by Hunter Shea
He gave her a knowing look and scooted back so he could sit on the rock.
“You’re a very smart little girl. You can see right through me,” he chuckled.
Jessica was no longer afraid. When she’d first thought it was a wild animal, then a strange man, she’d been understandably tense, because they were real flesh and blood things, creatures that, if in the worst state of mind, could bring harm to her.
She now knew the man before her was a ghost, a trapped soul that, should she learn the truth of his captivity between planes, was probably more a figure of sadness than terror.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, still clutching her dolls.
“Does what hurt?”
“Being that way. Or does it feel the same?”
“Oh. It feels pretty much the same, most times. I sure am glad you’re not afraid to talk to me now.”
“I’m not allowed to talk to people I don’t know. But, you’re not a person.”
George winked at her and nodded.
Feeling more at ease with a situation that would send most adults running for their lives, Jessica put her dolls in the backpack and sat on the grass facing him.
“My wife always wanted a little girl so she could share her Barbie doll collection with her. I would have liked one, too, so I could have a special daddy’s little girl, just like your father has. But we had two wonderful boys, so our house was filled with army men and toy trucks. Speaking of my boys, my youngest thinks the world of you.”
Jessica’s six-year-old mind struggled with this last bit of information. If George was a ghost, was his son one as well? Or was he alive, just like her? And either way, could he be the boy seen around their house?
“He’d love to play with you. I try to explain to him why he can’t but he’s young, so he has a hard time understanding.”
“Is he the boy that was at our window and in our house?” Jessica asked.
George straightened his arm out chest high. “Is he about this tall?”
She nodded.
“That would be Matthew, my oldest. He’s just curious, is all. No, Cory hasn’t quite gotten the knack for perfecting his, ah, appearance.”
“Are all of you energy?” Jessica asked, excited.
“Energy?” George repeated.
“I mean ghosts. Me and my daddy call ghosts energy.”
He smiled wide and Jessica noticed that his teeth were translucent. It was like looking at a hand drawn picture of a man where the artist had forgotten to color in the outline of his subject’s grin. “I don’t know about energy, but I do know that if I saw me, I’d tell people I’d just seen a ghost.”
A low clap of thunder echoed from a great distance. Storms moved fast around here and even though she was captivated by the fact she was talking to an actual ghost, Jessica did not want to be stuck outside in the middle of a thunder and lightning storm.
George looked up at the advancing storm clouds.
“Looks like our time is limited. Before I go, I want you to pass a message on to your father.”
“Why don’t you come inside and tell him yourself?”
“I wish it was that easy,” George said, looking suddenly sad and lost.
For the first time since meeting this strange wraith in her yard, Jessica was frightened.
“Tell him that this is a place of bad things, so bad that the energy is angry. It uses all of you, kind of like plugging something into an electrical outlet. If the snow comes, we’ll do what we can to help, but your father must not be afraid. It’s very important that he is not afraid. You understand?”
She nodded her head vigorously.
“And tell Judas I’m sorry for making him fall.”
George winked, but there was a deep sorrow in his eyes.
With a grunt, he pushed away from the stone and retreated back into the forest. As he came in contact with the first tree, he turned to smoke and was absorbed into the bark.
Jessica stared at the tree for several minutes, waiting for him to reappear. This time, the thunder was closer and loud enough to make the ground rumble. She jumped, slipped an arm into the strap of her backpack and ran to the house like the devil was on her heels.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jack Casella sat in his cubicle lamenting every facet of his life. Break time was another half hour away but Jack was damned if he’d do any work until then. Clicking onto the internet, he accessed his home email account, hoping to catch a funny forwarded email from one of his friends. After deleting seven emails looking to sell him penis enlargement creams and overseas painkiller prescriptions, he saw a message from John.
“Got any naked pics of Eskimo chicks?” he muttered as he opened the email.
In the email, John told him about the house and the less than warm reception they’d been given by the locals. He wrote a couple of lines about their trip to the Denali State Park with a promise of many pictures to be shared when he returned. Most important was the small list of requests and instructions on where to find some of the books he wanted Jack to look over.
Hitting the print icon, he wheeled his chair to his jacket hook and decided to call it a day. Sometimes, being the boss had its privileges.
Thousands of miles away, John grabbed his notebook when he smelled burning rubber in the basement. After he checked to make sure nothing was on fire, the strange odor lifted. He took the stairs two at a time to see if it came from upstairs.
Nothing.
At first he had been upset at how hard it was to do any background investigating outside the house. During his trips to town, he felt nothing but open disdain and he knew there was no sense asking questions. No help would be forthcoming. Because of that, he was forced to hole up in the house and hope he could somehow provide his own answers. The house, especially lately, was doing its best to keep him busy.
He jumped at the sound of one loud knock on the door to the empty basement.
He waited. “I’m listening. Knock again if you can hear me.” Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out one of his recorders and stood motionless for several minutes.
Tired of waiting, he headed back to the basement. As he walked past the door, there was another knock, this time louder and from the other side. John knocked back, then jotted the time and place in his notebook.
All of his research had yielded dozens of cases that contained parts of what they were experiencing, but nothing that was all encompassing. Shadow people, full bodied apparitions complete with interaction, light anomalies, sounds, they were all there, recorded throughout time by people all over the world. But to have them all in one place? It was unheard of, and every new piece of evidence drove him harder to find the truth.
Judas saw Sheriff High Bear’s truck skid to a halt outside his house just as he walked out the front door. Shit.
His natural instinct was to run. He and High Bear had many memories of past chases, all of them with Judas on the losing end of the race. Sure he could run, but if he didn’t have a destination that was miles away from Shida, what was the sense?
“I know what you’re thinking Graves and I’d highly advise against it,” High Bear said as he jumped from his truck. He removed his sunglasses and walked up to him with one hand on the butt of his gun and the other on the handle of his baton. If Judas hadn’t already been through this play a dozen times before, he might have been afraid.
“I was just thinking that you don’t come around to visit much anymore and how much I don’t miss it.”
Judas flashed his best screw-you grin and leaned against the porch railing. The sheriff always brought out the best in him.
“That smile would look much better with a few missing teeth.” High Bear tensed, fighting the urge to whip out his nightstick. Instead, he poked Judas with his index and middle fingers and knocked him off balance.
“How do you know the white guy?” he said through clenched teeth.
“I guess you aren’t aware that all white people know each other. It’s like a big global
club—”
The sheriff cut him off. “Shut up, asshole. Now I’ll ask you again. How do you know John Backman?”
“Who says I know him?”
“I saw you in the diner that day with him, or are you too stupid to remember. I know you’ve been up at his house and I want to know why. I checked and I know he’s not part of your family, real or adopted. In fact, there isn’t a soul in this country that would claim you as kin. I can’t see a man like Backman being friends with a dropout stoner, so it gets me wondering.”
Judas could feel the heat of his anger but there was something else in his eyes.
Doubt.
For the first time, High Bear didn’t have all the answers, which meant he didn’t have total control and it was eating him alive.
“Look, when he was up here a while back, he kind of gravitated to me because, well, you know how this place is. You don’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon to white people, now do you?”
“Why is he here?” Tiny flecks of spittle flew from his mouth.
“It’s no secret, he’s writing a book. He asked me over a couple of times to talk about what life is like up here in the interior. No big deal. Nothing to blow a gasket about.”
He was taking a chance talking this way. He knew full well that High Bear wasn’t above beating the information out of him. The sheriff stared at him, as if to psychically will the truth from him. When Judas didn’t break his gaze, High Bear turned and stormed back to his truck. As he backed out, he rolled down his window and said, “If I find out you’re lying, I’ll be back and it won’t be pleasant.”
He sped off and a stray rock kicked up by the tire hit Judas in the thigh.
They both knew he was lying. He could deal with the sheriff. There was no way he was going to tell John about this little visit. The man had enough on his mind without having to worrying about their resident psychotic law man.
When Jack pulled up in front of John’s house, the downstairs lights were on as well as a light in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Even though he had installed a very good home security system, John still felt it necessary to have a handful of five dollar timers connected to assorted lamps in different rooms.
Inside, the house felt every bit the empty home. The central air system kept it from smelling musty but it couldn’t mask the sense of loneliness that clung to you the moment you stepped inside. He tossed his keys on the foyer table and went upstairs to John’s study.
As he browsed the fully stocked book shelves, he remembered the folded email in his shirt pocket and took it out to make sure he was on the right track. John had listed several book titles he wanted Jack to scan for any stories related to, of all things, dark shadow people with more than one shade present during a sighting, as well as any interaction between differing types of spectral apparitions. John was nice enough to give him an example of what he meant, which actually made him break out in goose bumps because his gut told him his friend was speaking of these things from first hand experience.
It took him almost half an hour to find all ten books. Together, they must have weighed fifty pounds. “You’re paying for my eye doctor bill,” he said, hefting them into a nylon duffel bag. He’d start reading them tonight.
He looked again at the email that was now sitting on John’s desk and laughed when he read: I’LL NEED YOU TO PULL A CINDY CRAWFORD FOR ME. I HAVEN’T HAD ANY LUCK GETTING A HISTORY OF THE HOUSE OR THIS TOWN FOR THAT MATTER. IT’S LIKE LIVING IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE, WITHOUT THE AMENITIES. FROM WHAT I CAN TELL, THE HOUSE WE’RE IN WAS BUILT OVER TEN YEARS AGO BY SOMEONE WHO WASN’T A RESIDENT OF SHIDA. THE ADDRESS IS LISTED BELOW. LET ME KNOW IF YOU CAN CRAWFORD SOME INFO. :) YOU’LL NEED MONEY. I HAVE A STASH I KEEP IN MY CLOSET IN A PHONY PHONE BOOK. THE INSIDE IS HOLLOW AND HAS ABOUT FIVE GRAND IN IT. TAKE AN EXTRA TWO HUNDRED FOR YOU AND THE MISSUS AND HAVE A NICE DINNER ON ME. CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU FIND ANYTHING OUT. CAN’T TRUST EMAIL UP HERE. — THANKS, JOHN.
Pull a Cindy Crawford.
There weren’t many people in Jack’s life who knew what that meant. Back when he was in college, he and his roommate George had an unhealthy fascination with supermodel Cindy Crawford. Their walls were plastered with her posters and cutouts from magazines, with special loving care applied to her Playboy layout. One day, they decided it was time to meet the raving beauty. What better place to meet a supermodel than her own home?
They managed to scrape up enough money to hire a less than reputable private eye, under a cover story about as thin as waxed paper and even more transparent, to get Cindy Crawford’s home address. It only took one week to get the address and a month to screw up the courage to drive out of New York City to her home in Westchester. Once there, they camped out a block from the entrance to her street and waited to catch a glimpse of she-with-the-stunning-mole passing by in her car. They staked out her place seven times before giving up, once even managing to go through her garbage and coming up with a crumpled heating bill with her name on it and an empty bottle of nail polish remover.
They had both used Cindy Crawford as a code word for finding out secret information ever since. Needless to say, neither had much opportunity to ferret out skeletons in any closets.
Jack finally had his chance to truly pull a Cindy Crawford.
Wadi and Ciqala eyed Judas suspiciously as they stepped from the dirt bike and dusted their jackets and jeans off by slapping themselves with leather gloved hands. They greeted Muraco with the perfunctory head nod and he threw them each a cold beer. The back yard of Muraco’s house resembled an outdoor museum of rust, filled to bursting with old mattresses with exposed bed springs, rotting tools, a couple of weathered muscle car frames, filthy buckets, and endless scraps of wood, most with bent nails protruding from the mud-caked grain just looking to give someone tetanus. Neither Muraco nor his parents were sticklers for cleanliness and order.
Muraco, Judas and Wadi sat on overturned cement buckets while Ciqala pulled up an old milk crate encrusted with sod.
“Dude, what’s Stitch doing here?” Ciqala asked, motioning his head towards Judas.
“He’s gonna help me out with something, just like you guys.”
Wadi kicked the bucket with the heel of his boot. “Help you with what?” There was no trace of hesitation in his voice. If Wadi was anything, he was game.
“You’re not going to believe me when I tell you, but I swear, this shit’s for real. Judas can back me up. Right?” He tapped Judas in the chest with the back of his hand.
“Yeah…right.” Judas replied. He felt like he was in the belly of the beast and it made him as uncomfortable as being in John’s house. Here he was sitting with the three biggest assholes in town, grown men who still taunted him like the worthless bullies they were back in grade school. Now that Judas had gotten himself and Muraco entangled in something strange and, for them, exciting, he was an honorary part of their crew. He wished Teddy were here just so he had a sane face to turn to.
Muraco filled them in on the story, even including the mysterious death of Millie as a possible link to the strange events at the house on Fir Way. In the middle of his monologue, he stopped and said to Ciqala, “Didn’t your father work on that house?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “He might have. He probably helped build most of the houses around here over the last twenty years.”
“So we have him to blame for this town’s sorry ass look,” Wadi joked.
“Hey, at least he does more than sit on his ass and drink all day until he passes out.”
A staring contest immediately ensued, which would soon lead to rolling around the floor. Muraco broke it up by shouting, “Cut it out, dicks. This is serious.” He turned to Ciqala. “You think you could ask your old man if there was anything funny about that house?”
“I’d have to be a little smoother than that, but yeah, I could.”
“Cool. Judas here is going to talk to the dude who lives in the house now and see if maybe we could all get together with him. We should probably mee
t up at Phil’s during the day so there aren’t a lot of people around.”
All three nodded their heads in agreement.
“Can I bring Erica with me?” Wadi asked.
Muraco thought it over for a moment, questioning the wisdom of bringing even more heavy shit down on them. Did they really need heat from High Bear, too? Then again, what else was there to do? It’s not like they had any real jobs or lives or futures.
After a couple of agonizing minutes of silence, he said, “Why not? One more wolf will only make the pack stronger.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
When Jessica came back inside rushing up the stairs and into her room without so much as a word, John knew something must be wrong. He was positive she wasn’t hurt, because she would have come to him immediately for that, expecting comfort and the instant healing power imparted to all parents from above. He was tempted to just go upstairs and talk to her. Past experience taught him to allow her space to decompress and gather her thoughts. She could be intense and often needed time to marshal her emotions.
Eve was playing on the floor with Liam, so she didn’t notice Jessica’s abrupt entrance. John flipped ahead in his book, a compilation of ghost tales of the great northwest, to see how many pages were left in the chapter he was on. He decided to check on her when he was finished. That should give her enough time.
“You know, we should really all go into town again,” Eve said with Liam on her lap and tugging on her hair.
Intrigued by this sudden turnaround, John said, “I thought you never wanted to go back there again.”
“I know. I heard on the radio that a cold front is coming and it’s not going to get much better until next spring. It might be a good idea to get out of the house before we’re trapped here and afflicted with cabin fever.”
