The Roxbury Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 1)

by Robin G. Austin

  It’s half past three when Mojo follows me to the jeep. He stops to sniff the cool December air and pee on a tire.

  The clouds are heavy and gray with the promise of lightning strikes before we cross the state line. The wind blows cottonwood and tangles it in my long black hair.

  I open the rear passenger door and the wolfdog stretches out on the back seat. “Merry Christmas,” I say, giving him a rawhide bone to gnaw on. He almost wags his tail.

  I’m half way to getting in the driver’s seat when a mean gust blows my wiry frame back a good foot. I watch a single black feather sway right, left, right, left all the way to the toe of my cowboy boot.

  Chapter Three

  §

  It’s way past my bedtime when I pull into the Best Western parking lot in Roxbury, Texas. Mojo needed a few more pit stops than I’d planned. I take the feather from the jeep’s sun visor that had fallen on my boot back in Las Trebol, and ask it for its message.

  My guess is that my offering is from a cowbird. These little feathered friends are into mating rituals, dive bombing the innocent, and singing off key. They also like to hang out in groups of other cowbirds and are known to dump their eggs into the nests of unsuspecting foster birds. Actually, they seem like your average teenager: hot to trot hormones, friends dependent, and customarily irresponsible. I’m not getting the right message, so I slip the feather back under the visor and head to the check-in desk.

  Hayley’s coming by the hotel at nine tomorrow to meet me and lead the way to Dorothy’s house, and I’m still as hyped up as a toddler with a sugar buzz. After getting my key card, I figure a walk through the field behind the hotel will calm me down.

  With a you’ve got to be kidding me glare, Mojo follows. His attitude is further compromised by a sudden downpour– he’s got a thing about those. I end up with a much unwanted burst of energy from the chilly rain and my run back to the room.

  As requested, Hayley sent me some photos of her mom’s house. I’m almost never totally out of the ballpark connecting with energy sent my way, but when I check my phone and see Dorothy’s house, I feel like I wasn’t even on the same planet with this one.

  Somehow, I’d got the vibe of a little bungalow on a corner lot with a manicured lawn and short picket fence. Instead, I’m looking at a grand old three story Victorian with sky high ceilings, stained glass windows, one very opulent staircase, and… I’m getting dizzy just looking at it– the attic, according to Hayley’s email.

  In the photo, there’s just a wall and part of the ceiling because as Hayley writes, That’s where the man lives and I’m not going all the way up those stairs to take a better picture. I don’t need a close up though; I can see the dark energy just fine. He’s no demon, but something is weighing heavily on this poor spirit.

  I’m less than twenty seconds into staring at the photo when I have to rush to the bathroom to upchuck my veggie burger and yucca chips dinner.

  Thirty minutes later, my teeth are brushed and I’m ready to crawl into bed. I take a deep breath and check my phone. Yep, the attic photo is still there, still dark, still nauseating. With my hand hovering over the image, I close my eyes. Evil… no. Angry… definitely… and sad. Mojo was almost right: one ornery hombre grieving about something he’s hell-bent on sharing.

  Let’s be honest. You and me and everyone else are but a train wreck or heart attack or gunshot wound away from being a mad, sad earthbound ghost ourselves, if only for a short time before moving on.

  Ghosts aren’t monsters in the closet or boogeymen under the bed; they’re human beings, albeit dead ones, who are lost, confused, and in the man’s case, irate and forlorn. So word to the wise: don’t go walking around with a heavy heart, especially near trains and gun ranges. And save being scared out of your drawers for the poltergeists.

  When people ask me if I’m afraid of ghosts, I always tell them of course not and well, yes. Just the way I’d answer if asked about being afraid of the living– who are actually more scary at times. There’s good and bad, dead or alive. Just like the living, the dead need understanding, acceptance, and sometimes a helping hand.

  Saying I eradicate has great marketing appeal. When people are being haunted, they don’t want a good conversationalist; they want an eradicator. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes a meany ghost comes along who needs his or her butt kicked to down under. Ghosts who mess with little kids or whole families or one elderly lady who just wants to live another fifty years, need that kick in the hind end. But most just need directions.

  I point the way to the bright light so they can stop opening cabinets or banging on the furnace to get some attention. Attention seeking is nothing more than a cry for help such as: Hello, how the heck do I get out of this place?

  Sometimes I eradicate, most of the time I’m a tour guide. One ticket to heaven, turn right at the rainbow, just feel the tingles and float straight up. Then listen for the sound of your dead loved ones or angels calling your name. They’re waiting for you. It’s always a win/win to be nice when you can, which might not be the case here.

  My hand’s still hanging over the photo and things are warming up. Then they’re sizzling and I jerk back after invisible fire shoots through my palm. I check for burns. Me and my iPhone are fine but sadly, this ghost has issues. Still, I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “What’s so important that you can’t move on?” I ask him. Like the cowbird feather, he’s silent. Soon enough, he’ll be telling me his troubles.

  First though, finding out who Dorothy’s ghost was in life and how he died are my top priorities. Dealing with the ghost of a murder victim is a lot different than dealing with the spirit of someone who went peacefully in his sleep or worse, someone who was in the middle of something that she thought would be world ending if left unfinished. An inflated, human ego always struggles to appreciate its last breath, especially when unexpected.

  Once those are known, I’ll rely on good old-fashioned, civilized conversation to figure out what’s holding him back– unless eradication is really called for.

  It’s way past midnight when I turn off the light and pull the blankets over my head. Mojo’s been snoring for the last hour. I say a prayer for Dorothy and Hayley and the ghost in the attic. Then I listen to the tree frogs and crickets.

  As I drift off to sleep, I hear the blood chilling scream of a red fox, either welcoming me to Texas or warning me to leave.

  Chapter Four

  §

  As soon as she steps out of her shiny red Toyota, I laugh. She’s grinning from ear to ear with bubblegum pink lips, and her blonde curls are bouncing in sync with her full hips. After not coming close to getting the house’s vibes right, I’m smugly satisfied that I scored a hundred with Hayley’s.

  “Jack Raven?” she yells, in her cheerleader voice.

  “That’s me and you must be—

  “Hayley Ann Sanders. Dorothy’s only daughter and the best looking and brightest of her two children. I swear this day could not be more exciting for me and Momma.”

  How could you not like somebody with an introduction like that? She bounces across the parking lot and grabs my hand almost before I can extend it. As soon as her soft, warm skin touches mine, I get a near lightning strike in my left temple that I didn’t see coming from the woman.

  I hate to jump to conclusions, but I’m sensing Hayley’s apple pie sweetness has got its share of sour– or more likely, she’s got herself a nagging secret. One I suspect she’s had for years.

  The woman’s caught sight of Mojo trailing behind me and didn’t notice that my legs had gone a little wobbly. She’s crunched herself up and is using me as a human shield.

  Most people are shy around wolfdogs and they have a right to be. But the Tamaskan, a cross-breed so not technically a breed or a true wolfdog for that matter, has a gentle soul. Still when those untamed eyes are staring you down, most people don’t need the American Kennel Club to weigh in on the subject.

  “Is that
a dog?”

  I often get that question in the same high pitched tone that Hayley just let ring in Mojo’s ears. “Sure is. This is Mojo, The Great Ghost Tracker. My partner in all things supernatural.”

  “Well, now ain’t that just something?”

  “That it is. Any questions or are we ready to get going?” I say, opening the jeep’s door for my ghost tracker. He’s more than thrilled to get away from the woman, who he seems to be reading better than me.

  “Ready as good and ready ever gets. Momma cannot wait a second longer to meet you and for you to meet that dang ghost of hers.

  “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about never believing a single word that woman said about him. She sure had me going for awhile. I was starting to believe she’d brought a real live man home and didn’t know how to break it to me. Did you get the photos I sent you?”

  I confirm I did and don’t mention that I’ve already determined Momma’s ghost man is indeed a hostile co-occupant. I find that when people don’t know all the details, they don’t get more nervous than they already are.

  “All right then. We’re twenty minutes from Momma’s place. Just stick close and follow my lead because that house of hers is out in the boondocks. There’s no telling where you’ll end up if you lose me.”

  Actually, it turns out that Dorothy’s house is a good thirty minutes from the hotel, just not at the pace Hayley traveled. Thankfully, the traffic was light and no speed traps had been set in our path.

  After cutting a corner short, she stops at an old iron rod gate in front of Dorothy’s Victorian mansion. She jumps out of her car and swings the gate wide before yelling to close it behind me, then she bombs into the driveway.

  The first thing I notice about the house isn’t the house at all; it’s the trees. I’m thinking they’re cedar elms, but it’s hard to tell. There’s a half dozen or more that are as crooked and gnarled as an old lady’s fingers with a few thread thin branches reaching in every direction but up.

  I figure Dutch elm disease is the reason they’re chopped off not much beyond their trunks. Those limbs aren’t just downright ugly, they’re some real serious eye pokers. When a light breeze brushes by, I swear they all start screaming about their leaves. We have no leaves. Help us, we have no leaves. Something like that could keep you awake all night, if your prone to hear it.

  “Jack?”

  “Coming.” I latch the gate and pull the jeep next to Hayley’s car. She’s already up the stairs, holding the door for me.

  “Momma’s been busy baking all sorts of pies and cookies and candies. She wants to make sure you can enjoy the holiday even though you’re missing some days being here. We’ll get you loaded up with sugary treats for your drive home just in time for Christmas dinner. Lord knows it wouldn’t hurt you none to gain a few pounds. Do you like fruit cake?”

  Hayley heads inside, still talking about fattening me up, while I try to get a feel of the energy from the house. I’m getting a real confusing read. What I don’t get is that dense, musty feeling I expect of an old spirit. I don’t even get a chill from knowing eyes watching my every move.

  Instead, I’m getting a very rustic, here-and-now type vibe that’s churning my stomach. Mojo’s staring to the back of the property. His growl isn’t leading me to believe it’s manure stinking up the air.

  When I hear a bloodcurdling scream from inside, I know there’s no reason to doubt my or the wolfdog’s instincts. I brace myself, walk into the entryway, and get a whiff of moldy pancake syrup that isn’t coming from the kitchen.

  Off to the right is Hayley on her hands and knees at the staircase, wailing “Momma” like a skinned cat. Who can only be Dorothy Matthews is right there with her, beneath the last step.

  I move closer and see that the old woman’s eyes are wide open, and her neck is cranked sideways farther than I knew a neck could go. In her fist is a black feather, sticking straight up as if planted like a flower.

  From the attic, an eerie whisper floats down the stairs. Step, step, tumble, crack.

  Chapter Five

  §

  After checking Dorothy for a pulse, I call 911 and tell them not to rush. Hayley’s gone from wailing to bellowing to blubbering. My heart bleeds for her, but I wish she’d put a cork in it. More than that, I wish she’d get up off the floor where she’s huddled up in a ball, clinging like a deranged two year old to a very dead Dorothy.

  Then I remember the gate and hurry outside to open it for the aid car. It’s not like hurrying will make any difference; Dorothy’s spirit has clearly detached and departed or is off wandering around in a confused state, but I’m willing to use any excuse to get out of the house. Anything is better than listening to the Texas cheerleader, including the screaming trees.

  A few minutes walking the property should help calm my sixth sense, which is as scattered as cockroaches caught in the kitchen by a midnight snacker. I look around for crows. That’s pretty much pointless considering the trees as well as the fact that it was a rooster feather stuck in Dorothy’s hand.

  I need to get a grip on what’s happened here. Dorothy’s ghost man wouldn’t be the first to scare the life out of a person, but I doubt that’s what happened. At seventy two, it’s easy to assume the woman took a step or two on less than dependable feet while carrying the feather she’d planned on showing me.

  I head to the backyard to see if I can get a peek into the attic and sense a guilty translucent face. My trek is slow as Dorothy wasn’t big on landscaping or yard maintenance. An old wire fence on her good-size chunk of acreage is all that’s keeping the weeds from encroaching on a property development that’s marching this direction.

  I’m about to go check inside a big red barn when a jacked-up Chevy truck comes barreling around the corner and through the gate. This may be Texas, but I don’t think these are the paramedics.

  As I’m making my way back to the house, I see that Mojo’s ears are tuned in. He’s got that wicked, untamed stare thing going on, so I stop to call out for Dorothy’s spirit. The only thing I hear are the field mice that are fleeing from the wolfdog’s scent so I keep walking.

  A slick, chubby, maybe twenty year old with pretty half brown, half blond hair– pretty for a boy anyway– and trendy cowboy clothes, hops out of the Chevy and goes running into the house.

  I’m half way back to the front door when a six-wheel construction vehicle joins the action. As soon as the driver parks, I see Sanders Construction painted on the side and figure this must be Hayley’s husband, assuming she has one. He’s got himself some big construction worker muscles, a deep Texas tan, and with a big boss man swagger, he heads inside.

  Seems this has turned into a family affair so I stay outside to direct further traffic. It’s not long before the aid car arrives and is skillfully maneuvered in between the two trucks. From the edge of the porch, I can hear Hayley still carrying on and two male voices generously dispensing comfort. Just when I think the yard can’t get any more crowded, I hear sirens in the distance.

  I get the impression that not much happens in little Roxbury and when it does, everybody gets a phone call. With their red lights twirling, two police cars pull in behind my jeep. Not that I planned on leaving, but I’d like to keep my options open, especially seeing as my client’s gone and died on me.

  The vehicles’ doors fly open and an older and rounder officer points in my direction, then heads inside. I’m on the porch just leaning against the house, but apparently looking suspiciously out of place while doing so.

  The younger officer heads my way, stopping short and placing his hand on his gun. This makes me nervous until I see that Mojo has stopped chasing prairie dogs and joined me on the porch.

  “He’s harmless,” I say, without a hint of acknowledgment. “I’m Jack Raven. I stopped by the house with Dorothy’s daughter… Hayley Sanders?”

  The officer still hasn’t made eye contact or removed his hand from his gun. “I’ll put him in the jeep if you’d like.” This seem
s to snap him out of his trance, and he shuffles his feet as if he’s testing the dust content of the terrain. It’s the wolfdog’s amber stare that’s got him acting challenged.

  “What did you say your name is?”

  He’s got a notepad and pen in his hand and one eye on the wolfdog. After telling him my name again, he asks for ID. Then he asks me what my business is with Mrs. Matthews. This he asked like the outsider I am who needs extra scrutiny.

  I’m not one to lie to the police, but now sure isn’t the time to broadcast the details of my chosen profession. “I’m here to help Mrs. Matthews with some house cleaning for the holidays.”

  He nods like this is good and starts to write in his notepad when some real unladylike squalling and lamenting gets both our attention. Out comes a gurney with Hayley strapped on tight. Curiously, they load her in the back of the aid car and set off with sirens blasting as if she’s on her last breath.

  “Step inside Miss,” the officer says. “Leave that animal outside.”

  I comply without question because I’m long past confused as to why they left without Dorothy. The officer motions for me to go to the living room, the opposite direction of Dorothy who’s still lying at the bottom of the stairs. Construction man is standing over her, apparently making sure she doesn’t move. Heaven help us if she does.

  “I understand you were here when the body was found. Before I put the cuffs on you and haul you to the station, you best start explaining yourself.”

  Chapter Six

  §

  I’d been busy trying to sense a presence or hear some more whispered words, when the older officer interrupts me with a threat of incarceration.

  “Sheriff Forrest Wiley,” he says, with a tip of his cowboy hat, a half grin, and a nod to the sofa.

  I sit down and explain that I was outside when I heard Hayley scream. At this, he nods and shakes his head like he’s trying to get his shirt collar away from his thick neck.