Ghost Castle (The Ghost Files Book 8)

by Chanel Smith

“Yeah, I’m sure they don’t spend millions on these things,” I replied. “Of course, in pesos, they might spend millions, but that’s like $400 U.S. Anyway, the original use of silletas goes beyond the flower festival. They used those chairs to pack produce up and down the mountains slopes.”

  Having experienced the steep slopes that were negotiated via switchbacks in a car, I could only imagine carrying a chair strapped to my back and loaded down with whatever goods I was presenting for trade or had traded for and was carrying back up the mountain to my home. However, that wasn’t the most shocking use of the silletas.

  “There’s even more to it than that, though,” I began again. “In Spanish Colonial times, the Spaniards hired the locals to carry them up either up or down the slopes as a means of travel.”

  “They carried people on those chairs?” she asked. She stared at me as if she wasn’t sure if I was telling her the truth or pulling her leg.

  I turned the computer screen toward her and presented the story to her. “That’s what it says.”

  “I don’t know if that is cruel or extremely admirable,” she commented.

  “That probably depends on if you are carrying the chair or sitting in it,” I answered.

  I left off the conversation at that point and studied more of Medellin’s history. Originally, the Aburra Valley and Antioquia had been populated by Spanish Jews, fleeing their homes in Europe. Isolated the way it was, the area grew up very different than other parts of Colombia. Two nicknames, Antioqueño and Montañero popped up and I remembered that Ariel had mentioned when we were traveling to the city from the airport. The natives of the area had taken a great deal of pride in those names, just as they did in the more modern term Paisa. They were a people set apart and a people who constantly desired to prove that they had a can-do attitude.

  Like Jovani and the thousands of other women, even the men of Medellin tended to present themselves at their very best. They were eager to please and kept a smile on their faces, though I doubted that they were being paid much for the services that they provided. It was that pride and determination to be their best that had drawn Medellin out of those dark decades and into the modern, innovative city that it was.

  With those thoughts as my backdrop, it seemed that a ghost of Medellin’s past was haunting El Castillo. I mentioned that idea to Ellen. “You know, Medellin has made a lot of changes since the turn of the century. It’s as if this ghost lingers from that dark past, don’t you think?”

  “Dark, angry, creepy, violent; those words describe the spirit that I felt.” She focused on some unseen distant point as she chose her next words. “Monty, I felt sort of violated. It really shook me up.”

  It’s hard to hear such an admission from your wife and not feel a surge of anger, but I tried to push it down. With Ellen already on edge and a little bit off her game, I had to step mine up. The problem, however, was that she was the one who actually had the expertise and who actually knew what was going on. I had learned a great deal by being with her and experiencing the things that we had, but I was still no expert, especially when it came to connecting with, reading and communicating with spirits.

  “You know, this was a war zone in the 80s and 90s,” I said. “Either the Medellin cartel was fighting with the Cali cartel; they were killing people that got in their way; happened to be in the wrong place when a car bomb exploded; or they were getting rid of police officers. Having a little experience in that world, what you are describing to me matches up with that era.”

  “But who, when and why?” she asked. “Why destroy items at a cultural arts museum or castle or whatever? Why destroy the things of the people? My understanding of Escobar is that he had a tendency to be benevolent with his billions of dollars, especially where civic projects, youth and culture were concerned, so why would our violent spirit be destroying those things?”

  “Anti-Escobar, maybe? Reacting against those benevolent projects, maybe? Tens of thousands of people lost their lives here during Escobar’s reign of terror, like to the tune of almost 8,000 per year. There were even close to 9,000 people murdered in Medellin in 1991. That doesn’t count other parts of Colombia and other parts of the world. That’s a lot of ghosts to leave behind.”

  “Talk about trying to find a needle in a haystack, right?” Ellen responded.

  Chapter Six

  Armed with a little bit more background about Medellin and the Medellin cartel, we returned to El Castillo at 11:00 p.m. the next evening. Though it was entirely possible that we were completely off base, we really didn’t have much else to go on. Ellen’s description of the presence that she had felt reminded me of some of the violent criminals that I had dealt with in my past. It was a flimsy lead, but it was the only one that we had.

  Our night started in a very similar manner to the one before. We were prepared with the understanding that we were dealing with a violent person and Ellen had spent the entire day working on steeling herself against the feelings of having been violated. I could only imagine how hard it was for her to put aside those feelings, but Ellen was a pro. Not only did she have her game face on, but she was also in the zone.

  “I’ve got to try to get him to reveal himself or to speak to us,” she said, laying out the game plan for contact. “We know that he’ll probably go for the exhibit halls, so we’ll to stay near those and catch him earlier than we did last night. Ariel, I need you to stick very close to me in case we get him to speak. You may not hear him—more than likely, I will only hear his thoughts—but I will repeat them as quickly as I can so that you can get me a translation. Once we make contact and I am trying to speak to him, you’ve got to give me the words to say. He might hear you or he might not, but if he can hear me, then we can communicate. Can you do that? Are you with me?”

  “I think so,” Ariel replied.

  “Listen,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. “You can’t go freaking out on me. I have to have you at your best, got it?”

  “You will have my best,” he replied.

  “Good,” she answered. “Monty, we’re probably going to get some of the best data we’ve had in a while. I don’t know how much it will help us here. We already know that we have a nasty one, but it would be good to get a little bit further into this anger and temperature connection, so stay focused on those instruments, especially if it can give us a heads up on when he comes in. We need to get the jump on him. I’m sure that Jovani won’t be impressed if another exhibit gets trashed.”

  I knew that she’d brought Jovani into it as a means of not only delivering a soft jab— that’s what the wicked sparkle in her eyes indicated—but also as a means of motivation. “Roger that, chief,” I responded in my best police radio voice. That was my way of delivering a counter jab, though it didn’t even phase her.

  “Alright, we’re ready, let’s do this.”

  That last bit was pretty anti-climactic, given that we had nothing to do but wander between exhibit rooms for the subsequent 20 minutes or so. Though I tried to remain focused and detect even the smallest wiggle in my equipment, that long wait wasn’t making it easy. I was just about to look at my watch when I saw a slight wiggle in the K2 meter. “I’ve got energy,” I said. The K2 meter measured changes in magnetic energy that paranormals tended to make when they were present. I turned a full circle, watching the strongest surge of energy and determined which direction we needed to expect our guest to enter.

  “Looks like we’re going to the Saint Francis of Assisi exhibit,” I said beginning to move quickly in that direction. “Yep, the energy is stronger in this direction. I’m starting to detect a slight temperature drop too.”

  We picked up the pace.

  The Saint Francis of Assisi exhibit was a tradition that El Castillo kept every year. As was tradition with the saint since he was alive in the 13th century, El Castillo presented a similar version that ushered in the Christmas season. The centerpiece of the tradition was its manger display. Our guest would be wreaking havoc in that
display if we didn’t beat him to it; not that I was sure of how we were going to stop him.

  “Okay, temp has gone way down.” At the same time that I said it, Ellen spoke up.

  “I can feel him. Here we go.”

  I watched the temp dip into the 20s and felt it as well; not like the passing cold breeze from the evening before, but a lingering cold. We, evidently, had his attention.

  “Who are you?” Ellen asked. “What are you doing here? Ariel, translate that for me. He’s hanging around, but he’s not speaking and I can’t get a handle on his thoughts.”

  “Quien es? Que haciendes aqui?” Ariel translated and Ellen repeated the words as best she could, though they were a bit unsteady.

  “What’s going on, Babe?” I asked.

  “He’s doing the same thing that he did last night; checking me out.”

  “At least he’s not trashing another exhibit,” I replied. “That’s some progress, right?”

  “He’s not responding,” she said. “But he’s not going away either. He’s just checking us out.”

  Though I hadn’t developed Ellen’s sensitivity, I suddenly felt the same feelings of anger, which Ellen had described, surrounding me. “I can feel him.”

  The sensation was similar to the one that I’d had when I’d assisted the FBI in taking down a serial killer several years before Ellen and I had become an item. In fact, it was the first time that I had ever seen her. She had assisted in some portion of the FBI’s investigation and we’d spoken briefly, little more than a greeting, really. I could feel the rage and the evil in the spirit just like I’d felt the same with that serial killer.

  “He’s moving away,” Ellen said. She pointed and looked at me for confirmation. “That way?”

  Ellen was sometimes more accurate than the instruments once she got tied into one. “Where are you going?” she called out.

  Ariel provided the translation quickly.

  “A donde va?” she repeated. “He stopped.”

  It was fascinating to watch the instruments going nuts. They revealed that he had turned back toward us.

  “We’re here to help you,” Ellen said in a calm voice. “How can we help you?”

  “Estamos aquí para ayudarle,” she repeated after Ariel. “Cómo podemos ayudarle?”

  I held my breath and waited. The needle on the K2 meter was hugging the peg on the upper end and the thermometer registered 23 degrees. I was considering the jacket that Ellen had suggested when we were packing.

  “He spoke,” she said. “No me puede ayudar, mona.”

  “You can’t help me, mona,” Arial translated.

  “Who is Mona?” I asked.

  “It’s a term that is used for a blonde haired and blue-eyed person. Males are monos and females are monas. It’s sort of derogatory.”

  “I thought that a mono was a monkey,” I responded.

  “Don’t forget, this is Paisa,” Ariel answered.

  “We want to help you,” Ellen continued, ignoring my side conversation with Ariel.

  “Quieremos ayudarle,” I noticed that as Ariel translated, his eyes were still about to pop out of his head, like they were the night before, but he seemed to be doing much better.

  “Quien es?” she repeated on her own. Ellen learned everything quickly. I was pretty sure that it meant, “Who are you?”

  I watched Ellen’s face. She was definitely in the zone.

  “He’s not responding,” she reported. “He’s moving away again.”

  Though to most people it would have seemed like a crazy idea, we continued to follow him down the corridor using both my instruments and Ellen’s senses to stay in contact with him. He seemed to be wandering rather than going straight toward the destruction like he had the night before.

  “He’s not as angry, maybe?” Ellen suggested.

  “He hasn’t torn anything up yet,” I replied. “We’re making progress, right?”

  “Wait, he’s turning back,” she said. “He’s not at all happy.”

  Suddenly, in a pitched, audible voice that echoed down the hall, sent chills through me and nearly made Ariel drop with a heart attack, he screeched, “Plata o plomo!” And then he was gone.

  Chapter Seven

  I wasn’t sure if Ariel was going to run or drop. Remembering the bravado that he’d presented before, I moved over next to him with a wide grin and smacked him on the back. “Are you okay, Ariel?”

  Startled out of his frozen trance, he turned his eyes toward me, but did not move. After glancing at me, he looked at Ellen and then started searching the corridor. “Is he gone?”

  Enjoying the moment, I made a show out of looking down toward his pants to see if he wet himself. “Still dry,” I announced with a chuckle.

  “Monty, stop,” Ellen said, coming to his rescue. “He’s gone. Are you okay?”

  “What was that noise; that voice? Was that him?” Ariel asked.

  “That was him,” Ellen assured him. “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘plata o plomo,’” Ariel responded, still searching his surrounding with his eyes.

  “Yes, Ariel, we know that,” I replied. “What does it mean?”

  “It means, ‘silver or lead,’” he answered.

  “Okay. Is that significant in some way? Does it have some special meaning for Paisas?” Ellen asked.

  “It has special meaning for everyone in Colombia,” he responded.

  “What special meaning?” I asked.

  “It was Pablo Escobar’s policy for dealing with the police or other government officials.” Ariel began to gather his wits and started to explain. He wasn’t searching with his eyes like he was before, but he still glanced around him occasionally while he spoke.

  “Paisas refer to money as plata,” he began. “They don’t usually use the word dinero. Escobar’s offer or threat to the police or other government officials was to either accept his bribe or be killed.”

  “Silver or lead,” I mused. It sounded pretty gangster, like Al Capone-era gangster, not Tupac gangster. “His war with the police.”

  “Yes,” Ariel replied. “Escobar consolidated a lot of power because of that threat. It wasn’t an empty threat. He carried it out on numerous occasions. He used hit men, car bombs and sometimes he used women.”

  “Sort of like hired femme fatales?” I asked.

  “Very effective,” Ariel replied.

  “I can imagine,” I answered, reminded of how attractive Paisa women tended to be.

  “Another reason to keep it in your pants.” Ellen nudged me as she spoke.

  “Medellin, during Escobar’s time, was number one in the world in breast enhancement surgery. The entire movement was referred to as narco-aesthetics. It became something of a craze. It isn’t quite as common now as it was, but it never completely died out.”

  “So, that’s why all the women around here wear those god-awful heels with that are four-plus inches. In the U.S., those are mostly found on hookers and sluts.” Ellen wasn’t particularly fond of heels of any kind, she’d put some on for a formal occasion and she looked great in them, but getting her in a pair of 6” stilettos was next to impossible and to wear them every day; forget about it.

  “There are a lot of businesses here that require those heels; we call them tacones, as part of a working woman’s uniform. Their hair kept long and straightened too,” Ariel replied. “It’s been like that for a long time.”

  “They require heels and long hair as part of the uniform?” Ellen asked and then suddenly stopped herself, realizing that we had wandered off on a rabbit trail. “No, wait, don’t answer that. We are not continuing with this conversation. Back to the silver or lead thing. What you’re saying is that the police of other government officials were to either accept his bribes or be murdered?”

  “Yes. That was his approach to dealing with them. That’s why there was such a long, drawn out and bloody war between the Medellin cartel and the police. The Cali cartel even caught on and started doing
the same thing. Between the two cartels, Colombia was very close to collapse. The drug trade wasn’t of a great concern to Colombia until the cartels became so powerful that they began to disrupt the government through terrorist tactics. There are still a few factions trying to do that today. FARC is an example of one of them and the government is negotiating with them. Negotiating with terrorists!” Ariel had gotten a bit heated. “I apologize. It seems that our President Santos has forgotten the lessons that our recent history taught us, but back to the subject. If you were in a position of influence or a police officer and Escobar wanted something from you, you either took his money or you were killed.”

  “So, back to our ghost,” I began.

  “Spiritual presence,” Ellen corrected. “You have to actually see it for it to be a ghost.”

  “Okay, thank you, Honey,” I responded with something of a glare. She really didn’t need to correct me.

  “You’re welcome,” she grinned.

  “What are the chances that we could be dealing with Pablo Escobar’s departed spirit?”

  “Given what Ariel just told us about plata o plomo, it is likely,” Ellen responded.

  “If that’s the case, then why do the damage here? Was Escobar connected to El Castillo in any way; like a benefactor?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Ariel replied. “I can get Jovani to look at the historical records of contributions, but I don’t think he was a part of it. Even if he wasn’t, this isn’t the sort of thing that Escobar would do. He tended to be benevolent to the people, especially those that were less fortunate. A lot of his money was put into a number of parks and sports complexes. If he was going to plant a bomb, it was usually near a government building or location where someone who did not accept his bribes might be found.”

  “Lobbying via car bomb. How pleasant,” I quipped. “So, we have to figure out why here and what he could possibly want?”

  “That is assuming that we’re dealing with Escobar’s spirit,” Ellen reminded me. “We can’t even be sure of that at this point.”