Portraits of the Forsaken

by E. E. Holmes

  “Um, hello?” I called.

  “We’re still closed!” called a woman’s muffled voice from one of the back rooms.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. The sign says ten o’clock.”

  “So, common sense should tell you to wait until ten o’clock before trying the door,” the woman’s aggravated voice replied.

  “It’s 10:07,” I told her, checking my phone display.

  “What?! Oh my… hang on, I’ll be right with you!” I heard a series of bangs, a bit of cursing, and then a woman emerged from the far door, rubbing her hands on the pant legs of her jeans and wiping sweat from her brow with a white handkerchief. She was a tall, thin woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with thick, dark hair pinned up under a bandana and a deep olive complexion that was shining with sweat and sticky with dust. She looked up at the clock on the wall. It said 9:20. She looked down at her watch and swore again. Then she looked up and smiled a bit maniacally at me.

  “My apologies for the delay. And my appearance. And the excessive cursing,” she said with a note of desperation in her voice. “For some reason, my watch and all three of the clocks in here stopped working at twenty-past nine, so rather than opening on time, I nearly turned away our first—and potentially only—customer of the day.”

  “That’s okay, don’t worry about it,” I said, smiling. I extended my hand out to her. “My name is Jess Ballard.”

  The woman took my hand and grasped it firmly. “Shriya Brown, née Pickwick. I’m the proprietor of this fine establishment. Or at least, I’m trying to be. I inherited it a month ago from my grandfather and so I’m still trying to figure out how it all works.”

  A muffled crashing sound echoed from the back room.

  “Damn it. Excuse me, for just a moment please,” Shriya said, and disappeared into the back room again.

  As I stood waiting for her, a pair of female spirits floated through the room, whispering to each other. They stared around the place, bewildered. One was clutching at her head. Then they disappeared up the staircase. They took no notice of me.

  Shriya appeared again, rubbing one of her elbows and smiling ruefully. “Apologies again. I’m operating under the assumption that the storage room is trying to kill me.”

  “No problem. Do… do you want me to come back another time?” I asked.

  “No! No, not at all!” Shriya cried, looking horrified. “Just… just give me a moment, please, and I’ll be delighted to assist you.”

  I watched as Shriya scurried around, pulling up the shades, turning on the lights, and plugging in and powering on various items all over the room. Several costumed mannequins began jerking and swiveling. Sound effects of clicking, popping, and whirring started to play through little speakers set in the various displays. As she pulled a black fabric cover off an antique cash register, another spirit passed directly behind her. She shuddered violently and turned, staring wildly around, and then placed her hand along the sill of the nearby window, apparently convinced there had been a draft.

  “So, did you say that you just inherited this museum?” I asked.

  “Yeah, my grandfather used to run it,” Shriya said as she fiddled with the cash register. “I used to come here all the time as a kid. I loved it, but I haven’t been back in years. I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she leaned across the counter and said, in a stage whisper, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Can I ask you how you heard about the museum?” Shriya asked. “I’m trying to figure out how to market the place. My grandfather, bless him, didn’t seem too fussed with letting people know the museum actually exists. I don’t know how he’s stayed open so long.”

  “I saw your booth at the Portobello Market this past weekend.”

  “Oh, did you? Excellent!” the woman said. “We’ve never done the market before. I was dubious about the value in it, but lo and behold, a real live customer!”

  “Yeah, well, a friend of my roommate was working the booth for you. Charlie Wright?”

  Shriya’s face lit up. “Oh, you know Charlie!”

  “Not really,” I said. “I only just met him for the first time on Saturday. But he said I should stop by and check out the museum, so that’s what I’m doing. He said he was working today.”

  “He would have been, but he’s just phoned to say he’s been taken ill,” Shriya said. “Which is part of the reason I’m scrambling like this. Charlie worked for my grandfather before he passed away. He knows more about this place than I do. I’d be quite lost without him.”

  I nodded politely, but inside, my brain was whirring. So, if Charlie was the one who was supposed to be haunted, and Charlie wasn’t here today… then what the hell was with all the ghosts? If he wasn’t here, shouldn’t they just be haunting him at his flat, or wherever else he happened to be? Why were they hanging around the museum, if the object of their fascination was elsewhere?

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  “… don’t even know how to categorize all the artifacts in the back,” Shriya was still chattering away. She sighed and gestured theatrically around her. “Anyway, enough about my general incompetence. We’re up and running! Now what can I do for you?”

  “I… uh… wanted to buy a ticket, please,” I said, somewhat distracted by the spirits that kept wandering back and forth through the room. Each and every one of them had a mystified, almost entranced expression on their faces. Were they confused? Were they searching for Charlie?

  “Brilliant. That will be five pounds please,” Shriya said, prodding at the keys on the register, each of which made a hollow clunking noise. As I handed over my money, the drawer slid open with violent force, sending paper notes fluttering everywhere.

  “Bollocks!” Shriya shouted. “I’m so sorry, I… I don’t know what happened. I must say that about fifty times a day around here.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Here let me help you.” I dropped to the floor and started picking up money. A child’s spirit giggled at me from beneath the counter.

  “That wasn’t very nice, you know,” I whispered, staring the child right in the eye. He gasped at being discovered and vanished on the spot, leaving nothing but an icy draft in his wake.

  “Here you go,” I said to Shriya, straightening up and depositing the crumpled pile of money on the counter. “I think that’s everything that fell on this side.”

  “Cheers,” Shriya said, trying to organize the money with slightly trembling hands. “You must think I’m completely mad—can’t open on time, can’t work a cash register. Great first impression I’m making.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “So… so Charlie isn’t even here today?”

  “That’s right,” Shriya said distractedly, trying to count. “Hope he’s feeling better soon, or the place is likely to fall apart without him. Well, here you are.” She handed me a large cardstock ticket that was designed to look like a ticket to a carnival or a sideshow. She took a large silver puncher and, with a flourish, punched a hole in my ticket the shape of a curled moustache. I looked down at it and chuckled.

  “My grandfather was a quirky man,” Shriya said, laughing along with me. “So, you can look at the exhibits in any order, but if you follow the footprints, they will lead you through the museum in chronological order.”

  “The footprints?” I asked, confused.

  Shriya pointed down to the floor, where large, cartoonish white shoe prints had been painted onto the black floorboards. For the first time I noticed that they wandered all over the museum, as though an invisible clown were taking a tour.

  “Oh, I see. Thank you,” I said.

  “Do you want me to show you around?” Shriya asked.

  “No!” I said, a little too sharply. Shriya looked taken aback, but I quickly slapped on a smile and went on, “I’m perfectly content to just wander, thanks. Besides, it sounds like you’ve got a lot to do. Why don’t you take the opportunity to get a few things do
ne before it gets too busy?”

  Shriya smiled a little sadly. “It never gets busy. That’s part of the problem.” She stepped out from behind the counter. “If you have any questions, just give me a shout, yeah? I’ll be right in the back room.”

  I think I made a generic reply, but my thoughts were racing ahead. Charlie wasn’t here, and yet Pickwick’s History of Photography was absolutely swarming with spirits. This made no sense. The spirits had been looking at him—following him with their eyes, and swarming around his body. He had been the focus of their obsession. Were all of these spirits perhaps just waiting for him to return? And if so, why?

  I backtracked to the front door where the painted footsteps began. I worked my way slowly around the room, stopping dutifully at each display as though I was reading it, but really keeping my senses alert for further spirit encounters. The entire place was buzzing with the energy.

  At the third display, the spirit of a young man was staring at a display of portraits on the wall, walking in circles, then returning to the portraits.

  “Hello,” I said to him. “Are you all right?”

  He turned and looked at me. His gaze was completely unfocused. “I can’t find it,” he said, sounding a little desperate. “It’s here, in this place, but I can’t find it. It’s like a bloody maze!”

  “What are you—” I began, but the man gave a roar of frustration and vanished, appearing again on the other side of the room, where he continued to stare and pace and circle.

  I moved a little further along. The spirit of an old woman sat at the foot of the staircase that led to the upper level. She was sobbing into her hands.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked her, but she didn’t seem to even be able to hear me. Bending closer to her, I could make out some of the words buried in the fit of crying.

  “I’ve waited too long,” she was whispering. “I’ve waited too long and now I can’t find it. I’ve lost the way. It won’t let me through, not now, not ever.”

  I straightened up, a deep uneasiness growing in the pit of my stomach. In the back corner of the room, the ghost of a younger woman with long, braided hair was staring around her, as though looking for a street sign.

  “Who are you looking for?” I asked her, after making sure that Shriya was still safely in the back room.

  The girl seemed not even to realize where my voice had come from. Her eyes continued to dart around the room. “I… I can’t get through,” she was saying, over and over again. “It’s here… but… where is it?”

  I encountered at least a dozen other spirits in my self-guided tour, but not a single one of them seemed capable of speaking to me. Without exception they were confused, frustrated, and generally disoriented. I could not make sense of it, except for one, glaring fact.

  It wasn’t Charlie who was haunted at all. It was the museum itself.

  §

  I’d barely finished calling a hasty goodbye to Shriya and pulled the front door shut behind me, and my phone was already out of my pocket and up to my ear.

  “Yes?” drawled the bored voice I expected on the other end.

  “Hi, Catriona,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Just ducky,” she said. I could practically hear her eyes rolling. “And you are calling because…?”

  “You really have to stop sounding so happy to hear from me,” I said. “Honestly, people will think there’s something going on between us.”

  A moment of silence, and then, “And you are calling because…?”

  “Did you have any luck with the background check on Charlie Wright?” I asked her.

  “Wright, Wright,” she said, and I could hear her flipping through papers on her desk. “Hang on, I think I saw something come through this morning, actually. Yes, here it is.” I waited as she flipped through and scanned the report. “No, nothing here to tie him to any known active or Dormant clan.”

  I nodded. That, at least, made sense based on what I’d just witnessed. “Okay. So, my next question is, have you ever heard of a place called ‘Pickwick’s History of Photography?’”

  “No,” Catriona said. “Should I have?”

  “Not necessarily, no. It’s the museum where Charlie works. I just visited the place and it is swarming with spirits. Like, I’ve never seen so many ghosts outside of Fairhaven.”

  “Riveting,” Catriona said blandly. “Why do I need to know this?”

  “I think it’s the building—or something housed inside it—that is drawing the spirits. Charlie hasn’t been in today—he’s called out sick—and the place is still crawling with ghosts. I can’t figure it out.”

  “Any other people working there?” Catriona asked.

  “The only one there today was the owner, Shriya Brown, but she doesn’t seem to be a sensitive. I mean, she knows weird stuff is happening, but no more than any other normal person whose space is haunted,” I said. “Here’s the strange thing, though. The spirits there seem convinced they’re being drawn to a Gateway, but then they wander around the museum all frustrated and confused, unable to Cross. I just can’t make heads or tails of it.”

  “So, what do you want to do, then? Have a team come check the place out?” Catriona asked. “I don’t really know who I can spare at the moment. We’ve got some high priority—”

  “No, I was thinking that maybe I could take the case on myself. This seems like one of those situations where my team might be a good fit,” I said hesitantly.

  “Your team?” Catriona drawled.

  “Yes, you know, the paranormal investigative team. The thing is, the owner of this place just inherited it, and she’s trying to drum up publicity. The team recently started a web series about their investigations, and it’s really popular. I think, if I offered for the museum to be featured on one of the episodes, Shriya might jump at the chance.”

  “Are you telling me,” Catriona said with a snort, “that non-sensitives actually watch that nonsense?”

  “Well, obviously someone like you wouldn’t find it very interesting,” I said, exerting serious effort now to keep the tone polite. “But non-sensitives find ghost hunting shows really entertaining.”

  “So, you use the investigation as the pretext to get in there and have a proper look around?” Catriona asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I can’t possibly do what I need to do if the place is full of customers. But if it’s empty, and I have the run of the place, I might be able to figure out what the hell is going on.”

  Catriona was silent for a few moments, then said, “All right, then. I’ll officially put it on your docket. Set it all up with the owner, call your team, and I’ll take care of the travel arrangements and lodging. I’m also going to submit a research order into the history of the building and surrounding area, so that we can know if there is any history of spiritual disruption there.”

  I blinked. “Really? You’re saying yes?”

  “Yes,” Catriona said, and then, almost grudgingly. “Good work.”

  “Uh, thanks,” I said. “I’ll uh… get going on those arrangements.”

  “Let me know when you’ve got commitments from the owner and your team,” Catriona said.

  “Will do,” I said. She answered with a click as she hung up the phone.

  Wow. “Good work.” I might as well bask in the glory of that praise. It was likely to be the last I’d get from Catriona probably ever.

  7

  Half-Truths

  “LONDON? Are you freaking kidding me?”

  Iggy’s excited voice boomed through the phone speaker, so that I had to hold it a good foot from my ear to avoid eardrum damage.

  “I am, indeed, not freaking kidding you,” I told him, laughing. “Do you think the rest of the guys would go for it?”

  “Of course!” Iggy said at once. “Damn, I’ve never been to England before. Neither has Dan. I think Oscar might have spent some time over there when he was in the Navy, but it’s been years. What’s the gig?”

  “A haunted museum,�
�� I told him. “The owner just inherited it from her grandfather and it is swarming with spirit activity. It would make an incredible episode for the web series. And maybe you guys could line up some other stuff to investigate while you’re here,” I suggested.

  “Yeah! Yeah, I mean, haunted London is just iconic, isn’t it? So much history, so many beheadings!”

  “Easy there, guy,” I said. “I’ve got to get the owner to agree to the investigation first. And then we’ve got to figure out when you guys can get here, the sooner the better. Any ideas?”

  “Well, we’re filming another location this weekend, but our next big shoot isn’t for another three weeks after that. It would put us behind on our editing, but I think we could squeeze it in. What do you think? How long do you think it would take to investigate the museum?”

  “That would be amazing,” I said gratefully. “It should only be a one-night job. It’s not a big place, but it packs a serious spiritual punch. You will not be disappointed, I promise you.”

  “Aw, man, I can’t wait to tell the guys. We’ll have to budget it out, unless—” he trailed off hopefully, and I knew why.

  “Don’t worry about that. I can get your expenses covered,” I assured him.

  Iggy whooped and then chuckled. “I know I’m not supposed to know who you work for, but man, you have got the best bosses.”