by Sonia Singh
Anjali was totally embarrassed. “That’s me. Got any spoons to bend?”
Nobody laughed.
“The kids are at a neighbor’s,” Lynne said. “Come on in.”
Anjali reached under her shirt and pulled out her Ganesh pendant so the delicate chain rested above the neckline of her red tee. Her mother had given her the necklace for her sixteenth birthday. The feel of it against her skin was somehow reassuring.
Scott reached out and lightly touched the chain. “That’s nice. Ganesh?”
“It’s said that if you give Ganesh your love and energy, he will reward you and remove all the obstacles in your life. But if you ignore him, destruction will rain down on you with the force of a hundred elephants.”
“Good to know.”
Ahead of them, Lynne waited beside the open front door. Anjali took a deep breath and walked toward her. I’m protected, she thought. I’ve learned how to block. I can do this.
She crossed the threshold.
There was definitely a presence in the house. She knew it as certainly as if she’d been able to hear or see it.
No alien thoughts or emotions struggled to breach the barrier of her mind. Instead, it was like being in one part of the house and hearing the faucet running in the kitchen. Simply an awareness, neither good nor bad.
The knot in her stomach relaxed a bit, and she was able to focus. She could feel Scott’s expectations, his certainty that she would discover something. Lynne’s interest tinged with skepticism. She pushed those feelings aside. The room came to her then. Weak wisps of emotion, happiness, tranquillity, some sadness. Nothing lingered.
“I’m barely getting anything here,” she said. She tried to keep the relief out of her voice. She didn’t think she succeeded.
They visited each and every room on the first and second floor and some very nonspooky bathrooms. Nothing dramatic had happened on the toilet or in the bath. Attics were supposed to house spooks, and this one even had cobwebs and enough shadows to make any ghoul feel at home, but Anjali didn’t encounter the presence.
“I don’t know what else to show you,” Lynne said helplessly.
Anjali headed back toward the family room. There was one more area they hadn’t explored. She stopped in front of a door just off the main room. “This leads to the garage, doesn’t it?”
“What are you sensing?” Scott asked, pulling out a small rectangular machine.
He’d told her it was an EMF meter. He’d tried to explain what it did, but quantum mechanics had never been her strength. She could spell electromagnetic and that was about it.
“I feel like there’s something on the other side of this door,” Anjali said. “Why would any spirit choose to haunt a garage?”
Amused, Scott looked at her. “There’s always a first time.”
“What does your gadget tell you?”
“Something is definitely there.”
“The water heater started leaking the first week we moved in,” Lynne said. “So I’ve been parking the car outside.”
Anjali turned the door handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. “It’s stuck.”
“The spirit could be holding it shut,” Scott said.
“Umm, I think it’s just locked, guys.” Lynne reached out and twisted the bolt. The door opened.
Anjali looked at Scott. They exchanged sheepish glances. Shaking her head, she went inside.
The force of emotion hit her like a tidal wave, nearly knocking her down.
The room filled her up. Swallowed her whole. Everything was cold.
“Anjali?” She could hear Scott calling her as if from a distance.
Her instinct was to run, get out, but then she felt his hand on her shoulder, firm and strong. And she realized she was still standing. She was still breathing.
“I’m okay,” she said. “The shock of it…hit me.”
Scott gazed at her with concern. “Are you sure? Do you want to go outside?”
Lynne’s face was pale and drawn. “You went still all of a sudden. Your body became so stiff.”
Feeling as if she had to put on a brave front (even though she wanted to go screaming into the night), Anjali smiled. “That couldn’t have been very attractive.”
She turned to Scott. “The presence is male. I don’t sense anything mean or violent. But for the life of me I can’t figure out what he wants.”
“Take a deep breath,” Scott said. “And close your eyes. Now what do you see?”
“It’s all jumbled. Cabinets. Tools? Power tools?” In the past, Anjali would have left a haunted locale by this point. Now she focused hard. Dug deep. Trying to understand the images and thoughts in her head. She saw a half-finished birdhouse resting on a wooden table. “This was his room,” she said. “He worked here. He loved his projects.”
“I wonder,” Scott began, “if the leaking water, the missing tools, the noises at night, are more of his projects? Part of his existence, between this world and the next?”
Anjali sighed. “I never thought I’d grow up to be a therapist for dead people.”
“Will he leave?” Lynne asked quietly. “I know this was his house, but can you please make him leave?”
Anjali looked at Scott. “What do I do?”
Scott’s gaze did not waver from hers. “Visualize a doorway filled with light. Urge him toward it. Tell him about his family. Make him aware it’s time to move on.”
Anjali took a few steps deeper into the room and started closing her eyes.
“Wait!” Scott said. He was holding the digital camera. “I need to put this on video mode.”
Anjali let out a sigh of impatience but held off freeing the tormented spirit until he gave her a thumbs-up.
She closed her eyes and envisioned a doorway spilling with light. She guided the spirit toward it, mentally telling him about his family, how his wife had moved. It was time for him to go.
She hoped he was listening.
There was a long, drawn-out sigh, and the room grew warmer.
“This house is clean,” she said.
And it was. She couldn’t feel anything anymore.
Scott came to her, eyes shining. “He’s gone. You did it.” He pulled her into a hug.
“The air shimmered,” Lynne said. “I saw something or I think I saw something, but the house feels different. You really did it.”
“I think—” Anjali began, and fainted in Scott’s arms.
15
Scott didn’t expect another case to fall into his lap so soon.
He’d just had lunch with Kyle Chang, his roommate from Stanford. Kyle’s mom was a Realtor in the Bay Area and was being sued by the buyers of a new home for selling them a property infested with spirits.
Not as far-fetched as one would think.
Recently, California legislators had pushed through a bill making it mandatory for all home sellers to disclose any supernatural phenomena related to the property.
Driving home, Scott realized he should be elated.
He wasn’t.
Anjali was gone.
But he’d made a deal. Just one case, and he’d never bother her again. Scott did not go back on his word.
Something they hadn’t taught him in business school.
And even if he did find a true psychic willing to work with him, there was no guarantee he or she would have Anjali’s ability.
He’d been astounded by what she’d accomplished at Lynne Michaels’s home and that his theory—guiding spirits to awareness, visualized as a doorway filled with light—was correct. Anjali had made contact. She’d communicated with the dead.
And the dead had listened.
Scott’s one desire was to make contact with the spirit world. To interact with someone from the other side. And Anjali had brought him closer than he ever thought possible.
He was so caught up with thoughts of the spirit world that he wasn’t paying much attention to Earth. He nearly hit the Buick turning left in front of him.
The
old man stuck his fist out the window and gave Scott the finger. “Ass wipe!”
Scott might have dedicated his life to investigating ghosts, but he wasn’t ready to become one just yet. He followed the rules of the road, and fifteen minutes later pulled into the detached garage behind his house.
Intent on picking up his mail, he circled the house to the front.
“Counselor Troi was the most useless crew member on the Enterprise,” Anjali said by way of greeting.
Startled, Scott turned around. She was sitting on his front steps, clad in jeans and a black turtleneck, arms wrapped around her drawn-up legs.
“Counselor Troi?” he said.
Anjali imitated the character. “I sense anger, Captain…well, duh! The Romulans have once again threatened to destroy the ship. When haven’t the Romulans been angry?”
Scott tried not to look too hopeful as he approached her. “In a contest of empaths you could have kicked the crap out of Counselor Troi.”
She smiled. “Did I tell you I once went to the local precinct to offer my services as a psychic?”
He was surprised. “No.”
“I was thirteen. Well before the Bradford House incident. And I had the crazy idea that I could help the police solve crimes or find missing people.”
He was pretty sure of the outcome of her visit but asked anyway. “What happened?”
“I was laughed out of the station. As I ran off, one of the sergeants called out ‘We’ve already got Nostradamus on the payroll, sweetheart.’ It was humiliating. Although looking back, I can’t really blame them for their reaction.”
Hope began to build inside him. He started to tell her about his friend, a detective with the SFPD who would welcome her unique talent on a case, but he kept his mouth shut and waited for her to finish.
“The morning after the Michaels…house cleaning, I woke up feeling different. Like I’d accomplished something. Like I really helped someone. I’ve never felt that way before.” She gave a short laugh. “I don’t know what that says about me as a human being.”
He thought she was being too hard on herself, but they’d discuss her self-esteem issues later. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
She tucked a lock of long black hair behind her ear and stood up. “The next time you need help on a case, I’m available.”
He smiled. “Great. Let’s get started.”
“Now?”
“Got the call this morning.”
She tilted her head to the side and looked at him. “This is a nonprofit firm, isn’t it? You do this free of charge?”
“Yes, but we can work out a salary, something on a case-by-case basis.”
He was surprised when she laughed.
“I worked at a job I hated for the money and the stock options. I don’t want this to be about money. I want it to be about purpose. Besides”—a glint came into her eyes—“you couldn’t afford me anyway.”
Scott was amused and a little touched. He wasn’t about to go into his trust fund and stakes in various Wilder corporations. “You’re doing this for your karma.”
Anjali shrugged. “You could say that. Destiny doesn’t do dental plans.”
16
The medical director of the Oakland Imaging Facility was an old friend of Vivica’s.
Vivica used the word friend loosely.
In actuality, she’d slept with the man years ago. Now, in return for one session with the facility’s FMRI machine, she promised not to tell his wife about the affair.
Vivica used the word affair loosely.
They had sex once and she’d yawned her way through half of it.
Normally, an MRI machine was the best method for studying the brain. But the new Functional MRI actually created movies of brain activity by precisely tracking the flow of blood and putting several images together. An FMRI scan provided maps of the brain in outstanding detail. Maps that could then be correlated with different mental processes.
Like psychic activity.
After thirty minutes in the interior of the machine, Hans Morden now lay supine on a table outside of it.
Vivica stared at the results displayed on the computer screen. Rarely taken by surprise, she found herself stunned. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she murmured.
Gaspar and Fitch hovered nearby at attention. “Seen what?” Gasper asked.
“This readout matches the ones done on telekinetics and telepaths. It’s almost as if…”
“What?” Fitch demanded. “What?”
Vivica straightened. “Never mind. I—I’m not sure.” She quickly printed out the readout and hit record for the results to be saved on DVD as well.
“Why is he in a trance?” Gaspar asked.
Vivica frowned. “I don’t know. He goes into these fugue states on his own. I don’t like it. He becomes unreachable.”
“Well, so far I haven’t seen Hans do anything amazing,” Fitch said. “He never talks. Most of the time he just sits there staring off into space. Are you sure he’s not retarded?”
Suddenly the pile of folders next to Fitch burst into flame. He gasped and stumbled back.
Gaspar grabbed the fire extinguisher and put it out.
Vivica arched a brow. “Did I forget to mention Hans is a pyrokinetic?”
The door opened then and Maddox walked in, a newspaper tucked under his arm.
“There’s something in here you should see.” He laid the paper in front of Vivica. The San Francisco Chronicle was folded to the last page. A small paragraph was circled in red.
“Hey,” Gaspar said. “You just missed Fitch nearly getting barbecued.”
“Quiet!” Vivica read the few lines in a matter of seconds. She looked up. “That’s all the information they have?”
“I spoke to my source,” Maddox said. “This woman, Rachel, claims that without touching the assailant, he made her fly back and hit the wall.”
“A telekinetic,” Vivica said thoughtfully. “But they don’t have a name or address?”
“They have a name. The reporter just wasn’t allowed to print it. Coulter Marshall.”
“The three of you get on it. Convince this Coulter to come in.”
After the trio left, Vivica walked back to the machine and knelt so she was eye level with Hans. “Nice display, Mr. Morden.”
The man stared at the ceiling unsmiling.
“There’s something very interesting about you. Most psychics have one defined ability: telekinesis, telepathy, pyrokinesis, but you…you have all of the above.”
She leaned closer. “You’re going to make me very famous.”
17
“Welcome to 1313 Mockingbird Lane,” Scott said.
Anjali stepped out of his car, double-checked that the gold Ganesh pendant was around her neck, and surveyed the dwelling in front of her. Even in the unusually warm Northern California sunshine, the gloomy house sagged with depressive weight.
“Hey,” Scott said. With a smile he cocked his head to the house next door. “That’s our house.”
Anjali saw a neatly tended, snug, two-story house with rows of daffodils and a magnolia tree in the front yard.
Don’t judge a haunted house by its exterior, she thought.
Relief mixed with anger swept through her. “You’re an asshole, Wilder.”
He grinned. “So you tell me. Let’s get to work.”
Rosie Chang, the Realtor, stood in front of the house waiting for them. In her mid-fifties, dressed in a well-cut powder pink suit and a string of pearls, she exuded confidence and surveyed Anjali with a critical eye. “You look Indian.”
“I am.”
“Married?”
“Single.”
“You do this full-time? Or you have real career?”
“Neither, I guess.”
Rosie shook her head. “You first-generation Americans are confused people. My daughter thinks she’s Britney Spears. Dyes her black hair blond.”
Anjali supposed confused wa
s one way to look at it. She preferred to think of herself as complex. She was a Hindu who ate beef and a cynic who communicated with the dead.
Yeehaw!
“Let’s take a look at the house,” Scott said.
Anjali followed the other two inside. Crossing the threshold, she held her breath.
Scott looked at her. “Getting anything?”
“Not yet.”
“See!” Rosie stomped her foot. “No ghosts in this damn house!”
“What’s that smell?” Scott wrinkled his nose as they entered the hall.
“Chinese herbs,” Rose answered. “Good for feng shui.”
Anjali reflected that if you built your house on a burial ground—as some developers blindly tended to do—you could feng shui the hell out of the place and it wasn’t going to make a difference.
Still, she liked the smell. “Reminds me of mint chutney.”
Anjali and Scott checked out the first floor, walking from the family room to the kitchen and then back to the entrance hall, where Rosie waited with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. “This house worth $750,000. Stupid ghosts bad for business!”
“I’m barely getting anything down here,” Anjali said.
Rosie scowled. “That’s what I say! Stupid owners on drugs.”
From upstairs came the sharp sound of a door being slammed.
“Master bedroom,” Rosie said. “Door won’t stay open.”
“Is that right?” Scott asked. “Possible interactive spirit.”
Anjali tucked her thumbs into the waist of her jeans and gazed up at the second floor landing. There was something there. She was starting to feel it. “I sense someone now, a female presence. The previous owner of the house?”
Rosie’s cell phone rang. She snapped it open and spoke rapidly in Chinese for a moment before hanging up. “Broker keeps calling. Wants to know what’s happening. I told him—drink green tea and chill.”
“Don’t worry,” Anjali said. “I’ve done a procedure like this before.” She caught Scott’s eye and smiled.
Scott turned on the camera. “Upstairs?”
