I pull the apron off her head. “What happened? Did you fall? Pass out? Do you need a doctor?”
“Lidérc,” she answers.
“Yeah, let’s not keep doing that, okay? I’m no chicken, no devil, no demon.”
“No niece,” she says, and sticks her tongue out at me.
“I play one on TV so close enough. What happened? And don’t say lidérc again without explaining what you mean.”
Jankovic shakes her head and points upstairs. At this rate, I’ll be here a month.
“You think there’s a demon in the house? Upstairs? In Dr. Pratt’s bedroom?”
She grabs her apron from me and puts it back over her head.
“Fine,” I say. I’ve probably already broken Pratt’s privacy rule in asking her questions. With my eyes closed, I try to sense the woman’s energy. Still blocked, perhaps by her superstitions. “Hide all you want. I’ve got work to do.”
“You be gone.” This she says through the apron.
“Yep, I’ll be gone soon. Try to stay upright. The less you interfere, the sooner I’ll be totally gone.”
I go back upstairs and return to Dr. Pratt’s bedroom. The first thing I notice besides how easily the door opens, is how much warmer it is in the room. Temperature fluctuation is a clear sign of a spirit’s presence. I’d only sensed residual energy from Pratt’s argument, and Mojo was clueless too. Interesting.
I try again, but after several minutes I’m getting nothing at all, so I go down the hall to Mackenzie’s bedroom. Unlike Pratt’s room, Mackenzie’s is full of mischievous cheer.
I had attempted to get information about the house’s history from Pratt, but the man was tight-lipped over the phone. After my sherry last night, any hope of coherently questioning him was lost.
What he revealed was his purchase of the house from an elderly man who moved to a nursing home. The man’s wife had passed some time prior to his putting the house on the market. Pratt couldn’t recall his name. I need to know if the old man’s still alive and if not, if he’s returned to reclaim the house.
I’d suggested to the doctor that children are especially susceptible to the influences of negative forces. Pridefully, Pratt dismissed my theory as nonsense. He’d said Mackenzie is gifted; eleven years old with a genius IQ, as if this fact would shield her. He’d said she has a healthy curiosity about this phenomenon, which she affectionately refers to as the shadow man– a rather light-hearted nom de plume. Their humor escapes me.
Mackenzie had insisted the house be tested for carbon monoxide to rule out the possibility of mind altered hallucinations. Pratt complied with her request despite the fact that no one in the house had experienced any physical symptoms. No poisonous gases were found. She has other theories, none of which Pratt wanted to elaborate on.
So far, the activity he described doesn’t indicate a poltergeist. I’m not particularly swayed by his assertion that the apparition looked like him. This peculiarity was more likely due to fear since Pratt is clearly alive.
I spend time in Mackenzie’s bedroom without so much as a tingle or blood curdling scream from downstairs. Then I go to the girl’s playroom. The photo didn’t do it justice. It’s a cross between a science and computer lab. No dolls or teddy bears or other girlie toys in sight. I wonder what the little genius is cooking up.
When my stomach starts growling, I head back to the guest house, whose kitchen I discovered is fully stocked. First though, I stop to check on Jankovic. I hear her in Pratt’s study– singing. From the sound of it, she’s thrown back a few sherries.
“Mrs. Jankovic,” I say, after tapping on the open door. “Are you feeling better?”
“You go now?” she says.
“Yes, but not far. I’m stopping for lunch. I’ll be back though so don’t get too excited.”
She laughs too loud and long. I’m not sure what’s got her in such a good mood. Five minutes of her time to find out what is going on in the house could save me hours of research. I’m not buying her collapse at the bottom of the stairs or the apron over the head bit.
I start to go, hesitate, and turn back. “Did you happen to work for the home’s former owners?” I ask, knowing Pratt said she’s been his employee for years.
She’s busy acting like she’s dusting. “No. I work for Dr. Pratt. I work. No talk. You go now.” She turns her back to me.
I’m heading for the front door when I hear her yell, “No dog.”
“He’s a wolf,” I yell back, and slam the door.
After a sandwich, I walk along the cliff in the direction of Pratt’s nearest neighbor. The wind is cold, but it has stopped raining. This isn’t the Pacific Ocean I had in mind.
It’s a good ten minute walk to the nearest house in the development where I see an old man tending to his shrubbery. As soon as he sees me, he does a wide arcing wave. Mojo has picked up a critter scent and is lagging behind.
I wave back and hurry in his direction; a friendly face in a sea of crabs. I hope he’s willing to chat about his former neighbors.
We exchange introduction: Martin Beck, a retired dentist; me, the niece of a prominent orthopedic surgeon. I do a long spiel about being a history buff and start quizzing him on the town. Martin’s got his own questions, and it doesn’t take long to learn that he isn’t a fan of Dr. Douglas Pratt.
He invites me inside for coffee even after the wolfdog shows up. I get the feeling I’m not the only one with an agenda here. I’m willing to trade tales since mine are fully concocted by Pratt who gave me a laundry list of things I would need to be aware of about him.
Martin’s lived in Shem Bay for sixty three years, and he hasn’t missed much when it comes to what goes on here. He’s single; this he says with a wink. I start to laugh when bile rushes to my throat.
“My uncle’s had a difficult time since he lost, my uhm, aunt,” I say, playing the sympathy card for the man.
Martin grins. My senses feel muddled. I’ve never been good at lying. I am good at changing the subject though.
“What do you know about my uncle’s house? I’m sure it has a fascinating history. I’m thinking about writing a book on old homes. Did the former owners have the house built? It doesn’t look that old.”
“A book?” He laughs like I’m a very amusing girl. I feel his shoe against my leg and more bile in my throat.
“Let’s see. The Collins weren’t the first owners. You can probably find more information online than I can give you.”
“I’m sure I can find information, but the real history of a place comes from the people who know it firsthand. I understand from my uncle that Mr. Collins went to a nursing home. Do you happen to know which one?”
Martin seems bored and gets up for a plate of cookies. As he sets it on the table, he brushes my hand. A fat tabby has come into the kitchen and hisses at Mojo who is glaring at Martin.
“Joe’s over in Tyler at the retirement home. Can’t recall the name off hand. Be easy enough to find it online. I’m sure he’d like the company. All us lonely old men enjoy the company of a pretty woman. Most of us aren’t like Pratt who has a full house of women to tend to his needs.” Martin grins and eats a cookie.
I feel the bugs in his brain crawling up my spine. He puts his hand on my arm and does this creepy rubbing action with his thumb. “You’re not really Dr. Pratt’s niece, are you?”
“Now why would you ask a question like that?” I say, leaning in. He moves his hand and smiles. “Could it be because I’m not as fair skinned as my uncle? Or are you suggesting something else?”
Martin moves his chair back and shrugs. “It’s not any of my business why you’re here. Not any more so than it’s my business who all the others are. You just don’t seem like the rest of them.”
“Exactly how do the rest of them seem, Dr. Beck? I’m curious. Explain it to me.”
The old man’s eyes are darting around, seeing everything but me. His flabby cheeks are scarlet red. Mojo has gone to stand beside him. The tabby has ru
n out of the room.
“Thank you for your time and the coffee.” I stand up and push in the chair while I lean over it. “You know the thing I like most about researching the places I go, Martin?” He doesn’t answer.
“No ideas? It’s because I get to meet all kinds. Sometimes people are really nice. Sometimes they’re so foolish you wonder how it is that they manage to stay alive.”
Chapter Twelve
§
After leaving slimeball Martin, I run behind Mojo back to the guest house in the pouring rain. The man was older than my dad. My dad already, a man who’s embarrassed to tell me he’s dating after being a widower for over twelve years. It takes all kinds to muck up the world. Martin’s definitely a mucker upper.
When I’m dry again and have a cup of tea in front of me, I leave Pratt a message that I’ll not be joining him for dinner. My time will be much better spent researching the property and finding Joe Collins, and much more enjoyable not being around Pratt.
I start with the Curry County Assessor’s website and spend a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out how to use it. After I do, I get an error message and give up to search for old real estate listings on the house.
I find Pratt’s home again and the impressive price he paid. He said he bought the house three months ago and that’s confirmed by the old listing. I also find that the house sold twelve years prior and was built seven years before that sale. It appears there’s been just the three owners, and one of them was Joe Collins who I hope knows something about the previous owner.
Now I just have to find Collins and arrange a visit. I search for Tyler, Oregon, where Martin said I’d find him. There is no Tyler in Oregon. Martin’s weirder than I thought– and so nearby. After calling five nursing homes in the area, I find Collins in Brookstone about forty minutes away. I tell the woman I’m his cousin. She hesitates, so I say I’m Dr. Pratt’s niece. Why Pratt’s comfortable with me spreading that rumor is beyond me.
The woman puts me on hold for a few minutes then comes back and tells me Mr. Collins would be delighted to meet Dr. Pratt’s niece and see his long lost cousin again. She laughs then tells me to come for lunch at eleven-thirty tomorrow. That will give me time in the house in the morning then the afternoon to go to the assessor’s office as well as the library to do research on the prior owner and the land.
Despite Shem Bay’s Chinook name, I learn from my online search that the land was originally inhabited by the Tututni tribe. After the British and Spanish arrived in the seventeen-hundreds, most of the Natives died from infectious diseases. By the mid-eighteen hundreds, those of the tribe who survived were either killed during the Rogue River Wars or relocated to reservations.
This land has more than its share of reasons to be haunted. I sincerely hope I’m not dealing with either an angry European soldier or a Tututni warrior whose spirit has stirred from the ashes of time. I’m going to need more than a curandero’s wine and cactus needle potion if that’s the case.
Since both Pratt and his daughter claim the apparition is a man, I’m going to work off the assumption that Mrs. Collins isn’t doing the haunting. That doesn’t mean the couple didn’t have a son or someone living in the home who met an untimely demise. I also need to find out if the couple experienced anything unusual in the home.
Before it gets dark, I decide to go to the beach and see if I can get a sense of the area while letting the wolfdog chase the waves. With the windows open, I drive the jeep down the narrow road. The rain’s stopped, but it’s cold and gray with a thin layer of wet fog closing in.
I park and walk down the beach until I find a comfortable log to sit on. Mojo marks his new territory and chases seagulls. I close my eyes and ask ancient Natives for a message. The wind blows harder in response, but after twenty minutes that’s the extent of the message.
The sun is getting close to the horizon, the ocean is alive. The smoke from fireplaces brush past me. Soon it’ll be dark and the beach will be poorly lit by the lights on the private road above.
I start walking along the beach, listening to the waves crashing against the rocks ahead. The sand is hard under my boots, the spray stings my face and chills me from head to toe.
Tell me your secrets, my mind whispers. I laugh remembering the words from my dream. I’m about to turn back when I see a figure in the distance. I’m guessing it’s a man; tall and solid and black from head to toe. Curiously similar to the man who visited me in my dream.
Now I’m thinking it wasn’t just a dream. “Give me a vision,” I whisper, to the Tututni warriors whose heartbreaks still blow through the winds.
Mojo is doing his taxidermy ghost pose, frozen in a stare.
The man or spirit is walking quite slow. He’s wearing a long trench coat and hefty boots and holding his head down, sheltering himself from the cold. He’s too far away to cause me much concern, and the wolfdog isn’t doing his ghost growl that would indicate danger. Not yet anyway.
If not for Mojo, I’d think him just another person on the beach. I may not have to research who’s doing the haunting after all. The Shem Bay spirit may be coming to me, just as he did in my dream before I left Las Trebol.
I’ve never had a spirit walk right up to me and shake my hand or wrap its hands around my throat– or pick me up and throw me in the ocean. I’m not ready to rush to greet him or to bolt to safety. I close my eyes and try to sense the energy. The wind is blowing harder, the ocean is loud, the air icy.
“If you are a spirit, know that I’m here to help you. I’ve come to release you from this land and help you go to the light. Please tell me what holds you here. Speak and I will hear you.”
An especially large wave crashes and my eyes spring open. The man has gotten much closer than I expected in the past few seconds, but he’s still walking slowly. Mojo isn’t moving, hasn’t moved an inch.
There’s a flash of light behind me; headlights from the road that goes past the beach. I check my phone and see that it’s six thirty. It’s impossible to believe I’ve been out here for close to two hours. The driver is likely Pratt on his way to the house. I had hoped to leave for town before he returned and summoned me to dinner.
I’m still watching the man and deciding if I should go or stay. “Please give me a message. Tell me why you are here.” And if you are friendly, I try not to think, but do. I’ve got to make my decision in the next few minutes, or it will be made for me.
I study the wolfdog to decide if I’m dealing with the dead or the living. Definitely the ghost pose. So why do I feel so apprehensive? Fear the living, not the dead. Those are Maybelle’s words.
I see the tail lights in front of me now, curving around the road to Pratt’s house. The Town Car shimmers in the lights that line the road. If I’m lucky, Pratt didn’t see my jeep– I’m never lucky.
My logical mind is telling me to go, and I tell it to be quiet. The man’s close now and seems as solid as a living, breathing human being could be. I can’t see his face, yet. There’s still time to go without having to run.
“Are you sure it’s a spirit?” I ask Mojo. “You know you got it wrong with Jankovic today. Right?” He doesn’t move.
A wave comes closer in and rushes over my boot. I move away and watch him do the same. He’s mirroring me and if a spirit, maybe reading my mind.
“I’m here to help you. Speak what truth you left unsaid in life. Tell me how I can help you crossover.”
He stops and looks up. A half moon slips out of the clouds and sprays over him. I yell to Mojo and take off running.
I leave the old man with Pratt’s face to watch me go.
Chapter Thirteen
§
After I got back to the jeep, I drove into town and got take-out at a small Italian restaurant. I don’t know how I did either. Now I’m driving back to Pratt’s property with my heart still pounding too fast. My thoughts aren’t rational.
In all my twenty-six years, I’ve never feared a spirit, at least not so complet
ely. Maybelle taught me to be respectful of the dead while being present in the world where the living have dominion over them– regardless of how they behave otherwise.
When Pratt told me the ghost looked like him, I hadn’t taken him seriously. It’s not unusual for those who experience sightings to see the face of a loved one or themselves. A terrified mind is unreliable. But then a playful or dark spirit is cunning too.
I get to the private road and slow down at the beach but keep going. I’ve checked my phone a few times. It’s after seven and I’m relieved that Pratt didn’t respond to my message about dinner. When I pass the house to park, there’s a single light on in the downstairs. In my mind, I can see Jankovic standing soldier style in the corner behind Pratt.
The woman comes across as weak and fearful, but I’m not discounting her part in this little haunting. I decide to spend the evening researching her lidérc and other Hungarian supernatural beliefs. If I had to stand in the corner while someone ate dinner, I might be tempted to use a few sinister tricks myself– and wish gone anyone who tried to stop me.
I unlock the door to the guest house and turn on the lights and heat. When I go to the kitchen, I see a note on the counter. Come to Dr. Pratt’s study. 8:00.
While I appreciate this is Pratt’s property, I don’t appreciate that he doesn’t respect my personal property in his guest house or my privacy. Likewise, I don’t appreciate being summoned, especially at any set hour. It’s already a quarter to eight, and I have a delicious and ice cold container of Italian food to eat. Pratt can wait.
At two minutes after the hour, my phone rings. The number’s blocked so I assume it’s the pompous and impatient Doctor who’s going to like me a lot less than he probably already does. I let the call go to voicemail and ten minutes later, I’m knocking on his front door.
Jankovic opens the door, gives me her ugliest crunched up face, and shakes her head.
“Put an apron over it,” I say, as she steps aside and I go on to the study.
“Doctor not wait for you.” I’m already down the hallway when she shouts this, and I grit my jaw to prevent a response.
The Shem Bay Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 3) Page 6
