Web Ginn House: A Zo�� Martinique Investigation, Short Story

by Phaedra Weldon

  This was the first physical manifestation I'd seen of something that happened while I was traveling, and I didn't know if I'd done something permanent.

  My purse lay in a heap on the floor a few inches away and I reached in for my cell. One bar left. Curse me and my inability to remember to plug the damned thing in.

  I called my mom.

  <><><>

  "Did you hammer them with a meat mallet?"

  I could have smacked my mom. But in truth, I wanted to smack her about once a day. A Debbie Reynolds duplicate, she puttered around in my kitchen after we returned from the emergency room. I lay propped up on the couch, my ankles encased in braces of plastic and Velcro. I didn't get any crutches to hobble on because I was under strict orders to stay off my feet.

  And I had Gestapo-Mom to enforce that decree.

  Luckily I'd already tried Traveling to make sure I could move on my feet that way. It was slow going, but I could. I just couldn't run any ghostly marathons.

  My condo was a decent size, with a living room and fireplace, a small kitchen with a look-through in the wall to the dinning room (which was really just a piece of the living room). I'd had the whole place done in Pergo flooring. Earth tone furnishings and décor. Just the basics.

  And two bedrooms and a bathroom down the hall.

  Not much, but it was mine. Bought and paid for with my own brand of commerce.

  Yay. Go me.

  It was nearing nine, Halloween morning. I'd filled mom in on the details of my assignment while we'd been in the waiting room. She then called Rhonda (my magical MacGyver) and filled her in. I flipped through the local news stations while mom made biscuits, gravy, juice, bacon, eggs and grits.

  Mmmmm….grits.

  I was looking for anything about the night's events. Something on a local station. I mean, SPRITE definitely had some footage on me. They had proof of something. And it was Halloween. So why wasn't there something on a local station showing it?

  The front door opened and Rhonda bustled in. She looked ready for Halloween.

  But Rhonda always looked ready for Halloween. Her hair was shoulder length, dyed flat-black. Her eyes were brilliant blue (unlike my own dull brown ones) and her skin a near translucent white. Her nails were short and nubby and painted black.

  Today she wore a black tee-shirt, black jeans, black boots, and a blue jeans jacket with a black ink rendering of Jesus looking like the statue of liberty on the back of her jacket.

  Rhonda was scary looking to some, but she was our Spook-la-pedia goth.

  She had her black leather backpack over her shoulder as she came straight to me and started looking at my ankles. The book-bag hit the floor with a thud and she gently pulled at the Velcro.

  With a frown, she then bent over her bag, pulled out a small five inch by eight inch book and started thumbing through it.

  "Hello Zoë, you look great. Why thank you, Rhonda. You too." I couldn't resist opening my mouth. As usual.

  "You look like shit," Rhonda said though her gaze never left her book. "You always do after a tough travel." She turned a page. "So, it was a squid?"

  "Yep."

  "Poltergeist."

  I pursed my lips. "That's what SPRITE thought it was, but aren't they supposed to be attached to adolescents or something?"

  Rhonda nodded, but she still didn't look at me. Her eye-lashes were purple. "That's the popular misconception. Most Parapsychologists think Poltergeists are simply the unconscious adolescent lashing out where the consciousness won't. And they're partly true. Poltergeists are entities created on the Abysmal plane, usually created there by powerful adolescents who don't realize they're psychic."

  I never pretended to know what she was talking about. And Rhonda knew it. I was patient and watched her until she pulled her nose out of the book and then touched my ankles. I flinched.

  Rhonda spoke. "Some psychics can tap the different planes. You probably could as a child and didn't know it. Might explain your ability to go out of body. Some kids tap the Ethereal, and we have moments of psychic phenomenon, like them knowing things, or premonitions that save lives. Usually happens with slightly troubled teens.

  "But then we have those in broken or just downright abused homes. These kids come from a darker place and unfortunately some tap the darker side, the Abysmal plane, as opposed to the Ethereal. Sometimes these kids link with a symbiont and go on to do some pretty wicked things. Others see the Abysmal and commit suicide, and then sometimes what manifests is a poltergeist. This squid you saw is just that."

  "But," I watched as mom set the table and I wondered exactly how I was going to get over to those biscuits. My stomach growled. "There aren't any kids that live in this house."

  "True," she nodded and turned my ankle to the right. I flinched and nearly swatted her. Owch. "But I'm sure there was a kid that lived in that house, and they were abused, only they got out. They either fled, or they got help. Is there anyone living there now?"

  "Yeah," I thought back to the file I'd gotten from maharba. "New owners. Elderly couple. Apparently they'd had a few incidents. Just things going missing, and maybe the cabinets opening up. Nothing like what I saw last night."

  "Poltergeists are basically the same as bogeys or dust bunnies, Zoë. Nuisances with the occasional bounce off a noggin. It's rare they hurt the living, but they can manipulate physical objects, like you saw. But as for this," she pursed her lips and shook her head at my ankles. "I can only assume it was able to touch you on a physical level because you're still attached to a living body. It squeezed your astral ankles, and it manifested physically. You sure we're not talking about a half-manifested spirit? Ghost? Angry specter?"

  I was still stuck on something she said. "Dust bunny?"

  "Just an expression—slang for the spooks under the bed. Annoying creatures." She arched an eyebrow. "Focus on me, Zoë."

  "SPRITE said it was a poltergeist."

  "And the previous reports would lead me to believe that. I'd say this thing was trying to hurt you. Or capture you."

  Zoinks. "Why the hell for?"

  "I don't know," she shrugged. "Either because you can see it, you're a threat to it, or it just plain doesn't like you."

  Great. "So what do I do to get rid of it?"

  She frowned at me. "Why do you want to get rid of it? Is that what your client wants?"

  "Well no, but the damned thing hurt two people—I saw it lift that equipment and smack them in the face with it. You think an elderly couple needs to move back in there only to get knocked on their asses by—let's say—a Magic Bullet?"

  "Good point. One of two things. You can somehow convince the creator to dismiss it by revisiting the house—good luck on that one in tracking down any kids that might have lived there—or even convincing them you're not a lunatic. Or, you can sever its tie to the physical plane."

  I leaned my head toward her. "And that would be…."

  "Some physical thing. Some object maybe still in the house from the previous owners."

  I was afraid to ask how I could sever this tie, seeing as I couldn't manipulate physical objects while Traveling. And Rhonda knew it. She reached down into her backpack and pulled out a Creative Loafing, a local paper that reported on the happenings in Atlanta, from the arts to the local police dramas.

  The front of this one was plastered with a picture of SPRITE, their name spelled out in creaky letters along the bottom. It read SPRITE FINDS EXISTENCE OF FEMALE GHOST IN LOCAL SUBURBAN HOME. See page 34.

  Right below the group's pictures was a small image captured from the thermal imager. Me. Or rather an outline of me, in blue and green.

  Wow…do my boobs really look that big?

  "Focus Martinique. As to how to sever this tie—I suggest you use these guys," Rhonda pointed to the cover with a black fingernail. "Somehow have them destroy it."

  I looked from the cover to her smiling face. "Is your brain missing?"

  "No, seriously. The only other way to get rid of this thing i
s to cut its fetter, its link to this plane. Once that's done it'll dissipate and return to the Abysmal. You just have to find what's in that house that's acting as the fetter's anchor."

  I pulled myself up on the couch to get a better glaring angle at the little goth chick. "Fetter? What the hell is a fetter?"

  "A leash. Most entities like ghosts, specters, and poltergeists are kept here on a leash, or a fetter. You break that, the poltergeist goes bye-bye."

  Silverware clinked against ceramic. I glanced behind me at mom who busied herself setting the table for breakfast. She might look like the busy mom figure, but I'd bet my ass she'd heard every word.

  "SPRITE has goodies I don’t have access too. Spectral entities like that usually use up the energy in the air around them, which can frak up a camera, or a light fixture. A thermal imager, like the one that caught you, will also catch a fetter. Only a fetter is going to show up very warm. You need to find where the fetter is in the house and destroy it."

  "But I have to let SPRITE do it—"

  "Because you're not corporeal," mom chimed in from the table.

  See? Her ears were still as sharp as the night I tried sneaking out my bedroom window. Whoa be to me when I found mom on the ground waiting for me. She'd heard my feet against the house.

  Do'h!

  "I need to investigate the previous owners, find out the daughter or son's history, and then find out which room they lived in—"

  "Or," Rhonda held up a finger. "Find out if there's something still in the house. Like a toy or even an article of clothing."

  I arched an eyebrow at Rhonda. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Any minute now. Just wait. The catch…it's there.

  "And you need to do it before nine tonight—evidently SPRITE's heading back to the house to catch their woman demon on film again. After tonight, the present owners are going to raze the house—and that won't get rid of the poltergeist. It'll just be there for the next poor people to build a house on that lot."

  Blamo. Told you there was something else.

  Great. So I needed to somehow find the fetter and convince the boys and Boo to destroy it.

  Oh yeah—my Halloween just got more interesting. Yay. Go. Me.

  <><><>

  Well, to find out what I could about the present owners, the Brentwoods, I simply learned what SPRITE knew—which was plastered all over the article in Creative Loafing. Elderly couple, just moved here from Florida, escaping the hurricanes, wanting to find a place to retire and make a life after spending years traveling. No children. All their money was tied into the house.

  And the previous owners? Now that's the strange part. The Smiths had a single child, a daughter, who now was an almost grandmother. Daughter was born in 1960. But—if she'd created a poltergeist back in her puberty years—would it have lived this long?

  Something in my gut told me not so. According to Rhonda these things remained, but without something feeding it, the thing would linger in a weakened state. So—why was it so absolutely all fire creepy now?

  There was a gear missing in this mechanism for disaster, and me with my hobbled ankles wasn't sure what it was, or how to find it, or even fix it once I did. I'd spent the entire afternoon on the couch surfing the web and googling all over the place.

  I set my ibook on the coffee table and decided it was time to test my ankles and their just over-the-top lovely braces. Time because hydraulic pressure was going to pop my bladder and send me shooting straight up into the cat-lady's condo above me.

  I scooted forward, put my feet beneath me, and with a deep breath, stood straight up—and stayed there.

  Interesting. Pursing my lips, I took a few steps away from my couch around my coffee table. I could feel the bruises on my ankles, but they didn't hurt. Not like they had earlier. Was I already healed? Wow…was this a super new power?

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  YOW!! I nearly shot out of my body right then my mom scared me so bad. I turned and nearly fell over. "Geesus would you not do that?"

  She came from the kitchen (I had no idea she was still in there) and stood behind the couch. "Zoë those braces aren't meant to be walked on."

  "Well duh—I know that. But look," I pointed down at my feet. "I can walk!"

  "Because the braces are supporting you." She put her hands on her amble hips. "Try it without the braces."

  I did.

  I fell down.

  "I have to pee," I said from the floor.

  Mom towered over me. "Then I'll help you. I used to change your diaper you know."

  Ugh.

  Rhonda was in the living room holding the remote and flipping channels when we came back in. She must have entered while I was in the bathroom. She'd changed at some point during the day. Actually put on nice pants, a white shirt and a black blazer. Only the black lipstick, nails and spiked bracelets gave her true nature away.

  Two clicks to Channel Two Action News. "Check this out."

  I looked at the clock over the television. It was after five. Wow, where was the afternoon?

  "….as promised…a very startling…and creepy…Halloween event."

  The screen broke from the anchor to the Smith house where I'd been last night. Only it was a night shot, and the wind around the autumn turning trees did look spooky. Jump photography, two flashes of special effect lightening and we were in the house with a guide.

  And that guide happened to be Randall. Only he looked awful. The monitor had broken his nose and his eyes were bruised. He looked like a raccoon.

  I listened with interest as the SPRITE member showed the camera crew the mess and then gave an account of what they saw, and then to my surprise, played out the video they'd taken of me.

  "Nice profile," Rhonda said.

  And it was, but just not something I wanted filmed. Not that I thought anyone was going to recognize me in the shot.

  "We're not sure if this is the entity causing the nightmares the Smiths have been through these past few weeks since buying the house," Randall was saying. "We did catch her voice on tape."

  The image changed to a voice image, with a straight line and then a squiggle. Then I heard my voice say "Look out!" as white letters clarified it for the television audience. And CC for the hearing impaired.

  Oh greeeeeat.

  If there was one thing distinctive about me, it was my voice. Gravely. Rough. Deep. Kinda manly.

  "Sounds as if she was warning you," the reporter commented as they stood in the living room carnage.

  Randall nodded. "Yeah, yeah. And she did, because right after that is when the camera and monitors we were holding jumped out of our hands."

  "So you're saying maybe she's more of a guardian angel?"

  Randall smiled. "Right now, I don't know what to believe. We hope to make contact again tonight."

  Rhonda switched off the television. "You know what this means?"

  I was still on Guardian Angel. Aw. How sweet. "Randall looks like a raccoon?"

  "It means the whole area's going to be crawling with people. Kids trying to get in to see the ghost. Freaks. Groups singing outside in midnight vigils to stop the evil."

  In a word, Mob.

  "Mob," Rhonda said.

  Hey, I thought that before she did.

  "Zoë," she gave me one of those school teacher looks—here we go explaining it to the slow child. "Look what that thing did to the SPRITE members. With the cameras? All those people I just mentioned will run the risk of that thing pulling similar stunts to them. What if someone gets killed?"

  Oh.

  "You need to get in, find that fetter, destroy it, and get out. You don't need SPRITE taping you anymore." She tilted her head to the side, almost resting it on her shoulder. "And please…please…keep your mouth shut. If you don't I'll kick your damaged ankles."

  Mental note: Rhonda is mean.

  <><><>

  Goth chick wasn't kidding when she said Mob.

  Circus might have been more appropriate, thoug
h. There were indeed prayer groups with heads bowed, people with signs saying "ghost have rights too", and even a few men in white colors preaching the dangers of doing God's work.

  Wasn't even a full moon tonight and the crazies were there for their Halloween fix.

  The SPRITE van was in the driveway, their little blue fairy logo incongruent with the kids in sheets and black robes. Several news vans were there as well. Must not be much happening on this Thursday night.

  I kept my body on the couch at home with mom and road incorporeally with Rhonda. She stayed in the background, blending in (LOL!) as I made my way past the cameras and anchor people to the back of the house. There I found an open door and slipped inside, happy I wouldn't have to sieve through the wood. I can do it, but I don't like to. Especially not glass. Too cold.

  I stopped in the kitchen. There was equipment everywhere. Camera lenses pointed at me from every angle. Luckily none of them were turned over and running.

  Yay.

  I moved to the hallway and the den. Fewer cameras here and none of them looked like thermal imagers. My guess was they'd keep those in their hands as they had the night before.

  I stood in the room's center. The television in the corner was dark, the books in the shelf all in place. My guess was that since the thing had been centered in here, maybe the fetter was too.

  So, what would it look like? Would it glow? Jump and down?

  Sing?

  I wanted to shout out, call to it. But not if they could actually record me. Think, think, think.

  What had SPRITE done to provoke it the night before?

  "Randall we can't work with all those people outside." That was Herb and he didn't sound happy. "I told you not to do that interview—not till we were done."

  They stopped right outside the den, in the hallway, where I'd been stuck the night before.

  "I thought it needed to be shown that we're not crazy people." Randall said.

  "I know we're not crazy, and so do you. Why should it matter who else did?"

  "But we actually have proof, Herb. We need to show it around."

  Did something just vibrate on that shelf?