the man. Nothing blocks the soul’s true brilliance and purpose on this earth more powerfully than the lowly ego. The good doctor is doing all he can t
o not let that shiny shield slip away.
“If anyone– my patients, colleagues, the hospital board– if anyone found out about this. Well, the consequences would be dire. I’ve invested over twenty years in my profession. I can’t allow it to be damaged by a charlatan who’s only interested in my money.”
This guy is quite the charmer. I’ve never been accused of having a nurturing disposition and despite the charlatan dig, I still manage to get out that I appreciate his position and concerns. I assure him that I’m legit and that I too have invested years in my profession, though I can tell this doesn’t impress him.
After groveling as much as my stubborn nature allows, I tell him to think it over and call me back. As my stomach growls again, I think about what I’ll have when I get to the diner. Mojo’s apparently thinking the same thing as he walks in and out of my office.
“I’m not sure I can do this. What else can I do though?”
I can tell he’s pacing now, and I know I’m not getting off the phone quite yet. While he mumbles more about his brilliant career, I go to the kitchen, grab a banana, and toss Mojo a biscuit. He follows me back to my office, drops it by my chair, and walks out of the room.
I can’t follow the doctor’s pride parade any longer so I cut in. “Doctor, what kind of activities are you experiencing?”
He starts to answer then stops. I didn’t forget that he told me it was his daughter who had encountered the abnormal activity, but I wasn’t buying that ploy. He exhales again and clears his throat; I think he’s sat down somewhere to come clean.
“There are no activities,” he says, like I’m his elementary school principal. “It’s a figure, a shadow. By his size and shape, I presume it’s… it was a man, an old man.”
I’m excited. An actual manifestation seen by a nonbeliever. Wonderfully rare. I have a dozen questions, but I sense Pratt’s getting more comfortable talking to me so I don’t interrupt.
“When we moved into the house three months ago, Mackenzie, my daughter, reported incorporeal matter that transmuted into a diaphanous vapor.”
Incorporeal matter? Diaphanous vapor? How old is this kid? I don’t ask since he’s still talking.
The Shem Bay Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 3) Page 1
