Bound Spirits

by Jean Marie Bauhaus

  “A, this activity—both the poltergeist activity and the reappearance of the white lady—started your first night staying in the house. B, white lady spirits are often connected to the death of an infant—usually by drowning or smothering. Suicide of the mother is also typically involved. C, Marsha—” Catching Marsha’s eye, she realized she sounded a little too business-like. She softened her tone. “Marsha lost her baby to sudden infant death syndrome.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” her father asked.

  “I’m getting to that. Now the rest of this is speculation, but I have a strong hunch that these things are all connected. My working theory is that what’s attacking Marsha is the rage-filled spirit of an infant or small child who suffered a wrongful death, and I believe the white lady is most likely its mother. And probably also its killer.”

  She fell silent as the weight of that possibility settled over the room. Everyone appeared stunned. After a long moment, Joe murmured, “How anyone could do that to their own child…”

  “It could have been accidental,” Chris pointed out.

  “I still don’t understand what this has to do with Marsha,” said Drew. “Why is this thing going after her?”

  “Because I believed I killed my baby.” Marsha reached across Drew’s lap and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly as she continued. “This morning, at the pond… the things I was feeling that drove me into it were overwhelming guilt and loss. All I could think was, I killed my baby, I’m a murderer. I’m still not sure whether those thoughts were my own or if they were put there by that ghost, but the thing is, I’ve felt those things before.”

  She glanced furtively up at her fiancé and then fixed her gaze on their clasped hands. “I actually did try to kill myself after Cassidy died. I took pills. If my parents hadn’t found me…” She shook her head as though in disbelief. Then she glanced around the room. “Something else I’ve never told anyone.”

  Drew pulled her against him and squeezed her tight, kissing the top of her head. “Any more secrets?”

  “No.” She smiled wearily up at him. “That’s the last of them.”

  “I think that’s the answer,” said Chris. “These spirits were dormant for a long time. When Marsha stayed in the house, I think the child spirit somehow sensed her guilt and loss over Cassidy and locked on to her. Even though what happened to Cassidy wasn’t Marsha’s fault, there were probably enough similarities to maybe make this baby think that Marsha is its mother, making her a target of its rage.”

  Again, silence dominated the room.

  After a while, Derek spoke up. “All of that makes sense. The question is, what do we do about it?”

  A stack of papers suddenly appeared on the coffee table, making everyone jump. Ron materialized beside them. “Here’s a list of cleansing rituals,” she announced, her words broadcast by the ghost box. “Surely one of these will work. Marsha, are you religious?”

  “Um.” Marsha blinked at the box. “My parents are Methodist. Is this Veronica?”

  “Oh! Sorry, my bad. Yes, this is Veronica speaking. But you can call me Ron.” She turned her gaze to Drew and gave him a little wave, unseen by him. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey there, kiddo.”

  “It’s nice to finally meet you,” said Marsha.

  “Yeah,” said Ron. “Same here.” She scooped up the stack of papers and handed them to Chris, who wondered what that must look like to the rest of the group. “Anyway, a lot of these require a priest or minister, but I’ve included a couple of rituals you could do yourself. I don’t like that idea, though. Seems dangerous, even with me and Joe there.”

  Chris thumbed through the stack of printouts and skimmed each article. “Well, since Marsha’s not active in a local church and I don’t exactly have a priest on speed-dial, we may have no choice.” Sighing, she laid the papers in her lap. “There’s still so much we don’t know, though. All we really have to go on is speculation. If only we knew these spirits’ names.” She looked at Marsha. “I don’t suppose your grandmother ever got back to you?”

  “No. I figure she and her biker gang are in the middle of the desert somewhere, out of range of any networks.”

  “Well, let’s hope she gets back in range soon. In the meantime, it’s been an unbelievably long day, and we’re all exhausted. I think we should all do our best to get some rest while I look over these rituals and meet back here in the morning to come up with a game plan.”

  “Good idea,” said Ron. “And while you guys are doing that, Joe and I will go take another stab at interviewing Ms. Weepyface.”

  “What?” asked Chris, while at the same time, Joe said, “Pardon me?”

  “I want to go talk to the white lady.”

  “Yeah, I got that part,” said Chris. “What I meant to say was, are you nuts?”

  “Because that went so well last time,” said Joe.

  “I was in a pretty bad place last time,” Ron admitted. “But I’m much better now.” She winked at Joe, eliciting a smirk, although it looked like he tried to hide it. Again, Chris suspected there was something they weren’t telling her.

  “Believe me,” said Ron, “I’m in such a good place right now that nothing can drive me to despair. Heck, maybe this time my mood will be contagious. With luck, I’ll be able to get her to stop crying long enough to get some useful info from her. At the very least, maybe we can figure out how to nullify the effect she has on people, or at least keep her distracted so it will be safe for you guys to do what’s needed.”

  “I don’t like it,” said Chris.

  “Me neither,” said Joe. “But I don’t s’pose that makes much difference.”

  “Actually,” said Ron, “it might be safer if you stay put and I go alone.”

  “And that’s about as likely as us growing flesh again and living to a ripe old age.”

  Ron smiled. “Figured you’d say that. Something like that, anyway.”

  “No,” said Chris.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ron, no. It’s too dangerous. If it becomes absolutely necessary as a last resort, then okay, but there’s no reason to go haring off. Let’s all take a breather and see if we can come up with a better plan.”

  “But—”

  “I agree with Chris,” said their dad. Ron turned her gaze on him slowly, folding her arms indignantly. Chris was glad he couldn’t see the look she gave him. “I don’t exactly understand what you girls are talking about, but if it has anything to do with either of you going near that thing that almost drowned Marsha, then I want you both staying as far away from it as possible.”

  “But Dad,” said Ron, “you don’t understand.

  I—”

  He held up a hand to cut her off, directing his gaze at the ghost box. “I understand that maybe the stakes aren’t as high for you. I guess it’s not like you can be killed again.”

  “As far as we know,” Chris muttered, remembering Sarah. She exchanged a look with Joe, who was clearly thinking the same thing.

  “But it sounds like this thing found a way to harm you. So please, listen to your sister.”

  Ron looked like she couldn’t decide whether to be angry at the intervention or touched that their dad cared. But she seemed to deflate a little. “Fine. I’ll wait. But if we don’t come up with a better plan by tom—”

  Tomorrow, she said, but Chris was the only living person in the room who heard it. Her “voice” on the ghost box was suddenly replaced by static. Frowning, Chris reached for the device. She froze in place with her hand hovering above it as the plaintive sound of a baby’s cries came out of the speaker.

  “What in the—” said Derek.

  “It probably got stuck on the same frequency as a neighbor’s baby monitor. No big deal.” She picked it up and examined it. It wasn’t stuck. The signal was cycling up and down the dial, just as it should. But the baby’s crying persisted, becoming more frantic.

  “Cassidy,” Marsha whispered. Her face had turned whi
te. She jumped to her feet, went around the coffee table, and snatched the box out of Chris’s hands. She looked at Chris, then at Drew. “It’s Cassidy!”

  “Honey,” said Drew, “it could be any baby. Their crying pretty much all sounds alike.”

  “Not to their mothers,” she snapped, backing away with the box and hugging it to her chest. When nobody made a move to take it from her, she held it out and stared at it, petting the speaker as tears began streaming down her face. “Cassidy? Baby? Mommy’s here. I hear you. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.” The crying escalated to frantic screaming, as though the baby was frightened or in pain. Marsha looked imploringly at Chris. “She needs our help! Do something!”

  Chris got up and went to her. She didn’t try to take the box away but folded her hands gently over Marsha’s. “I don’t think that’s Cassidy.”

  “But… I know my baby’s voice. I mean, I know it’s been a long time—”

  “Maybe it is her voice,” Chris conceded. “But that doesn’t mean it’s her.”

  The crying turned into a growl. Marsha screamed and dropped the box, which shattered to pieces on the floor. Chris knelt to pick it up. The device was ruined. Still, sounds of growling issued forth from the speaker.

  “What is that?” asked Derek. Chris looked up at Ron, who appeared to be as much at a loss as the rest of them.

  Marsha screamed again. Chris turned back to her as four deep scratches appeared on her left cheek. Springing to his feet, her dad called on the name of the Lord, although Chris didn’t think he meant it as a prayer. He bounded to Marsha’s side as Chris got to her feet. “What’s happening to her?”

  Ignoring his question, Chris summoned all her resolve. “This is my house,” she shouted over the growling, which grew increasingly louder. “You’re not welcome here! Leave now!”

  The growling stopped.

  Everyone held still, frozen in place and holding their collective breath. After a long moment, Chris released a sigh and relaxed, and everyone else followed suit. “I think it’s gone,” she said. And then all hell broke loose.

  The stack of papers containing the cleansing rituals flew into the air, spinning in circles as though caught in a mini tornado. The TV blared on and started changing channels. Knick-knacks, vases, picture frames, and coasters all started flying off of tables, shelves and walls, flinging every which way but mostly at the group of people in the center of the room. Whatever didn’t shatter got caught up in the cyclone. And above it all, frantic screaming and crying came nonstop from the broken ghost box.

  “Everybody out!” Chris said, pointing the way toward the front door.

  Her dad swept Marsha into his arms and made for the door. Chris and Derek followed closely behind. In the hall, Chris spotted her cat cowering behind a planter. She stooped to grab her, but as she reached for Miss Kitty, the cat hissed and ran for the stairs. Chris watched her bound up them and past Buster, who stood on the landing, barking and growling.

  “You keep her safe, Buster,” Chris called to him. He let out a little whine and a yip, as though he understood his orders, and turned to follow the terrified cat.

  “Let’s go,” said Derek, urging her toward the door. “She’ll be fine.”

  Outside, Ron and Joe were already waiting by the cars. As she approached them, Ron asked, “What now?”

  “I guess we go to the house and confront this thing.” She shook her head in weary frustration. “So much for a chance to rest and come up with a plan.”

  “Now can we go confront the white lady?”

  “Fine. Yes. Go. But be careful.” She looked at Joe. “Don’t let her do anything stupid.”

  Joe made a face that said that was far easier said than done. Chris could only sympathize.

  Ron ignored them both. “If she won’t talk, we’ll try to keep her occupied while you do your thing.” She glanced back at the house, where crashing noises could still be heard inside. “The rituals are lost. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. I guess I’ll have to wing it. I’ll see you guys there.” She turned back to the others as the two ghosts faded from sight.

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Derek.

  “We go to the house. We confront this thing where it all started.”

  “What about that other ghost?” her dad asked.

  “Ron and Joe are taking care of her as we speak.” She looked at Marsha, who stood shakily, supported by Drew. “Are you up for this?”

  “I want this to be over.”

  Chris nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s go end it.” She turned toward her car, then realized her purse, along with her keys, were still in the house and swore.

  “I’ll drive,” her dad said, producing his keys from his pocket. He pushed a button on the key fob and his SUV beeped. “Everybody get in.”

  They all did as he said. Drew drove, and Derek rode shotgun. Chris sat in the back with Marsha. She found a box of tissue in a pocket on the back of the driver’s seat and used one to dab at the blood that trickled from the scratches on Marsha’s face. There were four of them, parallel to each other, equally spaced, as if done by human nails. Tiny nails, on a tiny hand.

  “I’m scared,” Marsha whispered, too low for the others to hear.

  Chris refrained from admitting that she was also scared. Marsha needed reassurance, not commiseration. But Chris couldn’t lie to her, either. So all she said was, “I know.” She took hold of Marsha’s hand and squeezed. “But this will all be over soon.”

  Marsha swallowed and nodded, her face hardening with resolve. She held onto Chris’s hand, squeezing hard and not letting go.

  One way or another, Chris amended mentally as she patted Marsha’s hand.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “It’s quiet,” said Ron. She and Joe stood on the mansion’s lawn at the edge of the pond. The last glow of the sunset could be seen above the trees, casting a coral gradient that faded into dusky violet above them, where a few stars could already be seen. The woods beyond were dark enough to conceal anything that might lurk within. There was no sign of the white lady.

  “Think she’s in the house?” asked Joe.

  “Maybe. Or maybe she’s not active until after sundown.”

  “Where do you think we should start lookin’?”

  “The house, I guess. If we split up, we’ll cover more ground.”

  “Yep. Too bad that ain’t happening.”

  Ron turned to face him and was met with a look that said there was no use arguing. She sighed. “Fine. Let’s head inside. We can start at the top and work our way down. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something else that can help Chris.”

  Together, they transported themselves to the third-floor landing. “Which way first?” asked Ron, peering down each wing.

  “You think this place has an attic?”

  “I’d be surprised if it didn’t.”

  “Maybe we should start there.” He nodded to a little door tucked into an alcove at the back of the landing. “Where do you s’pose that leads?”

  “Let’s find out.” Ron started for the door, but Joe held her back.

  “I’ll be the one stickin’ my head into strange places, if you don’t mind.”

  Ron resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “This whole protective thing is only going to get more annoying once we’re married, isn’t it?”

  “Count on it.”

  She sighed. You could take the guy out of the 1910s, but you couldn’t take the 1910s out of the guy. Not completely, at any rate. She made an “after you” gesture and stood by while he approached the door. “Probably a closet,” she muttered.

  Joe stuck his head through the door. “Yep,” he said, his voice muffled. “It’s a closet.” Pulling his head back through the door, he said, “Hold up. I think I saw something.” Concentrating, he took hold of the knob and turned it. Ron moved to join him as he pulled the door open and peered inside. There, on the back wall, behind a vacuum cleaner and a shelving unit
stocked with toilet paper and cleaning supplies, was another door.

  Ron grinned. “I’ll take what’s behind door number two, Monty.”

  He gave her the same blank look he always gave her when he didn’t get one of her pop culture references. She sighed. “What were you doing all those years when the other ghosts were watching TV?”

  “Mostly keepin’ Sarah distracted so they could.”

  “Ah.” She had no comeback for that. She’d seen firsthand the sort of distractions the little monster had preferred. She jerked her chin toward the back of the closet. “You first.”

  Nodding resolutely, he passed through the shelving unit as though it wasn’t there, and as easily passed partway through the door. Before disappearing behind it, he pulled back and looked at Ron. “It’s a stairway.”

  “I was hoping for a new car,” she muttered. Again, the blank stare. “Right behind you.”

  With a slightly bewildered look, Joe shook his head and slipped through the door. Ron followed. On the other side, a short, darkened staircase led up about half a flight before taking a turn to the left.

  Ron thanked the ghostly night vision that allowed them both to see as they ventured up the stairs, although seeing in the dark didn’t always make the dark any less scary. This was one of those times.

  The stairs led all the way up to the ceiling, where a trap door opened into an attic. They climbed up and looked around. “Whoa.”

  “And I thought our attic was cluttered,” said Joe.

  “There must be at least a hundred years’ worth of stuff here. It’s like these people never throw anything away.” Looking more closely at some of the antique furniture mixed in among boxes, storage bins and old steamer trunks, Ron couldn’t really blame them. This was some nice stuff. “Something tells me we’re not going to find Whitey up here.”

  “Maybe not.” Joe nodded toward the back. “What do you reckon that is?”