“Argh! You better not start in on my daddy at my momma’s funeral, you old floozy. I swear, the only thing looser than your lips is the zipper on your pants. An outhouse breeze is more welcome here than you are, so turn your doublewide rear end around and get yourself out that door.”
Etta Jane lunges at Hayley before she can sling any more Texan slang her way. Both women hit the floor again, screaming words these walls have likely never heard. Finally, Acker steps in and lifts Etta Jane up and around and marches her out of the church, though not without much scuffling and swearing on her part.
While the other women come to Hayley’s aid, I’m running around looking in and under the casket for Dorothy. Although I’m whispering, my actions don’t get past the minister. Before I have a chance to get away, he has his hand on my shoulder and is giving me a sympathetic nod.
“She’s gone to a much better place, my dear. She’s with Harold now.”
I smile and ask him if he’s ever heard of Alexander Jenningsworth. He shakes his head and I slip away, but not before saying a prayer for old Harold, who sounds like he’s going to need one.
Chapter Eighteen
§
The graveside service goes off without a hitch, and we all head to Hayley’s house for the reception. I find a place near the buffet table and stuff myself with tamales and sheet cake, the latter of which I know I’ll regret. Then I make the rounds, cornering a half dozen seniors to ask about Jenningsworth. All deny knowing the man, some with suspicious looks.
Acker’s been either watching people or talking real quiet on his phone. For the detective, I get the impression this wasn’t a day of just paying his respects to the dead.
“Jack. Thanks for coming. Dorothy didn’t know you long, but she spoke kindly of you. How are things coming together with that ghost business?”
I’m nearly vibrating from all the sugar I’ve eaten, and Boyd’s about the last person I want to chat with. “There’s been some activity, the living and the dead kind. The police had things to process, according to Detective Acker. I’m anxious to get back and get some work done.”
“Yeah, well sorry about Tucker. Mischief always seems to find the boy, but he’s harmless as far as I can tell. Clayton’s trying to make a sharp point with a dull stick. Wouldn’t be the first time the detective’s been a brick shy of a load.”
I’ve got to write some of these jewels down later to remind myself never to use them. “You know, I thought I saw you late yesterday afternoon on the property behind Dorothy’s house. You and two other men—
“Wasn’t me. Hey, Kenny. Hold up. Jack, it was nice to see you again. I’ll have Hayley call you tomorrow about your ghost busting. She’s had to lie down before one of her spells comes on again.”
“What was that about,” Acker says, sneaking up behind me.
“I’m not sure. Poetry? Bull poop?” Somebody stop me. “That development behind Dorothy’s house? Is that something Sanders Construction is handling?”
“Boyd’s probably got a hand in it. He’s got a hand in most building that goes on around here. Why do you ask?”
“I thought I saw him and two other men out there last night. They sure seemed to be doing a lot of talking and pointing at Dorothy’s house.”
Acker gets a phone call and leaves me in search of more sheet cake– Texas is messing me up. When he gets done, he’s ready to take me back to Dorothy’s house and I’m more than ready to go. There’s not one person here who knows a thing about the Jenningsworth family, which seems almost impossible in a town this small.
Despite my looking for and asking Dorothy to show up again, she never did. Whatever anger at Etta Jane she’d had in life, she seems to want no part of now– or she’s rushed back to the afterlife to give old Harold a swift kick. I can’t imagine what he ever saw in that short, chubby, hostile woman, but maybe she once had her glory days.
“I don’t think Tucker killed Dorothy,” I say, once we’re on the road.
“Probably not,” Acker says. “But he was helping himself to things in that barn that weren’t necessarily his yet. If anything, a night in jail will make him think twice about doing that again.”
“What about the shoe print?”
“Says he didn’t come in the house. The technicians will figure out if the treads match. We should get the results back on the first one after Christmas. Guess you’ll be gone by then.”
“Spirits willing, and I sure hope they are.”
“So you get rid of ghosts for a living?”
“Somebody’s got to do it.”
We ride in silence the rest of the way. Acker is a thinker. Though I try not to intrude, most heavy duty thinkers are ramblers with a good deal of anxiety. Too many focus on worries and regrets and anger and have conversations with people they haven’t spoken to in ages. I know this because the static is loud and garbled, and I’ve been guilty of such things myself. Acker’s static is quiet, humming like a new laptop computer.
“I need to check inside,” he says, as he parks in front of the house.
I’m anxious to get started working, but not as anxious to say goodbye to Acker as I should be. If I’m lucky, this will be the last time I ever see him, and that doesn’t feel like luck at all.
“Come on in.”
He makes the rounds and checks the locks then tells me he’ll take a look in the barn and be on his way.
“Tea?” I ask, and bite my lip. I need him to go for more than a couple of reasons.
“Sure. Back in a minute.”
One of those reasons is the grin he just gave me. I go to the staircase and call for Dorothy. “Hey, Dorothy. Your son’s been arrested for your murder, somebody broke into your house, your ghost is Alexander Jenningsworth and while pretending to be his wife, Carmela, he tried to scare me right out the door this morning. You must know something about the guy. You lived with him for more than fifty years. I could really use your help here. How did you fall down these stairs? Come on, it’s almost Christmas. Share some of your ghostly wisdom.”
“She here?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Acker is standing a few feet away from me, and I didn’t even hear him come into the house. Even stranger, that’s the second time the man’s snuck up on me. Someone invading my energy field usually doesn’t get under my radar. I smirk at his question, knowing he probably thinks I’m a fraud, con artist, or just plain crazy. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
He nods his head like he understands, but his eyes are sending me another message that’s making me warm all over. Just when it couldn’t get any more awkward, the tea kettle whistles and muddles up the magic.
“So what do you think is going on here?”
“Listen, you don’t have to humor me. You’re a cop. I know what I do isn’t up your alley, but it’s perfectly legal, and in my case legit, so skip the interrogation.”
“I asked you what you think is going on here. I didn’t say I won’t believe any of it.”
I barely get the cups on the table without spilling them. “You’re a… what? A possible believer? I’m shocked.”
“Like you said, I’m a cop. I’ve seen a few things over the years.” He stirs his tea and contemplates. “My grandmother claimed… well, she was a healer. I didn’t believe her when I was growing up, but she did have the gift of intuition; at least when it came to anything I ever tried to get away with.”
This man has a good soul, and I just found out why. “The universe is a powerful place. We get so caught up in the mundane of daily living that we forget to be alive, to be powerfully alive, and supernatural.” I laugh. “Sounds like your grandmother knew that.”
“More than I even came close to understanding at the time.”
“Growing up, we all figure we know everything. Common affliction that’s cured by aging.”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s true enough.”
I’m not sure how much I want to tell this man. If there’s anything about my job I know for certain, it’s that
most people are better off not knowing. The majority are happy never hearing a single word about the supernatural, and that’s why the mundane is so popular. Plus right now, ghosts are the last thing on my mind. “It’s getting late,” I say.
He smiles and finishes his tea and we walk to the door. “You aren’t spending Christmas Eve here alone are you?”
It’s that warm energy of his that’s got me feeling all stupid, and some of that stupid spills right out.
“I am unless you’d like to attend a séance I’m having.”
Chapter Nineteen
§
Impossible, but I swear Mojo rolls his eyes at me, or maybe it’s my own eyes doing the rolling. If I know what’s best for me, that’s the attitude I should be taking.
Acker had said a séance was a great way to spend Christmas Eve and left me too speechless to take back my invite, which I never should have extended.
Two likeminded souls with fuzzy warm hormones alongside the disembodied dead is a noxious combination. I need a cold shower and some serious energy cleansing to protect myself from the living and the dead.
Tonight, I’m getting to work by having a sit down discussion with Alexander Jenningsworth. A discussion that’s taking place on Alexander’s turf– the attic. Maybe he can tell me why no one in this town knows who he was.
I haven’t changed my mind about the children’s crying being anything other than residual energy. Even though they’ve moved on, there’s a lot of suffering stuck in these walls that needs dealt with. Both for the sake of future residents and to allow Alexander to release his hold on this house.
The less than hospitable pseudo-appearance of Carmela is confusing. While all signs point to a demonic spirit, I doubt what I experienced was any of her doing. My bet is still on Alexander having pulled off a good impersonation. Question is, was it to scare me out of the house or send me a message; one that says I’m not even close to knowing what happened or one that says I’m getting too close for comfort.
First thing I need to do is convince Alexander that I’m here to help. Between the crying and the suffocation by roses performance, there’s just too much going on here. Without clearing the air, so to speak, a séance could bring the house down with me and the detective trapped under the rubble.
After my shower, I’m ice cold from head to toe. I spend an hour in prayer and meditation, then I gather my things and head to Alexander’s attic. All the while, I’m mindful that I’m an uninvited guest, one who’s still dangerously hyped up on sheet cake.
The stairs to the attic are old and dusty and the wood creaks under my feet. Mildew and stale air that smells like moldy chocolate and rotted wood– not a rotting corpse, not at all– rile my sinuses. I get a cold unwelcoming pressure on my chest just as I did this morning and stop a few steps from the entrance.
“Hello, Mr. Jenningsworth. I know we’ve already met informally, but let me introduce myself. My name is Jack Raven, and I’ve been asked to come here to help you crossover. It’s time for you to be with your loved ones, and I want to help you do that.”
All I get is the silent treatment, so I take the final steps and enter the attic. An icy chill greets me. The room is darker than coal, completely empty of material things, and much larger than expected.
A single window is in the center of the back wall. A sliver of moonlight slips in and out of the clouds, providing sporadic light even though I left the lights on downstairs.
“How are you this evening, Alexander?” I say to the empty room as I busy myself prying open the window with my pocket knife. “Please make yourself comfortable and we’ll begin shortly.”
After much poking and pounding on the frame, I’m able to raise the window an inch or two. I light the sage smudge stick and put it in a butter colored lucine seashell. After releasing the smoke in all four corners and asking for protection, I place the shell on the windowsill. Then I sprinkle rock salt around the borders of the room.
With a blanket spread on the floor, I surround myself with braided sweetgrass, a pink crystal, and my black feather, courtesy of the cowbird back home who apparently thought I would need it.
Mojo has finally joined me; he’s not into the prep work. His eyes are focused on the east corner of the room. I have to trust his instincts on this because other than the icy chill and his moldy, rotting aroma, I haven’t gotten a single indication that Alexander is in the room: no nausea or dizziness, no energy bump or tap, no shadow, mist, whispered words, or invisible stare shooting through me.
I close my eyes, say another prayer and begin. “Alexander, I’m here to help you. I understand you suffered a great deal in your lifetime.” I wait, only to listen to a silence that’s heavier than bricks. “The loss of your children. The loss of Carmela. Alone in this house to mourn those losses for many years. I understand it was very difficult, but it’s over now.”
Mojo’s soft growl makes me jump, and my eyes spring open then they take their time adjusting to the darkness. The smudge stick on the windowsill has been turned inward. Before it sets the old wood on fire, I retrieve it and place it in front of me.
Oh, I’m brave on the outside. I know what I’m doing; I’ve been through this more times than I can count. Even though I don’t fear ghosts much, I have an appreciation for what they can do. Even with spiritual protection, I know that the power of hostile and anguished energy is serious business. I calm my breath, call upon the spirit gods, and start again.
“Alexander.” I whisper his name without meaning to. My voice floats through the room with the sage’s smoke like I’d sang the word. Careful now, I tell myself as I reach for the smudge stick.
“I know you believe Carmela and the children are still in the house. I understand that you are here for them, searching for them.” I don’t know these things at all, but it’s a good guess and if I’m wrong, there should be some shift in energy.
“I can assure you that it’s not your family at all. What you feel is their energy, unnecessarily trapped here for eternity. Together, we can dissipate that energy so you too can go to the spirit realm. Your cooperation is needed for your own benefit as well as theirs.”
I close my eyes and listen. I’m taking a leap of faith that disease and inadequate health care led to the loss of the children and Carmela. According to my online search, tuberculosis, cholera, and typhoid were the leading causes of death in the 1900’s.
Carmela’s fall down the stairs could have been due to weakness from illness or exhaustion after hours of caring for her sick children. If from illness, all their deaths would have been slow to come with a great deal of suffering– and the children’s tears. Suffering and crying that’s embedded itself in this house and in Alexander’s incorporeal heart.
“Your anger over the loss of your family is understandable. You had the right to be angry in life, but in death that feeling holds you here. Your spirit must move on.”
I’m getting dizzy and it feels like the ceiling is coming closer to the floor where I sit. Could be that my leap of faith went too far or not far enough.
“You cannot live eternity in the darkness of sorrow, or regret for what happened in this house… by the will of your own hands.”
I hold my breath and wait for a thump to my head… or worse.
Chapter Twenty
§
The attic is still quiet. I didn’t experience a thump or bump or sharp nails ripping my skin. I know Alexander is here with me now, but I can’t understand him. He isn’t accepting my help or attempting to harm me for offering it.
Despite my accusation of guilt, it’s been my experience that the depraved don’t stick around after death. They usually don’t have that option. Once a person steps into evil’s domain, their trip to the afterlife doesn’t require cooperation.
Still, what constitutes evil is exaggerated by society. At our core, humans remain a primitive species and true evil, absent possession, is rare. The path from benign to barbaric is usually nothing more than one bad decision, an
d normally not punishable by hell’s fire.
“Alexander, I want to help you clear away all losses and regrets that are holding you in this house. What’s done is done. Your family is waiting for you, and it’s time for you to go to them. You must let go of Carmela and your children here. When you do this, you will find your way to them. I promise I won’t leave until you are with them again, but first you must let them go.”
Mojo has laid down; a good sign– although his eyes have not wavered from that same dark corner.
“Please listen, Alexander. I’m surrounding you with white light. Soon, your suffering will come to an end. Let go of all mistakes and heartaches you experienced in your lifetime. You are pure spirit now. It’s okay to let go. It’s the right thing to do for yourself and for—
My breath catches in my throat. Children’s cries echo from downstairs. Mojo is still, but his eyes are on me. The amber glow is all I can see in the darkness. The sage’s smoke spins in wide circles. I hear shrill laughter. A chill makes my teeth chatter and my body tremble.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, but my voice sounds nothing like my own. I listen and pray for the spirit gods to release the old energies of the children. “Alexander, let your children go so they can stop crying. It’s time.”
The crying continues and I reach again for the smudge stick, but my hand doesn’t go far enough to grasp it. This isn’t right. He or someone or something is holding me back. I try to force my arm forward, but it doesn’t move. Mojo’s eyes are twirling, dancing beside me. Something they simply cannot do.
“Alexander, stop.” I scream the words, but they come out as an echo, reverberating off the walls and making my head pound. “Alexander, I know you suffered. I understand. I’m only here to help you.”
The room is spinning like a carnival ride. I know it’s not really happening, but I grab my blanket anyway and hold on as I pray to the Great Spirit. The spinning stops and I’m slammed sideways. Then the house is filled with silence, more eerie than the crying of the children.
The Roxbury Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 1) Page 7
