Skeptic

by Denise Mathew

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  1. Elise

  2. Elise

  3. Dakota

  4. Dakota

  5. Elise

  6. Dakota

  7. Elise

  8. Dakota

  9. Elise

  10. Dakota

  11. Elise

  12. Dakota

  13. Elise

  14. Dakota

  15. Dakota

  16. Elise

  17. Dakota

  18. Elise

  19. Atticus

  20. Elise

  21. Atticus

  22. Elise

  23. Atticus

  24. Elise

  25. Atticus

  26. Elise

  27. Atticus

  28. Atticus

  29. Elise

  30. Elise

  31. Atticus

  32. Elise

  SKEPTIC

  By D.E. Mac Lean

  SKEPTIC

  Published by D.E. Mac Lean

  © D.E. Mac Lean 2012. All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without prior permission of the author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictiously. Other names, characters, places, incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-09918201-0-8

  1. ELISE

  Every week I prove to the world that ghosts don't exist, every week I lie. And as I stared at the Greek Revival Plantation house, looming like a pumped up version of Norman Bates Psycho pad, I knew I had my work cut out for me, because unlike some of the places I had investigated before, this house was without a doubt haunted.

  Transformed into a Bed and Breakfast Inn, almost thirty years back, the mansion was grand and boxy with a center entrance, several balconies and dormer windows jutting from what looked like the original slate shingled roof. Ancient oak trees with crown spreads of at least a hundred feet, abutted the property, with sprawling branches sweeping the grass like massive spider legs. With the setting sun casting long fingered shadows across its white clapboard facade, it was easy for the average person to believe that ghosts and spirits lurked in every corner. But as daunting as the task was, I knew I needed to put all those ghost stories to bed, because I was the Skeptic, and it was my job to dispel everything supernatural, and so far there hadn't been a case I hadn't been able to label a fraud. Of course if that meant I had to fabricate data to get the results I wanted, then that's what I did.

  My camera crew, and a small team of scientists had already arrived, and set up the paranormal activity monitoring equipment. By now I knew they would have taken their initial readings and penned preliminary reports, and I was one hundred percent sure that they would have noted irregularities, because even at the outskirts of the property, the swath of energy coming from the house was so dense that it seemed to seep like thick sap from the very boards of the mansion. I sighed and strode forward, my black Louboutin pumps tapping on the crumbling concrete walkway, as I made my way to the front door.

  "You're here early, Elise."

  I spun to face Turk, a member of my team for the better part of a year, whose head always seemed too small for his steroid pumped body, making him appear almost cartoonish. Every time I laid eyes on him I couldn't help but wonder about the kind of woman who would be drawn to his type, who, minus the accent, was a dead ringer for the original sword swinging Schwarzenegger version of Conan the Barbarian. But physical attributes aside, Turk was exactly what I looked for in a crew member, a left-brained thinker, who for the most part had less intuition than a housefly.

  I gave Turk my shiniest well-practiced smile and shrugged.

  "I finished my book signing earlier than I had planned, and thought I would check in on you guys..." I thumbed toward the house. "We've only got the place for twenty-four hours, are they all set up?"

  Turk nodded, and swung his 35 mm video camera onto his shoulder.

  "I'm going to get a few test shots," he said.

  I nodded, and mounted the stairs leading to the portico-covered veranda that stretched the width of the house. Just as I reached the top of the stairs, a gust of icy wind made goose bumps break out on my body. I ignored the cold spot, a classic sign of paranormal activity, and grabbed the polished brass doorknob of the glass-paneled door. My fingers instantly tingled with electricity, yet I didn't break my stride, or show any sign that I had felt anything out of the ordinary. I was in character and nothing, including a ghost breathing down my neck, would crack my resolve.

  I pushed the door open, and the ancient hinges gave a metallic screech.

  "They could use some oil," Turk said, stating the obvious.

  I nodded without comment. I didn't have time for mindless chitchat; I needed my full focus on getting through the investigation, and making sure no one clued in, that the house wasn't as ghost free as I wanted them to believe.

  Inside, the place was teaming with people, both dead and alive. Camera lights had been positioned in the foyer, that I estimated was large enough to fit my whole loft in. An ornate crystal chandelier, the centerpiece of the cathedral ceiling, sparkled in the light filtering in from the oriel windows on either wall of the foyer.

  I swept the area, and let my eyes rest for just a moment on the ghost of a middle-aged woman, in a full-length dark dress, with a steely grey bun pinned at the top of her head. She glared down at me from her perch on the swirling hardwood staircase, that led to the second floor. Before I could avert my stare, she glided down the staircase, running her hand gracefully over the gleaming bannister and floated toward me.

  "Please leave my home, this is private property," she said in a breathy sigh. I grinned in response.

  "Not likely," I said, in a tone so low that even someone standing right next to me would have had difficulty hearing.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Turk had fallen behind, and was busy adjusting his tripod-mounted cameras, that he had already positioned in strategic locations. I sidestepped the ghost, and spotted Sue Ellen, busy calibrating her tools. I had never met a woman as disinterested in their appearance as Sue Ellen. At thirty-three, almost ten years older than me, she was the epitome of the unkempt, couldn't-care-less stereotype of scientists. As always, her freckled skin was devoid of makeup, and her mousy brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. Her khaki cargo pants were at least two sizes too big, and matched her oversized grey hoodie perfectly.

  The ghost box in her hand, a radio that spirits were supposed to use to speak through, spewed out white noise, and her EMF machine on the table in front of her blipped occasionally, usually of course when a ghost passed in front of it; not that she would have known a ghost was in the vicinity even if it poked her with a phantom finger. I knew Sue Ellen well enough, to be certain that she would label any sounds coming from the machines as random feedback, nothing she would consider supernatural in nature.

  I drew in a sharp breath, and the muscles in my stomach clenched involuntarily when I glanced at Dakota. In my opinion, with his perpetually tousled dark hair and bronze skin, Dakota was the image of male perfection. Deep in thought, his chiseled face was tense with concentration, and his well-formed biceps flexed and relaxed, as his long fingers adjusted knobs and buttons. I drew in another slow inhalation, and allowed myself the luxury of remembering how those very fingers had felt on my skin not long ago. Like Sue Ellen, Dakota was too busy fiddling with his infrared thermal monitor and his other investigative tools, to ha
ve noticed me. When I had spent as much time staring at him as I could chance without getting caught, I spoke.

  "Looks good," I said, trying to sound casual.

  I had heard that breakups eventually got easier with time, yet I was sure, that fact only held when you actually wanted to end a relationship, not when your hand was forced like mine had been. One of the most painful things I had ever had the displeasure to experience, was seeing Dakota every day, and knowing what I had lost, and it hadn't gotten even a little easier in the past few months. I still ached to be in his arms again.

  His head popped up, and he locked his sea foam green eyes on me, as always, I flushed in response. He flashed me a stiff smile, leaving no doubt that things still weren't okay between us. In that moment, I wanted his trademark bad boy squint and grin, but it never came. From the first day I had met him, he had won me over with his smile, and it still never failed to make me forget that I had secrets to protect.

  "Leave my house," a guttural voice hissed in my ear. A cold chill settled over me, but I moved forward, as if I hadn't heard a thing. I was positive that if Dakota had measured the spot I had just been standing in, the reading would have registered a few degrees colder than the rest of the house. As I closed the distance between us, I noticed Dakota's aura, an energy field that surrounds all living things, was blazing a muddy red, and it only confirmed my original deduction, he was not happy with me.

  "Hello Ms. Weston," he said, with a wicked grin. I instantly recoiled at his formal tone, and noted that if he had called me Ms. Bitch, it might have felt better.

  "Dakota," I said.

  My lips felt stretched too tight against my teeth, stuck in an artificial smile. I attempted to maintain my fake breezy attitude, but I felt it slipping.

  "Is everything ready to go?"

  I focused my gaze on the light stubble on his chin. Few men could pull off the unshaven look, like he did.

  "I've done a few preliminary readings and..." He paused, then shuffled through a stack of feed paper, before tugging out the sheet he had been searching for. The edge in his tone had softened a little, which worked to calm my frayed nerves. Dakota was serious about his work, and couldn't be bad-tempered when he had a willing audience to rhyme his data off to.

  "I've found a few cold spots, about ten to twelve degrees lower in temperature. So far, I haven't found a reason why."

  My heart sank. Unfortunately, discrediting this particular haunted house was going to be even worse than I had expected. It made sense though, the history behind the place was vast, and there had been more sightings of abnormal activity than any place I had investigated before. In the eighteenth century, it had been a cotton plantation, and documents claimed that at least ten murders had occurred within its walls over a fifty-year time period.

  Many visitors and staff, had sworn that near the hearth of the kitchen, they had spotted the ghost of a thirteen-year-old slave girl named Anny, who had apparently been hung for killing two people with a poisonous cake. Witnesses described her, as being dressed in a white peasant girl blouse, with a rough spun beige ankle length skirt, and wearing a brown scarf wrapped around her head. Sometimes she carried an armload of kindling, other times she appeared to be cooking, while other times she dangled dead from a rope noose with her eyes popped wide, and her purple tongue lolling from her mouth. The ghost I had already met, was most likely the wife of the plantation owner. She too had a traumatic death, having fallen down the stairs and broken her neck.

  During my previous investigations, I had discovered that some ghosts could be reasoned with, and I hoped that would be the case with the ghosts in this house. With the matron's presence so potent, I prayed I could convince her that it was better to stay low key for the length of time it took to do our investigation, because if she didn't, a barrage of supernatural seekers would converge on the place.

  "Well, you and I both know that it's normal for buildings to experience temperature variations, especially if some rooms don't have proper insulation behind the drywall, and cold air slips inside," I said, in a businesslike tone.

  Of all paranormal phenomenon, cold spots were the easiest to explain and Dakota knew it, meaning my explanation wasn't required, and was more for me than anyone else. I was donning my Skeptic persona, and I had to be convincing when I declared that all claims about the house being haunted, were bogus.

  "I know Ms. Weston," he said, the ice back in his tone. Inwardly I cringed, knowing that my impromptu spiel had been overkill.

  "How about the kitchen?" I asked, trying to get back into the groove.

  If it were possible to put my feelings in a box and forget about them, everything would have been so much easier.

  "There have been quite a few sharp fluctuations in the electromagnetic field," Sue Ellen said, pushing her cat-eye glasses, ones that she was near blind without, up the bridge of her nose. She tapped a switch on the EMF monitor, and it gave a loud squawk in response.

  "A normal everyday occurrence," I said, shooting her down quickly, because everything had to go smoothly, and that would never happen if anyone gave credence to the abnormal findings.

  Eager to escape Dakota's scathing glare, I clasped my hands at my waist and smiled brightly. "So nothing that amounts to much of anything," I said.

  Sue Ellen and Dakota nodded in tandem, and I turned on my heel, crossed the glossy oak hardwood floor and made my way to the kitchen. When I passed through the dining room, I noticed it had been renovated for the more practical purposes of serving guests. Plain wooden tables with two and three seat backless maple bench chairs, lined the center of the room and were a notable step down from the grandeur of the entrance. Modern amenities like coffee makers, soda machines, glass-faced coolers and ice machines looked as out of place as a priest in a brothel.

  As I approached the kitchen, that lay just beyond the dining area, I immediately detected the distinct scent of sulfur and burning wood. Judging by the strength of the odor, the ghost I was about to meet was old, and probably stronger than most, which meant I had to be prepared.

  When I stepped into the kitchen, I saw that it was a mishmash of modern and archaic. The stainless steel appliances, oak cabinets, and the shiny charcoal colored granite countertops, were in sharp contrast to the grey stone fireplace, that still had what looked like original copper pots, mounted on its face. The simple well-worn pine kitchen table in the center of the room, was split and cracked from age and had matching chairs.

  When I drew closer to the hearth, I was blasted by freezing cold air, and the stench of sulfur became almost nauseating. The hearth obviously hadn't been used in years, yet a black cauldron of days gone by, was suspended over it, and none other than the infamous Anny, with a rope noose around her neck, stood stirring the pot. Since she was a seasoned ghost, she was more solid than most, and looked exactly as people had described her. Her dark brown eyes bugged out of her swollen and purplish-grey face, and a noose cut a deep path into her flesh, and was pulled so taut, that her head angled unnaturally atop her broken neck.

  Instead of being scared, as most people would have, when encountering a ghost in all its macabre glory, I was irritated, because even if my crew didn't see her, they sure as hell wouldn't miss the wooden spoon twirling in the center of the pot.

  "You can't do that," I said, louder than I had planned. I knew that the house was going to try my patience, but this was ridiculous, who did she think she was?

  Anny ignored me, and kept her focus on the specter meal in front of her. I moved closer, until I was a foot away.

  "Hey," I said, waving a hand through her wispy essence. It felt like I had dunked my fingers in an icebox.

  This move seemed to get her attention, and she turned to face me, her features morphed from her dead zombie like appearance, to a bright-eyed teenage girl.

  "You've got to cut that out..."

  I threw a glance over my shoulder and lowered my voice. "At least until after we've finished taping."

  Her face sett
led into the dead version, and she stopped stirring, then shook her head, and it bobbled like an old fashioned jack-in-the-box, before she went back to her cooking. I snatched the spoon from her ghostly grasp, and threw it on the slate floor. She released a shriek of anxiety, and went to her knees to retrieve the spoon. Before she could pick it up again, I slammed the toe of my shoe on it.

  "Listen Anny," I said, exasperated. "You're dead, and have been for years..."

  "Dead?" Anny slurred, her tongue too engorged to speak around.

  I gritted my teeth, and did my best to maintain my cool. I only had a few minutes to get rid of her, before my crew came into the kitchen.

  "Yes, dead, and you're not supposed to be here anymore, so why don't you go somewhere else..."

  Her appearance transformed into that of an innocent teenager, and I saw her bottom lip tremble, like she was about to cry. I actually felt sorry for the kid, a little anyway, but I pushed my pity away, sympathy wasn't going to get me through this investigation, sheer determination would.

  "Don't you think it's odd, that you're the only one in this kitchen, or that most of the people here are strangers, and nobody talks to you?" I said, trying to reason with her.

  She shook her head, and studied her surroundings.

  "You're lying," she said, then released a strangled sob.

  "I'm telling you..." I started, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard movement behind me.

  "Who are you talking to?" Dakota said.

  I blanched, and spun around to face him. He stared at me with a puzzled expression, and I wondered how long he had been standing there.

  "What do you mean?" I said, throwing my shoulders back, in a gesture that I hoped made me appear relaxed. Dakota eyed me suspiciously, then gazed at the space where Anny had just been. I did a backward glance too, and was relieved to see that she wasn't behind me anymore.

  "I heard you talking and I..." Dakota scratched the top of his head.

  I smiled, then quiet calm enveloped me like a toasty blanket, and the Skeptic took over.