The Roxbury Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 1)

by Robin G. Austin

Unless, of course, Alexander silenced the officials as perfectly as he seems to have silenced Carmela and the children.

  Chapter Twelve

  §

  Today is kinder kid reading at the library and the place is filled with dozens of little ones, all totally disregarding the Please Be Quiet signs.

  The librarian has her hands full so she points in the direction of the Jenningsworth documents and leaves me to my own search.

  I find a corner in the rear of the library that’s almost quiet and try to concentrate. Starting with the Warranty Deed, I still get the dignified and happy couple from yesterday.

  Once again, I study the family photograph. This time though, I place my fingers on the little boy who’s standing as stiff as a board in his fancy short pants and jacket and button hook shoes.

  After what seems like an hour, I finally get a tiny glimpse of a sad little boy in tears. He’s in a room with a single small window surrounded by stacks of something or other– the attic? Then he’s gone. I touch the baby in Carmela’s arms and instantly hear unanswered cries.

  I’m feeling tears in my own eyes as I rest my fingers over Alexander. Cold, impatient… disappointed? I’m on emotional overload and can’t tell anymore. All I know is that things have definitely gone downhill for Alexander and his young family.

  Next, I search for the children’s birth certificates as well as notices of their death. Nothing– just as if they’d never existed. And what about the third child mentioned in the newspaper article on Carmela’s death?

  I find the librarian surrounded by happy and loud little ones. She seems relieved to stop and talk to me. She tells me if documents on the children exist, they would be at the County Clerk’s office. She says she knows nothing about the family.

  “What about the Roxbury Herald?” I ask, hoping they have more records I can search through.

  “They went out of business a few years ago. Internet,” she says with a frown. “They donated some records to the library and destroyed the rest.”

  She also tells me that the library doesn’t have any police records. Then she tells me the town’s first police station was demolished and replaced over fifty years ago. I make a note to call the station’s records department, but don’t put it at the top of my list. I have a gut feeling that a report was never made.

  A map search on my phone shows the County Building is over an hour’s drive. It’s already two o’clock and I can’t miss my appointment with the detective to get the key to Dorothy’s house. Plus, I can’t afford to take much time away from the house once I’m finally inside. I do a search and call the Clerk’s office.

  Yep, I’m calling the El Paso County Clerk’s office to ask them if they have the birth and death certificates of three children who lived sometime between 1912 and 1916– and I don’t know their names.

  You’d think that would be a short conversation, but it turns into a good forty minutes talking to five different clerks with hold times of at least half those minutes. Even with five clerks searching and scrolling through thousands of records, I’m still unable to confirm when the children either came into this world or left it.

  What I do confirm are the dates of birth and death for Alexander and Carmela, with one little problem. Alexander’s date of death is listed as, Estimated 1958 - 1959.

  His cause of death is listed as natural. Seeing as he was sixty six that sounds about right. Place of death was his, now Dorothy’s house, and that’s just plain creepy. An estimated death means only one thing in my mind: Alexander’s rotted corpse was all the coroner found, and he took a stab at how long the corpse took to decompose– maybe while it was in that attic.

  No wonder this poor spirit is angry. He lost his family and no one stopped by to check on him for a year or more? No one in town noticed he’d not been around? Heavens, why didn’t the people in town call on the guy? Why, indeed?

  My gut’s sending me some very unpleasant messages. Things all went south when I placed my hand over the photo of the attic and it’s been downhill since. Did Alexander die a miserable, lonely death in that attic, or did they keep the children locked up in there?

  I have a sick feeling it was both. Maybe Alexander wasn’t a kindly widower whose ghost has been searching a century for his one true love. Maybe neither Mister nor Missus Jenningsworth were kindly at all.

  I gather the documents and return them to the cabinet’s filing tray. As I turn to go, I nearly step on one of the documents that must have slipped from my hand. Or maybe not, because it’s the December 20, 1916, news article.

  I close my eyes and ask for a message. When I pick up the article, I’m staring straight at the paragraph about Alexander taking to his bed with severe melancholy, the pensive gloom, the dead children, a fear that the man would never recover.

  A sharp pain in my side makes me dizzy and checking for blood. “Sorry if I offended you, Alexander,” I whisper. “That is unless you’re making me sick due to a long ago guilty conscience.”

  I head to the jeep feeling like I’ve been doing hard manual labor.

  “Mojo, why didn’t you tell me these spirits were up to no good?” I’m leaning over the driver’s seat, stroking his thick fur. He barely opens his eyes. I watch him a minute, realizing that he’s slept way more than usual these last couple of days. I know he isn’t sick, but he’s definitely drained. I’ll need to do some serious smudging before me and the ghost tracker set foot in that house.

  I also need to find someone in this town who’s old enough to have known some things about Alexander. It’s not like I can stand on the street corner and ask people, so I write a note to call Hayley after I get settled in the house to ask for some leads.

  Then it occurs to me that things don’t exactly add up with what Dorothy told me. I do the math and based on what she said, even if the house set empty for a year, she would have been sixteen when she and Harold moved in. Not impossible, but probably unlikely.

  I update my note to ask Hayley when her mom moved into the house. I want to be sure that no one was living there before she and Harold bought the place.

  Getting the ghost right is half the trick to getting rid of it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  §

  Before I wait around for the detective so I can get into the house, I need to stop at the grocery store to pick up a few days supplies that aren’t fried or microwaveable. I load up on energy empowering and ghost protecting foods: root veggies for grounding, almonds, fruit, amaranth, and organic sweet potato chips for the guacamole.

  I drive to Dorothy’s house and still have almost an hour before the detective is scheduled to show up with the key. I coax Mojo, who’s deep in cat-catching dreams, out of the jeep and make my way to the back of the property.

  I’ve brought the big guns with me: white sage and rock salt. No demon, viper, boopa, fallen angel, or any sort of dark energy would stick around when the wisest of the sages burns bright– except poltergeists because they’re just wacko.

  When I’m getting out the rock salt to sprinkle around the perimeter of the backyard, I notice a truck in the development behind the house. I back up against one of the screaming trees, which doesn’t hide all that much of me.

  Three men climb out of the cab and walk around the property. They’re looking at Dorothy’s house and one’s doing a lot of pointing. I can’t see their faces, but the pointer sure resembles Boyd Sanders. Once he rolls up his sleeves and I see those muscles, I’m sure it’s him.

  After more walking and pointing and spitting on the ground, they get back in the truck and drive away. Somehow, I don’t think they were chatting about the vampires or zombies that Boyd seems to think live in the house. Maybe Dorothy wasn’t just complaining about Boyd wanting to bulldoze her property. Maybe his hidden agenda isn’t so hidden after all.

  Once I’m sure they’re gone, I sprinkle rock salt around the yard and at the front and back doors for protection. I’m not one religion or another; I just borrow whatever spiritual pract
ices work. Mostly, I follow the traditions of the Navajos as taught to me by my father and Maybelle, when what my grandmother says makes more than two cents worth.

  Those of the Navajo Nation teach that dark spirits should not only be feared, but respected. I know from personal experience that they’re right. Protective measures and polite conversation work well when dealing with the dead just as it often does with the living.

  With a half hour to spare, I sprinkle a circle of salt wide enough for me and Mojo to lie down and absorb the energy of mother earth. The wolfdog is used to the ritual, and we curl up and promptly fall asleep.

  It’s dusk when I wake up to a twenty foot demon standing over me. My faithful guard wolf is snoring– definitely energy drained– so thank the gods for the rock salt. The demon identifies himself as Detective Clayton Acker.

  He wants to know if I’m on drugs or performing some sort of Satan worshiping ceremony. I assure him neither is the case, and he tells me to get my things collected and be on my way. He gives me directions to a homeless shelter about a mile out of town. Then he wants to know if I’ve seen a man on the property by the name of Jack Raven.

  I roll over and push myself up, feeling as loopy as if I’d had those few beers with Tucker. My movement wakes Mojo and he jumps up ready to attack our visitor. Acker takes a few steps back and reaches his hand into his jacket, where I assume he keeps his gun.

  “I’m Jack Raven,” I say, calming Mojo and brushing mother earth out of my hair. “Just getting some rest before I tackle the ghost.”

  “Jack?”

  “Correct. Acker?”

  He nods and smiles.

  My brain cells may be snapping slower than dead turtles, but I know a winning smile when I see one and the rest of Acker isn’t so bad either. Oh, what a fool am I for a brown hair, blue eyed man who knows how to dress and smells good too without burning a hole through my nostrils. I could stand taking deep breaths and enjoying the view a lot longer but questionable dark energy awaits.

  “You have a key for me?”

  “Let me see some ID,” he says, with that same diablo smile.

  I hand him my driver’s license, and he looks at it longer than needed. “I’ll take that key now. It’s as cold as ice cream out here.”

  “Is that what the rock salt’s for?”

  I like this guy. Nice to look at, funny to listen to, and an un-cop-like sassy attitude he’s almost trying to hide.

  We walk to the door, and he tells me he’ll check the house before he leaves me to get to work. Work comes out of his mouth with that sassy attitude.

  He flips on a bunch of lights, checks some closets, and gives the place a vote of approval. I’m not too anxious to see him go, but inviting him to stay the night just feels awkward.

  With the lock securely snapped behind him, I unpack my groceries. Other than a few bites, me and the wolfdog aren’t all that hungry. It’s too late for coffee, which I seriously need, so by six o’clock I brave a shower, alone in a haunted house; one of the hazards of the job.

  Then I do a room by room walk-through with the smudge stick. Despite the ghost, I’m certain I never want to leave this place.

  There’s enough old timber on the walls to reforest the state, if that were possible. Every room has at least a strip or two of wallpaper– most with busy stripes and flowers. Then there’s the half dozen fireplaces and the antique furniture that must be worth millions.

  Old Harold did all right for himself. I feel like I’m in a castle; me, the thirty percent Navajo, fifty percent English, twenty percent mutt princess.

  I’m no longer worried about Dorothy’s estate making good on my promissory note. I can’t say I sense the same reassurance about her flaky family, and make a mental note to keep my ears peeled for the sound of bulldozing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  §

  I’m still on my smudging castle tour when I pass a grandfather’s clock that’s stopped at noon or better yet, midnight– a true sign of a haunted house, if Twitter’s your source for all things supernatural.

  Then I come to a huge library with ceiling to floor books and another fireplace just begging for a fire. Unfortunately, I still have the second floor to smudge. I’ll wave some smoke and throw some rock salt in its general direction, but I’m saving the full treatment for the attic for tomorrow.

  On my way to the upstairs, I call Mojo away from the bottom step for the third time. He’s officially on the job and I know he’s a ghost tracker, but his taxidermy-style stare up the stairs is creeping me out. “Got it. Point made,” I tell him.

  Despite the hour and her nervous spells, I need to talk to Hayley. She picks up on the third ring sounding sleepy, or more likely dumbed-down due to some good nerve medicine she’s been provided. I can tell by the intercom in the background that she’s still in the hospital.

  “Hayley, it’s Jack. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve been doing research on the house and have a couple of questions for you. What? Jack. Raven?”

  “Jack,” she yells, a few octaves too high and I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in your mom’s house. Didn’t Boyd tell you?” She claims he did with a girly giggle.

  “Listen, a couple of things,” I say. “First, I need to find someone old enough to have known Alexander Jenningsworth, the man who I think owned the house before your parents bought it. Any ideas on who that might be or how I can go about locating someone who would?”

  “Who?”

  “The prior owners, Jenningsworth. Hayley?” I say her name a few more times, but all I hear is snoring so I hang up. Then I write a note to call the County Clerk in the morning and maybe swing by the senior center in town, if I can find one.

  By ten o’clock, I’m in bed with my alarm set for five. My head hits the pillow like a brick. When working onsite, I practice lucid dreaming as a way to be on duty day and night. For me it works best if I keep asking myself if I’m dreaming while I’m drifting off to sleep, but tonight I barely ask twice before I’m out cold.

  When my eyes spring open in a pitch black room, I don’t know where I am. All I know is that there’s a baby crying.

  I sit up and see a strange lamp next to me then I ask myself if I’m dreaming. After I turn on the light and see Mojo doing his taxidermy pose at the door, I remember I’m in Dorothy’s house.

  I should be more careful in what I ask for. I’d been asking about the children, and here they are making themselves known. After listening for a few minutes, I decide it’s just their residual energy; the lingering energy of their little spirits, long since departed. That sounds logical enough, but it’s still creepy.

  Dorothy didn’t mention anything about hearing kids crying. That could be because she couldn’t sense their higher frequency. They do kind of sound like they’re crying into a tin can, one that’s spinning around a parallel vortex. Unfortunately, not even that weird state is escaping my own senses.

  “It’s okay,” I tell myself and Mojo. “They’re not really here– just the trauma they suffered.” I turn off the light, unlock the door, and peek out into the darkest place I’ve ever not seen.

  The crying has stopped and my eyes start to adjust. If not for Mojo, I’d doubt my own ears and head back to bed. He’s ready to check things out so I step into the hallway. “Residual energy,” I chant, as I walk towards the other rooms. I listen at each closed door and Mojo sniffs under them, for what I don’t know.

  Residual energy or am I dreaming? It wouldn’t be the first time that one of my nighttime episodes put Mojo on high alert. I semi-convince myself that the residual energy has cleared so I can head back to bed without feeling guilty. Staying awake isn’t an option and finally the wolfdog agrees with me.

  After falling back into bed, I don’t remember more than the softness of the pillow and tugging blankets over my head. I could have slept five minutes or a week, but at the sound of Mojo trying to break through the locked bedroom door, I’m up and ready to b
olt.

  “Calm down so I can hear,” I whisper. There’s a crash downstairs, and I have to hold him by the collar. “Listen,” I say, a command he knows well. He goes into robot attack mode, and there’s a growl at the back of his throat.

  Someone is walking up the stairs, and Mojo is making clear that those steps aren’t coming from a restless spirit. They don’t have that eerie echo of the dead. Instead, they sound like the worst dark energy in the universe– a living human being with dubious intentions. I unlock the door to take another peek into the darkness, but it’s not all that dark; someone has turned on the lights below.

  I start to step into the hallway when I hear that the footsteps have made their way to the landing. Mojo practically knocks me to the ground pushing past me, reminding me he’s not your average, well-behaved house dog. A scream that’s almost as loud as Mojo’s howls is followed by neck-breaking steps down the stairs.

  I’m on my phone calling the police while running after my unwelcome guest. I’m also calling the wolfdog in case whoever it is has brought a weapon. Down the stairs I charge without breaking my own neck, which doesn’t escape my rattled nerves.

  I follow the howls to the back door where Mojo is trying hard to break through. Out the window, there’s a dark figure of the suspected human variety hopping over the wire fence and running towards the development behind the house.

  I hold Mojo back and step onto the back porch. As the figure disappears into the darkness, I snap a photo.

  In the distance, I hear the siren that’s coming to my belated rescue.

  Chapter Fifteen

  §

  When I open the door to go back inside, Mojo knocks me backwards and onto the ground. Nothing but a buffalo could bounce back from ninety pounds of ticked off fury, including me. I hear his howls and a police siren, both of which sound like they’re coming out of a long dark tunnel that soon goes pitch black.

  The next thing I know, I’m staring straight up into a bright white beam of light and my ears are ringing like Christmas bells. I’m dead; killed by the wolfdog.