She raises her index finger and an eyebrow, “I’ve even considered the absurd superstitions so coveted by Mrs. Jankovic, with much amusement. However, after listening to you retell your experience in the house last night, I can come to no other conclusion than what we have here is my brother’s essence enmeshed into the ethereal fabric of my father’s house.”
Mackenzie leans back on the sofa and looks over my head as if doing a complex calculus equation.
“Of course I’m referring to his charged particle transformation.” She grins. “As did Hameroff and Penrose, I opine that the microtubules inside my departed brother’s brain cells have manifested into a shadow figure. Apparently, one capable of projecting my father’s face, though I have yet to see this transformation. Most fascinating, actually,” she says, looking back at me.
“I’ve never looked at it that way, but it sounds possible. Thank you for sharing the information. I can tell you put a great deal of thought into the matter, and I’ll discuss it with your father.” I stand up, ready to send her on her way.
“Please sit. I have three minutes remaining. A deal is a deal. I haven’t come to merely discuss the matter or reveal what my father wishes to conceal. I’ve come to collaborate with you.”
“To work with me?” I smile to avoid a laugh.
“Yes. You see, I hypothesize that as existence is nothing more than the denial of the number zero, as concluded by Gottlob Frege, apparitions quite simply represent the nil that circumstantiate the very core of human life itself.”
“Ghosts are zeros?”
“Precisely. And to further the exploration of my theory, I am here to arrange a séance in order to affirm what I speculate is the quantum reverberation of my brother’s soul.”
Chapter Twenty Two
§
After I explain to the four foot tall walking encyclopedia that I don’t do séances with children, she tells me to think about it for the sake of advancements in parapsychology studies, a field which she assures me is rapidly eroding.
I walk her to the main house and mumble goodnight. She takes my hand and tells me to do it for Blake’s sake; the young boy trapped in a woeful and confused state.
Good one. When the argument for pseudo-scientific progress fails, tug on the heart strings. I tell her to sleep tight then I go back to the guest house.
I’m torn between feeling sorry for Pratt over the loss of his son and being furious with him for not being honest with me. I’m leaning towards furious. That mindset will help me endure his anticipated wrath for finding out about his son’s suicide.
I haven’t even had time to process what Martin was doing on the beach tonight. Figuring out how I’ll broach the subject of the haunting by Pratt’s son will have to wait until tomorrow.
I’ve threatened to quit many ghost eradicating jobs before– the haunted aren’t the easiest people to work with– but I’ve never left a job undone. This one may be my first. Pratt seems determined to prevent me from doing what he’s paid me to do.
Mojo’s hogging the bed again. I cling to the edge and search for Blake Pratt on my laptop. There are almost a million hits for the name, mostly on social media sites where I assume I won’t find his quantum reverberation. I add suicide to the name and click through a number of news articles. None indicate any connection to Pratt.
I’m beginning to wonder if Mackenzie made the whole story up so she could take part in a real live séance. Then I remember the date she gave me– 2010; the year after Jean Landy went missing. I’m going with the assumption that Landy was the boy’s mother. To a thirteen year old, a mother’s abandonment or disappearance might seem cause enough to end it all. So why isn’t there anything about his death online?
I search Oregon Vital Records for his death certificate. Access is restricted to fifty years from the date of incident except by family members or legal representatives– or never if there’s a court order.
I click to the court’s website where I found the order for Pratt’s second wife and there it is: a 2010 order sealing the death certificate of John Doe, a Minor. If Mackenzie can be trusted, John Doe is Blake, and I don’t blame the man one bit for keeping his child’s death private.
∞
It’s early when I get up the next morning. I was hoping to catch Pratt but I find out from Tala and Mackenzie’s governess, both of whom are getting the child ready to go to school, that he’s already left.
Mackenzie gives her approval for my being in the house to the two women who apparently didn’t get the email. The kid waves to me as she follows her governess to the car. Tala stays behind to finish picking up after the girl. The nanny is probably in her early twenties, shy and reserved with a sometimes abbreviated use of the English language. Conversations with Mackenzie must give her nightmares.
I follow her upstairs to make small talk. I’m her employer’s niece, she has to be nice and she is. She started working for Pratt a little over a year ago, just after she came to the United States from Sweden.
She beams when she says his name and hides her eyes. Her aura flashes bold pink with streaks of red, love and sexuality. She’s half his age and I sense the transgressions of a lonely man in her heart, so I skip further inquiries. She finishes her chores and tells me she’ll see me after school is out.
The house is mine for a half hour before Jankovic arrives. I go downstairs to where I last saw the boy and sit on the floor with the wolfdog and my smudge stick. No sooner do I get myself centered than I hear the front door unlock. Mojo creeps away, I hope to jump out and scare the old woman.
“Is your name Blake Pratt?” I whisper. “I’m here to help you crossover. To help you be with your loved ones who are waiting for you.”
I sense eyes on me and open mine to see Jankovic a few feet from me with her horror face on. She turns and runs towards the kitchen and a door slams. Seems she’s afraid of sage and ghost whisperers; I wish I’d known that earlier.
Once I’ve wasted more time upstairs, I go back to the guest house. Jankovic was quieter than she’s been in the past, but the occasional thump and crash was too distracting, almost as much as her irritating energy. An energy I’m sure is annoying enough to keep a child’s spirit in hiding. No wonder he only comes out after sundown.
“Pray it doesn’t rain tonight,” I tell Mojo, as I make lunch. “We’re going camping on the beach.” He doesn’t even look at me before heading to the bedroom.
∞
Once I leave Pratt a message that I need to talk to him after dinner, I go into town and buy rain coats for both me and the wolfdog. He isn’t impressed. No matter what the weather, I can’t sit in the jeep all night and there’s no reason to get soaked.
When I get back to Pratt’s property, I check my voicemail. The doctor claims he has a previous engagement. I get the feeling he doesn’t ever want me to go home. I’d also asked in my message for the key to the surveillance cabinet; he doesn’t mention it.
After I load the jeep with extra clothes, blankets, and snacks, I turn out the lights, set my alarm for ten o’clock, and fall asleep on the edge of the bed. Even if I hear the gentle knock of a precocious little girl, I’m not getting up.
When my alarm goes off, I fill my thermos with coffee and slip out of the guest house. No little girl waiting, no note on the door, no Ouija board to entice me. I hope the time has finally come to meet the spirit who’s wearing Pratt’s face, the one I hope is named Blake.
Once I’m at the beach, I drive the jeep past the No Vehicles Allowed sign and park next to the bank below the road, facing down the long, empty beach.
My prayers to the Great Spirit have been answered. The wind is mild, the skies at least temporarily dry, and a sliver of moon is providing a semi-spooky glow. I light my smudge stick and crack a window. Then I meditate and pray that this job ends tonight.
The waves and Mojo’s snoring are lulling me into trance, and I let them take me deeper. “Blake Pratt, your presence is requested,” I whisper. “I’m here to h
elp you. Come to me and take my hand… and I’ll take you to your mother.”
My eyes spring open and I look around. Why did I say that? I have no idea if his mother is dead or alive. I don’t even know for certain who his mother is.
I feel creepy crawlers on me and brush off invisible bugs. It doesn’t diminish the creep factor so I get out and start walking with a reluctant wolfdog who’s refused his rain gear.
It’s almost midnight and the air is wet and cold and… crackling. I think it’s the waves then crickets then I see orange embers shoot into the sky like confetti. I stop and search the beach from the hill to the water and back again. There’s no smoke, no fire. The embers fade as does the crackling.
“Blake Pratt, please make your presence known.” I’m almost to the place where the man with Pratt’s face was walking towards me; much farther than I walked before. “Blake I’m here to help you. You’re safe. I’m your friend.”
I’ve strayed closer to the water. The waves lap at my boots, and I move away to a log by the hill below the road. I sit and say a protection prayer and let myself go deeper. I smell smoke and open my eyes. There’s no smoke, no fire, no embers. With my eyes closed, I sink into the log, willing myself to cross the veil, to see a little boy, to reach out and let him take my hand.
“Blake.” My voice catches as I see him in my mind. He looks like a very young version of Pratt, but with a wide grin and an ice cold hand. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’ll take you to the light. It’s okay to go.”
In my mind, I’m walking with him on the beach. The boy starts pulling me, running and laughing. “It’s time to go,” I say. “Let go and go to the light.”
I try to pull my hand away, but he’s holding it tighter, pulling me harder. His laughter is loud and it echoes. I try to relax and go deeper into trance. In my mind, the moon has slipped behind the clouds. It’s so dark I can’t see him. I can’t see anything. He’s pulling me with both hands and he’s stronger than he should be.
“It’s okay to let go,” my voice sounds out of breath. I can’t feel the log beneath me anymore. “Blake, you’re safe. Don’t be afraid to let go of my hand and go to the light.”
I hear Mojo’s piercing howl, which sounds like hundreds of wolves in every direction. I open my eyes just before a wave engulfs me and pulls me into the frigid Shem Bay waters.
Chapter Twenty Three
§
My face slams into the sand and icy water rushes into my mouth as I’m forced to exhale. I’m grabbing handfuls of water as the tide pulls me under and my empty lungs attempt to explode in my chest.
A roaring wave tosses me inland, and I come to the surface sucking in oxygen before getting a mouth full of saltwater. When I’m pulled farther in again, my body gets heavy and stiff then light and flimsy.
The water’s warm and there’s a young woman smiling and telling me I don’t need to breathe. “Come with me,” she says, as she reaches out her hand.
I go to take it. When I feel her soft touch, razor sharp teeth tear through my skin as I fall through a black tube. I come up again, this time choking on air that crushes my lungs. The air feels like knives cutting through my chest from the inside out. I try to go under the water to escape the pain, but my body is moving over the surface.
I’m fighting to get away, but I’m too heavy again. There’s a body on the beach that’s being violently pushed and pulled and stepped on. Then I’m slammed into that body, which feels like being slammed into a brick wall. I’m shivering uncontrollably. Mojo is walking on top of me and smacking his paw on my face over and over.
“Okay,” I mumble, and gag on saltwater that rushes out. Hypothermia is not far away as I stumble to stand, fall, and try again. Mojo pokes and prods me back to the jeep. As soon as I get inside, I start the engine and the heat blasts while my spirit settles back into my body.
When my breathing isn’t so labored and painful, I sit up and search for the spirit who took hold of my mind and led me into the tunnel of death. The waves are still crashing, and I am alone.
It’s four in the morning, and I’ve lost time to a force that almost killed me. Or a playful and lonely kid tried to do all he could to have me join him on the other side. Either way and whatever the intent, I came close to leaving my body forever in the freezing waters of Shem Bay.
When I feel almost sane again, I drive farther down the beach looking with my eyes and my mind for the boy. Appears he’s done with me for now. I wait until the sun rises before deciding to return to the guest house and the normal and mundane.
Before I make it back to the beach parking area, a car goes by on the road above. I suspect it’s Pratt. He’s been on my mind for the past hour. I’m sure now that the spirit haunting the man is Blake. I’m also sure that besides his obvious depressed state, Pratt feels guilt and anger over the loss of his son. Unfortunately, I also fear he’s experiencing a heavy burden of denial. So much so that he’s preventing me from helping the boy crossover– first by refusing to discuss the child and second by refusing to let him go, even at my expense.
A call to Pratt goes to voicemail. I tell him it’s time for us to have an honest discussion about the activity in the house. Otherwise, I tell him, it’s time for me to go home. My threats seem to be the only thing that motivates the man. I also tell him that I’ll come to the house at eight o’clock. That’s time enough for him to finish dinner but not too many after dinner drinks.
We go back to the house. Tala’s and the governess’ vehicles are parked in the circular driveway. I feel eyes on me and slow down. When I look up, Mackenzie is standing at the upstairs window. She waves her little fingers at me but doesn’t smile. Her face is as rigid as plastic; I cringe and saltwater burns its way up my throat.
After a shower, I lie on the bed where Mojo is sleeping. I light an incense, say a protection prayer, and ask the Great Spirit for wisdom. My throat is weak and raw as I whisper words that come on their own.
“Blake Pratt, feel no guilt or confusion for the choice you made. There is no shame—
My eyes pop open and I sit up. Just as I said shame, I remembered the woman in the Shem Bay ocean whose hand I nearly took to my watery grave. “Who are you?” I ask, and she smiles.
∞
It’s late afternoon when I wake up, groggy and disoriented. I make coffee and check my phone. Pratt’s message is rushed and harsh. He’ll expect me at eight. He disconnected before he finished the last word so I’m only guessing. I get ready to go into town.
I’m searching main street for a friendly diner and end up at the tea house again. The waitress is an older woman who looks tired of being on her feet. She brings me a pot of tea. After a lively foursome leave, the place is quiet and empty. I attempt conversation with the waitress.
“I got too close to the waves last night,” I laugh, and taste saltwater. “They pulled me in before I knew what was happening.”
She’s concerned and tells me the water is too cold for wading.
Despite what Mackenzie said about her brother hanging himself, I know there’s a connection with him and the beach. Perhaps the woman too, whose identity I fear I know.
“It’s definitely too cold, and the water is so unpredictable on Shem Bay,” I tell the waitress. “I hope others aren’t as careless as I was since there isn’t a lifeguard out there.”
“Shem Bay’s private property now,” she says, with a sad grin.
“I’m Dr. Douglas Pratt’s niece. I’ve been visiting for a few days.” Her face betrays no secrets so I give up to order dinner.
She brings me roasted eggplant with thick tomato sauce and ricotta and a basket of warm bread. “I hope you enjoy your stay. Do take care not to walk too close to the edge again.”
When I get back to the house, it’s dark except for an upstairs light– no mini mannequin watches me from the window. At eight, I make my way across the walkway to knock on the front door. After a second knock, there are heavy footsteps in the entryway.
Pratt
opens the door with a solemn face. I feel zapped by his energy then an overwhelming sense of pity. He barely acknowledges me before going to his study. When I glance upstairs, there’s a thin trail of light that quickly disappears.
I accept a glass of water. The doctor is irritated; a pale gray aura follows him from the bar to his chair. He looks up once he’s behind his desk and I’m zapped again, this time by that angry face I saw in the photo. In my mind, I can hear his hostility but not his words.
My voice is weak and strained. “Dr. Pratt, it’s time you told me the truth. What I’ve had to learn on my own has taken me too many days.”
He nods and twirls his ice cubes. “What have you learned?”
“That you had a son. One who took his own life.”
Pratt empties his glass and goes to the bar. “Where did you learn this?” His back is to me, a glass bottle hits the counter.
“From someone other than you. That’s all that matters. Why would you keep this from me? You know I’ve been busy researching what could be the cause of the haunting. You could have told me days ago.”
He drops into his chair, leans back then straightens. “My son didn’t die in this house. It isn’t relevant.”
“How can you be sure? I believe your son’s spirit has attached itself to you. The apparition you saw had your face, an older you but still you. Perhaps the way a child would view you. I saw it too– as well as a young boy.”
Pratt jerks his head and squeezes his glass.
“The boy looked like you. I suspect you can’t face your son’s death, and he can’t let go until you do.”
He mumbles something about accepting it, but I can barely make out the words.
“Whether you’ve accepted his death or not, it’s time to find out for certain if the apparition is Blake.” He shivers when I say the boy’s name. “If it is him, don’t you want to help him find peace?”
The Shem Bay Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 3) Page 11
