Givin' Up The Ghost (An Indigo Eady Paranormal Mystery)

by Gwen Gardner

  “That light disappeared – it’s too late.” His voice, so sorrowful, tugged at the corners of my heart, forcing me to face him.

  Crap. Now the poor dead guy couldn’t even get to freaking heaven. Swearing under my breath, I pulled off my beret and threw my things on the bench, along with my escape plan, and sat down.

  Bart Bagley wore the same clothing; jeans, boots and a long-sleeved Pendleton shirt. His brown hair was slightly long and shaggy, like Badger’s. And the gory wound behind his right ear? As bloody as ever. Why, why, why did they always show me the blood? I looked away, drawing an unsteady breath.

  “What happened to you?” I asked, looking down at my hands in my lap.

  “I don’t know, I can’t remember.” Eager now I had acknowledged him, the air fairly hummed with energy. It must be frustrating for spirits trying to communicate when most people couldn’t see or hear them.

  “What is it that you want from me?”

  “Help me to remember. I know I’m dead, but I don’t know how it happened! My family will be worried when I don’t come home.”

  Well, that was the understatement of the century.

  He pitched his head to the side, tossing his bangs out of his eyes.

  “My head is bashed in...what happened?” he asked, frowning. “Did I have an accident?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I only know that you disappeared a few months ago. Nobody knows what happened to you.”

  “Months?!” he responded, “but...it seems like yesterday. My wife – my children!” he moaned. “They must be worried sick!”

  He began pacing the small room, faster and faster, fading in and out, speaking so rapidly and high-pitched that I couldn’t understand his words.

  A sudden burst of laughter reverberated down the hall, invading the little nook like a small explosion. Bart stopped. His jaw clenched. Energy in the room sparked like summer fireflies.

  Holy cow. I slid my eyes briefly toward the door, wondering if I could leave. Now. Like any normal person would.

  The laughter seemed to be a personal affront aimed at the confused spirit. Stuck in the world of no-man’s land, he was neither dead nor alive. He became angry.

  Extremely angry.

  The once cozy flames from the cheery fire suddenly combusted, like a burst of wind had bellowed the fledgling fire into a mini inferno. Ashes blew around the room, swirling into a miniature tornado, picking up everything in its path. Crouching in a corner, heart knocking against my ribs, I frantically slapped at the sparks on my head, the stench of singed hair in my nostrils. Sucked up inside the funnel, my gloves, both of them, twirled above my head.

  It stopped as suddenly as it began. Ash floated gently down to settle on every surface. Sooty flakes transformed the room into a pea-souper mess.

  And Hurricane Bart? Gone - a trail of destruction left in his wake.

  I stood shocked, ashes raining around my head.

  Chapter Four

  Laughter and Caresses

  I gasped, understanding Dorothy’s reaction in the Wizard of Oz when the wicked witch of the west disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

  I swatted the ashes away. Charcoal streaks covered my hands and face and everything in the room. I peered into my mug at the unsalvageable coffee. Gray bits floated and sank. “If I ever see him again... I...I’ll kill him. Again!” I muttered, setting my mug back on the table.

  And if the situation wasn’t bad enough, Simon and Badger appeared at the door.

  Perfect. Just perfect!

  Simon snorted. “Umm, whatcha doing?”

  Badger sniggered, the same devil in his eye as yesterday. I was starting to dislike him intensely. Well, if he wasn’t so cute, I mean. He had the gift of always seeing me at my worst.

  I glared, daring them to say anything.

  And of course, they both burst out laughing.

  What was the point of having a killer glare if nobody took it seriously?

  “Is this what you do for an encore?” Badger snorted. “Because this is good,” he laughed, “really good.”

  “Funny,” I said, hands on hips, glowering at them. They rolled with laughter, bent over, gasping for breath. Against my will, I cracked a smile. “Oh, shut up, you two!” They only laughed harder.

  “You think it’s funny?” I grabbed a pile of ashes and smeared it across Simon’s face.

  Badger guffawed, not even close to being ready for the next fistful that landed upside his face.

  By the time we were done, my cheeks hurt.

  Finally spent, and wiping tears from his eyes, Simon asked, “So what happened? Because you really look hilarious, I’m not gonna lie.” He grinned.

  I hesitated then shrugged. Obviously I couldn’t tell them what happened while Badger stood there. “A sudden gust of wind, I don’t know. Someone probably opened a door and it funneled down the passage. “And then the ashes blew everywhere!”

  Not a complete lie, I told myself, ducking my head. I simply didn’t say where or who the gust of wind came from. I hated lying. Plus, I sucked at it. I am so going to hell.

  “That’s weird,” said Badger. He brushed ash from a chair, turning it to straddle. Simon did the same. “It’s been happening a lot lately. “We’ve looked for a draft but haven’t been able to find one.” He swatted an ash floating in front of his face.

  “It comes out of nowhere. I’m getting ruddy well tired of cleaning up the mess, I can tell you that!” He chuckled. “But seeing the look on your face!” he said, looking at me, “that was priceless. I needed that.”

  “Well, anything for a laugh,” I said stupidly. I tamped down a sigh and looked up as Badger got to his feet.

  “I’d better go help my mum with the guests,” he said. With his father gone, the weight of responsibility obviously fell heavily on his shoulders. Guilt fell heavily on mine.

  “Yeah, I guess it’s time to start the cleanup, too.” I stood up, and Simon followed suit. “I’d better start in here.”

  “Actually,” said Badger, running his hand down the length of my hair and giving it a playful little tug, “we should probably clean ourselves up first.” He held out his ashy palm to show me the result.

  With my mouth too dry to speak, I only smiled and nodded shakily. His touch, light as angel wings on my hair, felt like a lover’s caress.

  I sighed and shook my head. Get a grip, Indigo. Now you’re imagining things.

  Uncle Richard went straight to his room when we got home, but I lagged behind. I needed to speak to Simon about what happened in the snug. I tried to stop him in the foyer, before he started up the stairs, but I was too late. Halfway up the stairs he tripped, hitting his right shin. He slid down the stairs on his back, clutching his right knee.

  “Are you okay?” I stood over him, looking down into his face. It was red and scrunched-up in an effort be quiet. I wasn’t going to laugh. Truly I wasn’t. But “Pah ha ha!” burst between my lips involuntarily before I could clamp a hand over my big mouth. But that didn’t work. Clamping a hand over your mouth? Only makes you snort.

  “Oh shut up,” said Simon. “Blimey, that flipping hurt. I think I broke my shin.” He sat up, struggling to pull his skinny jeans pant leg up to view the damage. He seemed completely disappointed to only find a slight pink mark.

  Blimey? I thought only people in the movies said that. I sort of liked it, though, especially with Simon’s English accent followed by the word “flipping.”

  “Don’t worry,” I consoled. “I’m sure it will be blue by tomorrow.” Another stifled snort.

  He glared at me. “Give us a hand up, will you?” He reached out his hand and I tugged, but he fell back onto the blue tile before he could gain his feet.

  I laughed. “Cleo! Stop that!” I made a shooing motion with my hand.

  Simon sat up again, red-faced. “Cleo? Please tell me that’s not a new pet name you made up for me.”

  I sniggered. “You’re half right, anyway.”

  Simon n
arrowed his cranky amber eyes at me. His blonde hair stood at odd angles. A smudge across his forehead looked as if he’d given something up for Lent.

  I gave in. “Yes, it is a pet name.” I tugged him up for real this time. “But not yours.”

  Looking confused, he raised his hand to his head. “I don’t think I hit my head...”

  “No, you didn’t. Cleo is a cat. Persian – pure white with a squashed face, one blue eye, one green, and a sparkly collar with a pretty silver bell.”

  Simon looked around, still confused. “Huh? Oh. Wait. Did you hit your head earlier? ‘Cause you’re talking daft.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “Cleo is a ghost cat. And apparently, she absolutely adores you. She keeps winding herself between your legs.”

  “Bloody hell, is that why I keep tripping lately?”

  “I expect so,” I replied, noting the “bloody” euphemism the Brits used. I didn’t care at all for the sight of blood or the visual the word created. I shook it off.

  Simon sniggered, throwing his arm around my neck. “Indigo,” he said, “there is one thing for sure.”

  “What’s that?”

  He grinned. “Life with you is never boring.”

  I grinned back.

  I peered up the staircase, and on a more serious note, whispered, “I need to talk to you. Meet me in the kitchen in fifteen minutes.”

  After showering and changing into purple sweats and my bunny slippers, I turbaned a towel around my wet head, grabbed my hairbrush and went down to the kitchen. Simon, wearing gray sweats, was already there in his chair, with his laptop, in front of the newly started fire. Two cups of coffee warmed on the fender. Cleo swatted at the wisps of steam that curled upward.

  “Thanks,” I whispered, settling into my armchair. I wrapped the colorful cotton blanket around my body, taking care with my injured left knee. Blowing on my steaming hot coffee, I took a tentative sip. Hot, hot, hot, the way I liked it.

  “No problem.” Simon clicked his mouse. “I’m trying to find information on Bart’s disappearance, but so far, nada.”

  “Nothing? Seriously? You’d think at least the local papers would have run something.”

  “That’s the thing, yeah? They think he left of his own free will, voluntarily. No crime’s been committed.”

  “About Bart Bagley,” I began, pulling the towel from my head and brushing gently through the tangled strands.

  He turned to look at me.

  “I spoke to him.”

  Simon’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open.

  I told him about meeting Bart, speaking to him, and about Bart getting angry and creating the ash-storm. He believed me. That’s why Simon’s my best friend. I could tell him anything, however crazy.

  “So, he has no concept of time,” stated Simon, and in the next breath, “I’m starving.” Simon was always hungry. He got up and grabbed a bag of cheesy crisps, took a handful, and passed the bag to me. “And he doesn’t remember...anything?” He stuffed crisps (Brit speak for potato chips – yeah, I’m learning) in his mouth, and then tried to speak with his mouth full. “Well, that will certainly make our job tougher.”

  I ignored the bits of crumbs dribbling from his mouth and tried to focus. “Yes, it will be hard. But we already have information the police don’t have.”

  “We do?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes. We do,” I said, throwing the bag of chips into his lap.

  Chapter Five

  Murder, I Meant

  “Whaddaya mean?” Simon asked.

  Simon was a smart guy. Truly. But right then? Not so much.

  “Simon,” I said, “he has a cracked skull. A pretty gory sight, I might add.” I cringed involuntarily. “Unless a brick had been dropped on his head from a high location while he was lying down, I can’t see how he could have possibly received that wound.”

  Yeah, it was like that.

  “The wound was more on the side of his head, not the top. Trust me. Nothing accidentally fell on him from above.”

  “So, what are you saying?” I watched him struggle with denial. “You think he was...murdered?”

  “Yes. When I said his head was bashed in, that’s what I meant. Murder. I’m sorry, I thought you understood.”

  He gaped at me, mouth working like a fish gasping for water. Getting anything to issue from his mouth coherently was proving difficult. Finally, he managed to croak. “No. I assumed he had an accident. I assumed we were going to look for his body.”

  He looked pretty freaked out. Good. Because I was totally freaked out, too.

  He slapped his hands on the chair arms. “I guess that’s that, then.” He slumped back, more dejected than I’d ever seen him.

  Crap. I was going to regret this. I took a deep breath. And another one. And one more for good measure. Then a sigh. “All right. Where do we start?”

  “You’ll still do it?” He bounded from his chair, tripping. “Cleo,” he muttered, “get out of the way!”

  Simon rushed into the pantry and riffled around. He came out with arms loaded; notepads, pens, pencils, highlighters. Dumping all the booty onto the kitchen table, he went back to the pantry and came out with a roll of brown butcher’s paper and dispensers of magic erase tape. Holding up the white tape, he said, “I love this stuff.”

  I dragged my feet to the table and sat down.

  “First of all, we need to gather all the information we can,” said Simon. He sat on the opposite side of the table, opened a notebook and wrote something inside. “If we’re going to do this, we may as well be organized.”

  “What’s up with the butcher paper?” I asked, curious despite my reluctance.

  “That, my dear cousin, is going to be our central circuit board, better known as The Murder Board.” He pushed the supplies to the edge of the table, knocking a few items off. I shook my head and bent to retrieve them. Simon rolled out the thick brown paper across the table and cut off a length. “We will record all incoming evidence in our notebooks, and at the end of the day, everything is transferred onto the board so all our information is in one place. And by doing that, it will all come together and the perpetrator will jump out at us, we’ll notify the police, he’ll be arrested, etcetera, etcetera,” he said with a self-satisfied smile and flourish of his hand.

  I nodded, thinking, and then we can at least do something to solve the mystery about one of our parents. It’s funny, but we talked about everything except that.

  A thump coming down the servant’s stairs had us staring at each other in alarm. I glanced at the clock over the stove. Crap. Six o’clock in the freaking morning. We had worked through the night without realizing it.

  Uncle Richard entered the kitchen and headed straight for the coffee pot. “You two are up early. Working on a school project?” With a face and eyes belonging to my father, he briefly glanced at the table strewn with papers. Our fathers were twins, yet so different from each other. Uncle Richard was dressed immaculately in a suit and tie, freshly showered and shaved, his blond hair combed neatly. He was a solicitor. My dad had worn a border patrol uniform, was rugged and messy, less refined.

  “Oh! Uh, yeah,” said Simon, gathering up the papers. “I’m working on a project, so Indigo was helping me get organized.”

  I nodded my head vigorously, unable to say anything coherent. I’m like the back cover of a book, the description there for everyone to read. Liar, liar, liar might as well be tattooed on my forehead. I am so going to hell.

  Uncle Richard was so wrapped up in his own world he had no idea about anything happening in ours. I suppose the coping mechanism worked for him. I mean, one day he had a wife and two sons. And then the next, only one son. Two and a half years later, a devastated niece was added to the mix.

  “Now that’s real dedication. A month off school and you’re working on a project. I’ll see you two later. I’ll be late – don’t wait up.” His feigned interest in our project was over. Pouring a travel mug of burnt coffee, he left the
house.

  The drizzly, foggy Monday kept people at home, so when we walked into the Blind Badger, the place was nearly deserted. A rumpled man drinking a pint of ale wobbled drunkenly on his barstool. I followed Simon to a table near the main fireplace.

  I felt it first. My movements became jerky and clumsy, and a heavy repression settled over me. I searched the room for the source and found it in the corner. The Dark Shadow. Tiny hairs lifted on the nape of my neck and crept down my arms. Smokey in form, it hovered and blended into the lightless, gray nook.

  Piling our outer garments onto an empty chair, Simon took a seat with his back to the Shadow.

  With trembling hands I reached for the unlit candle and handed it to Simon.

  “Here. Quick. Light this, please.”

  “All right. What’s wrong? Why’re you shaking?” His brows drew together as he eyed me before looking down to strike the match and light the candle

  “The Shadow. It’s behind you.”

  He froze. His eyes grew wide. “Behind me?” It came out as a squeak.

  I nodded. “Yes. Now just turn around and put the candle on that table over in the corner.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He squeaked, but did as I asked. He moved slow and smooth, like a tai chi artist. As he slid the candle onto the table and pushed it to the center with his fingers, the Dark Shadow receded and then disappeared.

  So that was the trick. I don’t know what made me think of it. Instinct, I guess. Darkness and evil hated the light. It made sense and I felt better knowing how to fight it.

  “Is it gone?” Simon asked.

  “It’s gone.”

  My relief was mirrored on Simon’s face. His eyes were no longer big and round. His features relaxed.

  The heaviness disappeared with the Dark Shadow.

  “Bloody hell.” Simon switched chairs and sat next to me, his back no longer to the corner. He shook his head and grabbed a menu from the table. “What does the bloody thing want, anyway?”

  “I wish I knew.” I shivered and picked up the other menu.