Demons Are a Ghoul's Best Friend

by Victoria Laurie

  We loaded our equipment and got into the van. Gil turned his head to look at me from the front seat and said, “Dish,” before turning the key in the ignition and pulling out of the lot.

  “Eric and Nicholas interact,” I said.

  Steven looked back at me, his eyes showing his surprise.

  “The dean’s brother?”

  “The very one,” I said. “I think he may live in the basement of the main building. He was playing a video game, and I saw him interact with Eric.”

  “The little-boy ghost?”

  “Yep.”

  “It’s like my grandfather and Willis,” Steven said, referring to the chess game his ghostly grandfather played each day with his retired groundskeeper. We’d encountered them six weeks earlier, when Steven had first hired me to help his grandfather cross over after he’d fallen off a roof at the family hunting lodge.

  “Yes, it’s like that,” I admitted, “but this is on a level I’ve never seen before. Willis and your grandfather didn’t speak. Their interaction was limited to a few chess moves. These two actually engage each other like two living people.”

  “What were they talking about?” Gil asked.

  “A video game,” I said, shaking my head. “Which means that Eric has an awareness of his surroundings that is incredibly unusual for a ghost. The fact that he can see things as they really are and not as they appeared thirty years ago says that he’s evolved and amazingly well adjusted for such a young spirit.”

  “I am not understanding this,” said Steven.

  I took a breath, thinking how best to explain. “Most ghosts don’t fully see the environment they’re in as it changes over time. They will act and react to things that they knew existed in their own time. So, to give you an example, say you’re a ghost from the eighteen hundreds and your main mode of transportation is the horse and buggy. You will move around as if you’re still in your horse and buggy, and you’ll see cars not as they are, but as other horses and buggies.”

  “Why?” Steven asked. “Why not see things as they are?”

  “Because most of these grounded spirits are in a state of confusion. Often they’re in denial about their own mortality, so to cope they imprint their thoughts over the images they see. Sometimes they become aware that things aren’t as they should be. Like if a door they liked to keep closed is kept open by the current tenants, they’ll work hard to constantly keep the door closed. That’s why construction is so unsettling to them. They don’t like having to work so hard to imprint their thoughts over the changing images in their environment.”

  “Eric’s a pretty special ghostie then,” said Gil.

  “Only two percent of recorded grounded spirits ever interact on an active level with an individual,” I said, quoting my research. “And that tells us something about Nicholas too.”

  “He’s a medium too?” Steven said.

  “Highly likely,” I said. “And if he’s as gifted as I think he is, able to have an entire conversation with Eric, then it’s also likely that he’s seen other things as well.”

  “The other boys,” said Gil.

  “And Hatchet Jack,” I said.

  “Explain to me, then, why we’re driving home,” Gil said.

  I sat back in my seat wearily. “Because Eric wasn’t interested in me tonight,” I said. “He wanted to hang out with his friend. The poor kid died an awful death, and he gets chased on a regular basis by this freakazoid Jack. I figured he deserved a little downtime with Nicholas. Besides, we can head back there tomorrow and try to talk to Nicholas ourselves. He might know a whole lot about this little boy. Who knows how many details they’ve shared between them?”

  “That could cut our investigation time way down,” said Gil.

  “Exactly,” I said. “I’ll call the dean in the morning and clear it with him. With any luck we’ll be able to identify Eric and gain some ground on these other boys too.”

  We pulled into the O’Neal ski lodge then, and everyone got out of the van. As we walked to the front door Gil asked me, “Is Doc staying with me the rest of the trip?”

  I caught the hopeful little look Steven sent my way, but said to Gil, “No. I’ll take him back. Thanks, though.”

  Gil turned to Steven. “Sorry, man. I tried.”

  I pushed past them and went into the lodge, where I gently picked up Doc’s cage from Gil’s room and trucked him back to mine. Before turning out the light I groaned when I saw that the clock read three thirty a.m. It was turning out to be a long week, and I had a feeling the toughest part of this bust was yet to come.

  Chapter 7

  It was after ten, and light was pouring into my room when I pulled myself groggily out of sleep and sat up. Doc was whistling from his perch, entertaining himself by mimicking the birds outside. Right now he had a sparrow from just outside the window completely confused.

  “Morning, sailor,” I said to him.

  He stopped whistling and turned around to me. With a bob of his head he said, “Nice bum, where you from?”

  I laughed. It’d been a while since I’d heard that one. “Valdosta,” I said, referring to our hometown in Georgia.

  “Gonna cost ya!” he said, remembering the banter I’d taught him when I was a kid. I’d had Doc since I was twelve, and every once in a while he took me down memory lane.

  “You hungry?” I asked him.

  Doc gave me several more head bobs. I threw back the covers and grabbed my robe off a chair in the corner. Opening his cage I took him into the kitchen where Steven was reading a newspaper and sipping some coffee. “Good morning,” he said when he saw us.

  “Nice bum, where you from?” Doc asked him.

  “Argentina,” Steven said.

  Doc cocked his head, and rolled his tongue around. After a moment he said in an almost perfect mimic of Steven’s voice, “Argentina.”

  Steven laughed. “That is a smart bird you have there, M.J.”

  “He’s a keeper,” I said, and gave Doc a kiss on the top of his head, then placed him on the counter while I reached for a banana and some blueberries to cut up for him.

  I heard shuffling from behind me. “Is that coffee?” Gil said, his voice croaky.

  “Fresh pot,” said Steven.

  “Pour me a cup, would you?” I said to Gil while I worked to cut up Doc’s breakfast.

  Gil poured me a cup of black coffee before getting his own and heading over to sit across from Steven. “Your detective called here at eight a.m.,” he said moodily.

  I looked up from the bowl I was filling with fruit. “Muckleroy?”

  Gil nodded and gave a tremendous yawn. “He called my number instead of yours.” Because Gil took care of booking all of our jobs, his cell was listed on my business card as the main number for our ghostbusting business.

  “Sorry,” I said, carrying Doc on my shoulder as I carefully maneuvered the coffee and fruit over to the table.

  “What’d he want?”

  Gilley yawned again. The poor guy looked like a wreck without his usual ten hours of beauty sleep. “He said that none of the teeth in the skull they found at the pond had dental work.”

  “So there won’t be any dental records to compare them to,” I said.

  “He asked if you’d call him when you woke up.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “He thinks maybe you can give a description of Eric’s ghost. He wants to compare it to the files he’s pulled of missing children from the seventies and eighties.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. “I’ll call him after I shower.”

  “Don’t forget the dean’s brother,” said Steven, reminding me that I still needed to talk with Nicholas.

  “Looks like there’s no time for a run,” I moaned, glancing at the clock on the wall.

  “And you wanted to interview that teacher, too,” Gil reminded me.

  I looked to him and Steven, a little annoyed that the bulk of the work kept falling on my shoulders. “Why don’t you two g
o interview him?” I suggested. “That way I can meet with the police and give them a description, then head over to the school and pick Nicholas’s brain.”

  “You do not want me to come with you?” Steven asked, and I realized I’d been pushing him away but good the last few days.

  “I can go this one alone,” I said gently. “You and I can hang out later, okay?”

  He nodded and I got up to shower, making quick work of it, as I wanted to call Muckleroy sooner rather than later.

  With my hair still damp I called the number Gilley had written on a piece of scrap paper for me. Muckleroy’s demeanor had done a one-eighty from our first encounter, and I found him to be pleasant and courteous on the phone. “We’ve got a great sketch artist here in town,” he was saying. “I was hoping you could give her a general description of this little boy and maybe we’d get lucky.”

  “How many missing boys do you have to compare it to?” I asked.

  “Four boys fit the age range from this county,” he said.

  “But they’re spaced pretty far apart, from 1966 to 1985, and only two actually still have the photos attached to the files. I figure I can take the sketch from your sit-down with our artist and show it to the families of the boys—see if they recognize it.”

  “Were any of your four reported missing around 1976?” I asked.

  “Only one,” he said. “But your name, Eric, doesn’t fit.”

  “Were any of the other boys named Eric?”

  “No.”

  I frowned. I knew that was the boy’s name. He’d said it clearly several times, and Nicholas had even confirmed that was the name the boy went by. Then again, maybe it was his middle name or a nickname. “What time would you like me to drop by?” I asked.

  “Can you come now?”

  “I can,” I said, and got directions. I then looked through the notes and found the number for Dean Habbernathy. I got a general voice mail, so I left a rather urgent message and crossed my fingers that he’d get back to me. I knew I could always go back to the school and knock on Nicholas’s window, but something told me that Nicholas wasn’t the type to warm up to strangers. I’d need his brother to make him feel at ease about talking to us.

  I met Gil and Steven back in the kitchen. I let them have the van while I took the keys to Karen’s Mercedes. Friendship has its privileges.

  I followed behind Gil and Steven until we hit downtown, and, going by my directions, I turned left onto Saranac Avenue while they continued down Old Military Road.

  I arrived at the police station and fed the meter with enough quarters for two hours, hoping that would be plenty. I made my way inside and gave my name to the dispatcher. She told me to wait in the lobby. I took a seat and waited only a minute or two before a door opened and Muckleroy motioned me over. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” he said. “Our sketch artist works for us part-time, and she has only a couple of hours this morning before her next appointment.”

  “No worries,” I said, following him through the door down a brilliantly white hallway to an office at the back. “In here,” he said, and allowed me through the door first. I went in, and a woman of about sixty, with lovely silver hair and deep brown eyes, rose to meet me. “Hello, M.J.,” she said warmly, extending her hand. “I’m Amelia Myers.”

  “Hi,” I said, shaking her hand. She pointed to the other side of the table and I took a seat.

  Muckleroy said from the doorway, “I’ll leave you to it. Amelia, call me when you two are through and we can sort through the photos I’ve got upstairs.”

  He left the room, and Amelia said, “Bob tells me you’re quite the talent.”

  I smiled crookedly. “He’s downplaying it.”

  She laughed. “Well, you’ve got a fan in him for life.”

  “He likes my spirit.” I giggled. Somebody stop me.

  Amelia laughed again; then she sobered and pulled out her sketch pad. “All right, M.J., why don’t you start by telling me the basic shape of this boy’s face as you saw it?”

  We worked together for nearly two hours, and I was glad that I had fed the meter appropriately. Finally, with ten minutes to spare before I’d have to bolt out of there to put more quarters in, she turned her sketch pad around, and the face staring out at me was unmistakable. “That’s him,” I said sadly. There was something so tragic about seeing that face on the pad. Eric seemed so alive and vibrant, even in spirit.

  Amelia turned the pad back around. “He’s a good-looking young man,” she remarked. “And you’re sure his hair is red?”

  “Yes. He’s got a little of that Opie look to him. All red hair and freckles.”

  Amelia made a tsking noise. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt such a lovely young man,” she said.

  “I agree, which is why I’m on a mission to hunt Hatchet Jack down and put an end to his nightmare once and for all.”

  “Bob tells me you believe there were other victims?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I think there were at least two more boys who were murdered.”

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” she said. “And I never remember anything the likes of which you describe.”

  “Again why I’m so anxious to solve this riddle,” I said.

  “Essentially we’re talking about no less than four deaths happening within this city’s borders that were never reported. You’d think that someone alive today would know something.”

  “You know who you should talk to?” she said. “You should talk to my nephew, Lance. He attended Northelm in the late seventies, and if memory serves me he was one of the first boys to report seeing that ghost they call Hatchet Jack.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Really?” I said. “Will you write down his number for me?”

  “Certainly,” she said, and fished out one of her business cards. After scribbling Lance’s name and number on the back of her card, she gave it to me. “He owns a liquor store on McKinley, and he’s there most afternoons.”

  I thanked her, then glanced at the clock. “Sorry, Amelia, but the meter where my car is parked is just about out of time.”

  “Oh, by all means,” she said, making a small wave of her hand. “Go on then. The meter woman here is an unforgiving soul.”

  There was a tiny smile on her face as she said that, and I gave her a pat on her arm as I got up and began to edge out of the room. “Have Detective Muckleroy call me if he gets a hit from that sketch.”

  “Will do,” she said.

  I hurried out of the station and made it to my car just as the last minute was ticking down. To my chagrin, a meter maid stood about ten yards away, her ticket pad out and her pen at the ready. Amelia wasn’t kidding; I’d barely escaped a ticket.

  I got in Karen’s car and turned the key in the ignition, but before pulling out of the lot I checked my phone for messages. I had none. “Crap,” I said. The dean never called me back.

  As I pulled out onto Main Street I called Gilley. “Yo!” he said when he answered. “What’s the word?”

  “The sketch turned out great,” I said. “I’m pretty confident that if the police have a photo from the missing persons list they’ve complied, they’ll find a match.”

  “That’s great. We didn’t have as much luck.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Ballsach is an asshole.”

  My eyes widened. Gilley was usually more circumspect.

  “Wow,” I said. “Seems like you two really hit it off.”

  “Seriously, M.J., the man is an idiot. Completely uncooperative. Wouldn’t even let me ask him a few simple questions. The moment we mentioned Hatchet Jack he became totally unreasonable.”

  “Gil,” I said, “I’m sure he wasn’t all that bad. Did you tell him to think about it and maybe you could talk to him later?”

  “He slammed the door in our faces,” Gil said. “I think that ship has sailed.”

  “What the heck is with these people, anyway?” I said.

  “Don’t they get that talking about
it might make it better?”

  “Thank you, Dear Abby,” Gil said moodily. I knew that because of his genteel Southern upbringing, rudeness from strangers always threw him.

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s okay, Gil. I may have a lead that might pan out for us.”

  “Did the dean call you back?”

  “No,” I said. “Can you do me a favor and call him again for me? Explain what we’ve uncovered and let him know that I believe his brother may be able to shed some light for us.”

  “Got it. What’s his number?”

  “It’s on my notepad in the bedroom. Are you guys back at the ski lodge?”

  “Uh, not exactly,” Gil admitted, and it was then that I heard music in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “Er…”

  “Gil?” I said in an insistent tone. “Tell me where you are.”

  “At the Mirror Lake Spa.”

  “You mean I’m working my ass off while you two are goofing off?!” I shouted, completely irritated.

  “It was Steven’s idea!” Gil said hurriedly.

  I counted to ten and took a few deep breaths, but wasn’t having any luck calming down. “Guess what?” I said.

  “What?” Gil squeaked.

  “Playtime is over.”

  “Steven,” Gil said, his voice pulling away from the receiver. “We’ve got to go.”

  “But I’m in the middle of my pedicure,” I heard Steven say.

  “You two are ridiculous!” I shouted, and I was so mad that I hung up on Gilley and threw my phone on the seat beside me.

  A minute later my phone rang. Caller ID said it was Steven. I didn’t answer. Instead I made my way over to McKinley Street and found Lance’s Liquor. I parked just down the street and walked back to the door, working hard to check the frustration that was welling up inside of me. I was quickly becoming sick of pulling all the weight on this job while Gil and Steven looked for every excuse to get out of working.

  When I pulled open the door and stepped inside I found the store nearly empty. Behind the counter and up a ladder was the store’s only occupant. “Good afternoon,” a man said pleasantly while turning awkwardly on his ladder in my direction.