by Stuart Jaffe
As Max continued his search, Wayne sneezed three times. “I’m telling you. This place is nothing but a big mistake. Shawnee and I ought to sell it, move on, and be done.”
“I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to get out of this. But you can’t just go selling it.”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“Well, it’s not like there’s a state law against it, but there’s a moral law that you shouldn’t do it. Or it’d be like selling poisoned food at a restaurant. You know whoever moves in here next will have problems too.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind. I don’t even know what’s really happening here.”
Max held his tongue and continued his search. He tried to stay focused on the present task, but a thought struck him and he couldn’t hold it back. “You know, we found nothing to connect this entity to the house.”
“So?”
“If you move, it might just follow you.”
“It can do that?”
“The world of ghosts is a lot more complex than a bunch of bedtime stories.”
Wayne’s eyes lowered, and lips tightened into a mean, heartless line. “Then you better hurry up and fix this.” He said nothing more as he left Max in the attic, alone.
In mock prayer, Max lifted his eyes upward and froze. His pulse increased. His fingers tapped against his thighs.
The attic ceiling had been built from old wooden slats. Max moved in close. Dark marks ran across several of the boards. Letters, parts of words, a name — ILL UNGER’S G — and beneath that — EST 19 — the rest illegible. If these slats had been reclaimed from old buildings, then perhaps Max had found his clue.
As fast as his hands could move, Max whipped out a small notebook and wrote down the letters exactly as they appeared. This meant something, he knew it. He could feel it. Every researching bone in his body shivered with excitement.
He dropped down into the baby’s room and hurried outside. Unger was clearly a name and ill could be Bill or Will or even Jill or possibly a longer, odd first name like Winthill. The G left open a myriad of possibilities, and he would have to calmly think it over — something his brain could not achieve at that moment. With his keys jangling, he fumbled open the lock to his car.
Before he could open the door, Libby Broward approached.
“We may have a serious problem.”
Chapter 15
Libby crossed her arms over her chest as they walked uphill away from the house. Max waited for her to speak. Mostly, he concentrated on not throwing out a sarcastic comment.
Across the street, homes of brick sat on narrow man-made hills. To his right, they walked by a charming white house with gray-blue painted bricks along the bottom. On the right side of the house, an overhang protected a new, silver BMW convertible.
These were homes of average people living their average lives. Some well off, some struggling. A normal neighborhood.
Max had spent plenty of time dealing with ghosts and witches. But most of those homes had been tucked away; most of the horrors had been underground or hiding in the shadows. He glanced back at the Darians’ house. It stood amongst the others but wore its charm like a mask.
Libby cleared her throat. “Tell me your opinion of Wayne.”
“Now you care about my opinion?”
“I’m not trying to fight with you. I’m asking because we’re on the same side. We’re both trying to help Wayne and Shawnee.”
“Easy there,” Max said, for his benefit as much as hers.
Libby’s arms tightened around her. “Forgive me for not being in a joking mood. Now tell me what you think of him.”
Max thought of the strangeness he had seen in Wayne. “He’s definitely troubled.”
“I’m afraid of the effect the stress might be having on this couple. That’s often how a malicious spirit works — divide and conquer. I’ve seen the behavior changes in Wayne. I think whatever’s attacking them is starting to focus on him more.”
“Isn’t this thing going after Shawnee’s baby? Isn’t that what we’ve all been worried about?”
“There’s more than one way to get at something. Right now, Shawnee’s on alert. She’s actively trying to protect her baby which makes it harder for any kind of malevolence to succeed.”
“You think it’s going after Wayne now?”
Libby stopped and turned Max by the shoulder to face her. “Not just Wayne. We’re all at risk.” She scanned up and down the street as if afraid someone might be eavesdropping. “Not that long ago, I made the mistake of dating one of my co-workers. Not any of these guys here. A man named Keith. We were on a case, and maybe it was the pressure or some survival instinct or I-don’t-know-what, but we ended up together. There was a full-blown poltergeist in that house, and it came after us bad.”
“What do you mean? It physically assaulted you?”
“No. It wormed its way into Keith’s head. Confused him until he saw me as the monster. He started accusing me of sleeping around, he grew paranoid — afraid I might try to kill him — and he became overbearing on a daily basis. None of these characteristics were typical of him. Eventually, well ...” Her hand drifted up to her cheek. “He hit me. Right in front of Carl. Which turned out to be a good thing because Carl tackled him. We tried to get him to see what was happening, to get him to leave the case, but he refused. So, we fired him and ultimately, we had to put a restraining order out on him. Being forced away from the house eventually broke the control the poltergeist had on him, but the damage was done. I’ve never seen him since. The point is that these things can come after us, try to create more strife between us and use that strife to destroy us. I know this is a personal thing to ask, but is everything good between you and your wife?”
Max leveled his best poker face at Libby. “We’re fine. We’ve faced plenty of this kind of thing together. Don’t worry about us.”
He walked back towards his car, leaving Libby alone. As he thumped into the driver’s seat, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her walking further up the neighborhood street.
Driving home, Max’s mind flooded with the serious dangers they faced. He could no longer postpone dealing with the pregnancy test he had found in their house. Part of him had hoped to wait until this case had ended. Part of him hoped never to have to deal with anything. But he knew Libby had nailed the head of the problem. If there was any discord between him and Sandra, whatever lived in that house would find it and use it against them.
Later that evening, when Sandra returned home, Max had a candlelit dinner of Wendy’s combo meals waiting for her — one hamburger, one chicken sandwich, and one beaming smile. She giggled at the sight, but he sensed the caution hiding behind her eyes.
Dumb move, Max. He had used the candlelit fast food dinner before and this may have been a case of going to the well one-too-many times. Sandra knew something was up.
Still, she played along. “What a thoughtful surprise. I’m famished.” She sat at the table and tucked into her French fries.
Max took the chair opposite her feeling like a player in a chess tournament about to face a dreaded opponent. He hated that such a feeling could be attributed to any interaction with his wife but saw no better way to deal with their current problems. He reminded himself there was no need for nerves. This would be a joyful conversation because he would be opening to her that he was ready to do the thing she wanted — to create a baby.
“I hoped we could have a little talk —”
Sandra clicked her nails on the table before washing down a bit of hamburger. “Before we start that, tell me how the case went today. Did you go to the Darians’ house? And what happened with Mother Hope?”
Max allowed himself to be deflected into this different conversation. He laid out his meeting with Mother Hope, skillfully glossing over the more treacherous details and skipping entirely the promise he had made. He also neglected the phone call with his mother and jumped straight to the Darians’ house. That part of the story he
left completely intact.
“So this name, Unger, it was on the wood?”
“Yup. Couldn’t have been clearer.”
“What’s it from? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll find out. For now, I want to talk about —”
Sandra’s body tensed. “Maybe we should put conversations about us on hold until we’re finished with this case. This Unger seems like something we need to focus on.”
Max watched her eyes, wondering what she could be so scared to talk about. “We have to talk about this — for the case. Whatever is attacking the Darians will try to come between us. It’ll sense this unresolved talk, and it’ll exploit it.”
Sandra lowered her gaze, and her hand rested on her stomach. With a shuddering sigh, she said, “Okay. I’ve not been trying to hide things from you. I simply needed to be ready first. And you’re right. In order to help Shawnee and Wayne, we have to clear things up between us.”
“So, there is something between us?”
“Not like that. You know I would tell you any problem I had like that. We’ve come too far to hold secrets from each other.”
“Then what’s this all about? I mean, I think I know, and I have an answer that’ll make you happy. So why are we both so nervous?”
Reaching across the table, Sandra held Max’s hand. She gave him a slight squeeze. “Nothing to fear. I went to the doctor today, so that I could schedule —”
“Max? Sandra?” Drummond’s voice blared from down the hall. Max only had enough time to share a look of disappointment with Sandra; however, he swore she looked relieved. Drummond soared in. He circled the ceiling before dropping into the table, settling himself between them.
“I tell you guys, you would never be able to solve a case without me. It’s crazy. You’re always relying on me finding these people, and I have done it again. I have found a connection. Without me, you’d still be digging through your books, I’m sure.”
Max thumped his back against the chair. “Are you going to keep boasting or are you going to actually tell us something?”
“You wanted a connection, I give you Floyd Johnson.”
Chapter 16
Drummond held still after his triumphant declaration. His eyes fell upon the food and the candlelight and the perturbed gazes directed at him. “Am I interrupting one of your married date things?”
“Yes,” Max said, tossing his napkin on the table.
“Sorry about that. I can come back.”
Sandra wiped her mouth. “Don’t be silly. We can date anytime. This case is much more pressing. So, tell us, who’s Floyd Johnson and when do we meet him?”
Drummond bit his bottom lip and rubbed the back of his neck. “I may have misspoken. I don’t exactly have Floyd Johnson in hand, but I know he’s the man we want.”
Pushing back his chair, Max said, “At least, tell us how you know that.”
“Floyd Johnson was a former employee of the Casper Company. And though he didn’t die tragically at the Darian house, he did die tragically.”
“Tragically? What happened?”
“I don’t know exactly. We can ask him when I find him.”
“You don’t have the guy, but somehow you know all about him. Except you don’t know the key details of what you do know. How does that happen?”
Drummond kicked the back of Max’s chair — a reminder that he could still touch the corporeal world. “Just because I’m dead, doesn’t mean I don’t know my job. I’m a good detective. Part of that means developing a network of contacts and informants. People on the inside and outside of every situation to help me out. You got yourself a network together yet?”
“Well —”
“Exactly. You still got a lot to learn, and it’s important you start to do that learning. Get yourself a network of people here in the real world. I’ve been doing my end of it in the Other, and it’s those contacts that have provided us with the information we needed. That’s how I found out about Floyd Johnson.”
Sandra offered a warm smile. “You’ve done well, and we appreciate it.”
“Doesn’t always feel that way.”
“I certainly appreciate it.”
Max hurried to add, “And I do, too. Wasn’t trying to question your abilities.”
Mollified, Drummond continued, “Well, all we’ve got to do is find him now, and we’ll get all the details that we can. I’ll go back to the Other and see what’s what.”
Sandra blew him a kiss. “I wish I could give you a hug, too.”
As much as a ghost could, Drummond blushed. “For you, Doll, this is hardly trouble. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Drummond left.
In the silence that ensued, Max’s mouth twitched from side to side. Sandra got up and disposed of the fast food bags and cartons.
“I’m sorry our date got interrupted,” she said.
Max shook his head — not because he didn’t believe her, though he had seen her relief. Rather, he shook his head at his own thoughts. “None of this is adding up.”
“You mean the case?”
“What do we have? A haunted house that we can’t find the ghost haunting it. A house built in the 1920s, yet everything about it, like the bottle, comes from decades earlier. Even this Floyd Johnson is a former Casper employee, so how can he possibly be connected to a house that wasn’t even built until the guy was very old or, more likely, dead. And now, we have this piece of wood with the name Unger on it, and that could be any number of things.”
“I know how frustrated you feel. I feel it, too. But we’re going to have to —” Sandra’s cell phone rang. Glancing at it, she frowned. “It’s Libby.”
Max listened to her end of the conversation — the concern in her voice, the subtle gasp, and the dreaded question What happened? When she ended the call, Max said, “Shawnee got attacked again, didn’t she?”
“Worst one yet.”
Sandra tapped on her phone a moment and then handed it to Max. Libby had sent over a photo of Shawnee that made her look like a domestic abuse victim. Blood glistened on her forehead from a gash leading into her hairline. Her nose had swelled and blood dribbled down to her mouth.
Scratching his head, Max stretched his back. “Guess the day’s not over. Let’s get going.”
He paused a moment as he watched the last of their fast food date swept into the trashcan. He knew the pregnancy issue had been swept away as well, but even though they wouldn’t get a chance to talk about it all now, he could still be the man Sandra needed. For the moment, that meant helping the Darians. Soon, it would mean being a father — the best he could be.
Sandra’s fingers snapped in front of his face. “You there?”
Max grabbed his coat and keys and headed for the car. “Come on. Let’s go help the Darians.”
Chapter 17
Max tramped across the Darians’ front lawn and into the house. The drive over had been filled with tense silence. His thoughts had been consumed with the failed conversation over Wendy’s dinner as well as his frustration towards Libby and the Darians. He understood that Wayne and Shawnee couldn’t move away, that they had to deal with the problems of this house, but that didn’t mean they had to stay there and keep getting attacked. They could try to sleep in a hotel, at least.
Max chided himself. Angry thinking wouldn’t help the situation. Besides, he had been the one to tell Wayne that they couldn’t run from this.
Stepping into the living room, Max’s thoughts only strengthened — the Darians should try to run away. The place looked ransacked. Every piece of furniture had been upended. Several pillows lay in shredded bundles. Their stuffing covered the torn carpet like snow. Shattered picture frames and a broken lamp littered one corner of the room. A jagged crack marred the flatscreen. Parts of the sensitive and expensive filming equipment breached the far wall like a sculpture intruding upon the room.
“Carl’s going to be pissed when he sees that,” Max said.
From the kitchen,
Libby called out, “We’re in here.”
Sandra hurried ahead while Max yanked the camera tripod out of the wall. When he joined the rest in the kitchen, he found Shawnee sitting with her head tilted back and holding ice against her face. Libby hovered over her like a stage mother.
Stroking Shawnee’s hair, Libby said, “The spirit attacked her while she slept on the couch.”
Max said, “Did you call for an ambulance?”
“Are you crazy? That would be the stupidest call. Yes, 911, a mysterious ghost-thing tried to kill my friend.”
“Not about the spirit world, but for her and the baby, surely the paramedics could do something.”
Shawnee dismissed them with her hand. “I’m fine.” But her hand swayed like a walking drunk.
Kneeling before Shawnee, Sandra touched the woman’s belly. “Son of a bitch,” she said and stormed out of the room.
Max followed in her wake. He had to make sure she didn’t act in a rage. Strong emotion was always food for these kinds of things.
Sandra charged up the stairs. Before hitting the top, a forced ripped her backwards. Max had only reached the third step when she came crashing down. He caught her, and they tumbled to the floor, his head banging into the front door.
“Sandra?” Libby called from the kitchen. “You okay?”
“We’re fine. Thanks for asking,” Max said as they untangled. “Well, it wouldn’t be a proper case, if I didn’t get beat up a little.”
When she didn’t react with even a slight chuckle, he worried she might have been seriously injured. Looking upon her, though, he saw nothing physically wrong. However, she stared up the stairwell, face pale, her bottom lip trembling.
He reached out for her but held back. He didn’t want to startle her. “What’s there? What do you see?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I still see nothing.”
A terrible chill slithered across his skin. He knew that feeling. It happened whenever a ghost touched him. “I can feel it. Can’t you?”
