Phantoms

by Terence West

  Bishop felt his heart sink. Spinning around, he looked at Dawn. "Look, I'm sorry about hitting on you. I didn't know you were my partner." He was trying to salvage the situation.

  Dawn waived her hand, as if pushing that behind her. "Water under the bridge, Mr. Bishop." She stopped and stood next to him, "But if my husband finds out, there's going to be trouble."

  Bishop felt his jaw drop open. "I didn't know you were married, you're not wearing a wedding ring. I'm so sorry."

  Dawn held up her left hand and a wicked smile crossed her face. "Gotcha." She began to laugh as she walked into the office.

  Bishop cursed under his breath. Not only had he been shot down, but he had been had as well.

  "Are you coming, Mr. Bishop?" Dawn yelled from inside the office.

  Bishop looked at the photo again, then turned to follow Dawn. Crossing into the office, he stared in awe. It was a large room with two desks sitting face to face in the center. Large floor to ceiling windows were on the far wall, allowing light to spill into the room. Several large bookshelves had been arranged against another wall. Each one contained artifacts from previous investigations. The wall adjacent to the door was covered with corkboard, which, in turn, was littered with small photographs and white, lined index cards explaining them. On the wall to Bishop's left, hung a huge map of the United States. Red and black pushpins had been placed everywhere they had investigated a case. The map was beginning to fill up. To his right, he could see a small area partially separated by black filing cabinets. He counted at least twenty that ringed the small area.

  Dawn had walked into the room and slid into a small gray chair behind the first desk. She lifted a small yellow notepad out of her drawer and began to quickly scrawl something across it. "Cane?" she asked without looking up.

  A trim, older man emerged from the circle of filing cabinets with an open manila folder in his hand. He was dressed in a pair of black trousers and a black leather jacket that hung just above his knees. A black vest covered the dark blue shirt and tie he was wearing. He had a thin goatee beginning to gray, with neatly combed brown hair and a pair of rectangular glasses sitting just below the bridge of his nose. Bishop could see the edge of a dark black tattoo peeking out from his shirt collar as it stretched onto his neck. Cane stopped and looked up at Bishop. "So," he said to no one with a proper British accent, "this is our new recruit."

  Bishop took one step toward Cane and extended his hand. "My name's Nick Bishop, and you are…?"

  The man didn't return Bishop's gesture. "I am Cane."

  Bishop slowly drew his hand back and stuffed it into his pant pocket. "I–"

  Cane pointed to a chair next to his desk. "Please, sit down."

  Bishop complied quickly. He knew this man was twenty years his elder, but Cane was still very daunting.

  "I have one speech," Cane said as he continued to scan the file he had in his hands, "so listen carefully." He flipped the folder shut and tossed it onto his desk. Crossing his hands in front of him, Cane glared at Bishop with his gray eyes. "We are not ‘ghost hunters', or ‘ghost busters'. We do not ‘chase’ ghosts, nor do we ‘eliminate’ them. We are paranormal investigators and we take that title very seriously. First and foremost, we are researchers. Don't ever forget that and we'll get along just fine." A crooked smile crossed his face.

  Bishop nodded slowly. He felt as if his teacher was talking down to him. Bishop began to open his mouth to speak, but one glance from Cane stopped him.

  Cane pointed to Dawn, "Dawn is going to give you your instructions." Cane lifted his folder off his desk and retreated back into the ring of cabinets.

  Bishop leaned close to Dawn. "Did I do something to offend him?"

  Dawn shook her head, "No, he's like that with everyone. Get on his good side and he's as loyal as a dog, but piss him off, and he'll be your worst enemy."

  "How do you put up with that?"

  Dawn laughed. "Cane is my best friend." She tore a page off her notebook and handed it to Bishop. "This is your task list for this morning. Get this done quickly, because we're leaving for Florida this afternoon."

  Bishop accepted the list and scanned over it. "Find research material and get you guys coffee?" he asked angrily. "I'm your partner, not your gofer!"

  Dawn patted him on the shoulder. "Everyone has to start at the bottom, Mr. Bishop." Dawn snickered to herself as she stood up. She moved across the office to join Cane.

  Bishop leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh. Folding the paper in half, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Lifting himself out of the chair, he walked slowly out of the office, muttering under his breath.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Enbaugh felt apprehensive while he stood at the front door of the Grants’ former home. He didn't like it here, not after what happened earlier this morning. A small metal awning was providing a bit of relief from the weather, but not much. Nothing remained in the Grants’ yard except a few errant strands of yellow police tape and even they had almost all blown away. A few stray tire tracks could be seen in the wet soil of the front lawn, but it was quiet now. Only his battered car occupied a space on the curb in front of the house. He watched as a crumpled piece of newspaper tumbled across the green grass, then was swept up into the wind and carried away.

  He looked up at the gray sky. Rain was falling and. it was coming down hard. The clouds seemed to be in fast forward as they sailed across the sky. The weatherman said this morning this was a tropical storm hitting the coast. It was probably the remnants of Hurricane Jennifer that struck about a week earlier. It was October Twenty-ninth. Very near the end of hurricane season in the south. Enbaugh watched the tree limbs bend and shake in the winds. He hoped it was the end. This small town couldn't handle another hurricane.

  Enbaugh remembered the one that struck three years ago. It was called Hurricane Lisa. Enbaugh wondered why they always named hurricanes after women. Several off-color jokes immediately popped into his head. A crooked smile crossed his face, but he pushed it down. He had to remain serious, had to remain focused.

  A small black car pulled into the concrete driveway and stopped. The driver's side door popped open, but no one stepped out. The windshield wipers, which looked to have been on high speed, stopped in the middle of the window as the car was turned off. Reaching into his tan trench coat, Enbaugh removed a large black umbrella he had been holding under his arm. Undoing the Velcro strap that held it closed, he snapped the umbrella open and took a step off the front stoop. He felt a quick burst of wind whip up around him. He grabbed onto his hat and held the umbrella tightly in his hand. "Ms. Frieze?" he asked loudly over the howl of the wind. Taking another step toward the car, he could see an elderly woman sitting in the front seat.

  She looked up at him. Her face was long and gaunt. Jagged wrinkles crisscrossed her face from years of living, and her once deep blue eyes were now a light shade of gray. Her white hair was cut short around her face, leaving only a few wispy strands falling onto her neck. She was wearing a long black coat, a dark colored skirt that hung to her ankles and a white blouse with a gold and silver broach on the collar. Reaching over to the passenger's seat, she lifted a long black cane and pushed it out the door. Turning in the seat, she dropped her feet out and placed them firmly on the ground. Reaching up, she clutched the doorframe with her almost skeletal hands and pulled herself out of the car. Grabbing the cane from its resting spot, she moved it to her right hand.

  Enbaugh lowered the umbrella to cover her from the elements. "Ms. Frieze?" he asked again, this time much softer.

  The old woman nodded. "I'm Rachelle Frieze," she replied in a soft, frail voice. "You must be Detective Enbaugh."

  "That's correct, ma'am." Enbaugh placed his hand Rachelle's shoulder. "Can I help you inside?"

  Rachelle reached up and brushed Enbaugh's hand away. "I can do it myself," she said angrily. "I may look old and weak, but I can still get around just fine."

  Enbaugh took a step back. "Yes, ma'am." A sm
ile crept over his scruffy, pudgy face. I hope I still have that much piss and vinegar in me when I'm her age.

  The two walked carefully over the wet cement as they approached the front door. Enbaugh's smile quickly faded when he looked up at the house. A shiver ran down his spine. He read his silver, ten-dollar watch. It was closing in on two-thirty in the afternoon, but the overcast sky made it appear a lot later. As they approached the front door, Enbaugh saw two strips of yellow tape fastened to the doorframe just below a plastic cutout of a jack-o'-lantern. Large black letters ran across them that read:

  CRIME SCENE. DO NOT CROSS.

  Reaching into the pocket of his trench coat, he removed a small silver knife and snapped it open. Enbaugh pressed his left hand against the frame of the door as he slowly sliced through the yellow tape. Closing the blade, he deposited the knife in his pocket. He looked over at Rachelle. She was standing patiently, her cane at her side. Enbaugh wrapped his meaty paws around the gold doorknob and twisted it. The heavy wooden door groaned in protest as he pushed it open.

  Enbaugh stared into the darkened house. It was calm inside, almost serene. With a deep breath, Enbaugh stepped inside, followed by Rachelle. The two walked into the living room. Enbaugh could still see the glimmering remains of the mirror that had broken that very morning.

  Rachelle hobbled across the room toward the broken mirror. Slowly leaning over, she picked up the translucent cube that still held the autographed baseball. The cube had a large crack that ran down two of its sides. Rachelle shook her head slowly. "These were two of Dylan and Cynthia's prized possessions. When Dylan caught this baseball, he talked about it for months. I think it was one of his crowning achievements in life, and this mirror… "she let her voice trail off.

  "What is it, Ms. Frieze?" Enbaugh asked sympathetically. He didn't want to admit he might have had a hand in their destruction.

  Rachelle ran her old hand along the painted aluminum frame. "I gave this mirror to Cynthia on her thirtieth birthday. She was feeling old, you see," she said as she turned to Enbaugh. "I wanted to prove to her that there was still a vibrant, young woman staring back at her every day in the mirror." Rachelle lowered her gaze. "She told me never a day past that she didn't stop and look at herself in that mirror before she left for work and think of how beautiful she was."

  "Ms. Frieze," Enbaugh started, "We can do this another time. We just need you to look through the house to see if anything's missing. It's not imperative that we do it today."

  "No," Rachelle said, wiping a tear from her eye. "Cynthia always relied on me for my strength, Detective. Why should that be any different now?"

  "I just had your best interests in mind, ma'am." Enbaugh walked around one of the leather couches, letting his fingers slide along it. Glancing around the living room, he spotted a small white lamp seated on a nearby coffee table. He reached under the lampshade and gently toggled the light on. A pleasant white glow filled the room. He turned back to Rachelle. She was still standing next to the mirror with her hand resting on the cool metal frame. He knew she needed time to mourn the loss of her family. He couldn't understand why she wanted to proceed with the inventory so soon. "We can begin whenever you're ready, Ms. Frieze."

  Rachelle turned to look at Enbaugh. "If you don't mind, I'd like to have a moment alone."

  Enbaugh nodded. Turning, he looked past the living room into the dining room. There was a small door that adjoined the kitchen on the far wall next to a tall cabinet that contained all of the Grant's best china. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me, Ms. Frieze."

  Rachelle mustered a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Enbaugh."

  Enbaugh tilted his fedora forward on his head so his eyes were shadowed. Walking into the dining room, he moved past the large rectangular wooden dining table and pushed into the kitchen.

  Walking away from the broken mirror, Rachelle made her way into the living room. She used her cane to steady herself as she sank down into one of the large, leather couches. While still clutching the cube with one hand, Rachelle pressed the other to her mouth. She could feel the pain inside. The heartache, the loss, the emptiness, it was all inside her. Yesterday, she had a daughter, a son-in-law and a beautiful grandchild. Today, she was alone.

  Tears began to roll down her leathery cheeks. Today was Charlie's eighth birthday. She loved him so. Reaching into her coat, she removed a small yellow envelope and placed it in her lap. It was his birthday card. She had enclosed one hundred dollars inside. She knew he had wanted a new baseball bat and mitt. She didn't know exactly which one to buy, so she thought giving him the money and taking him shopping would be the best way to do it. She wiped the tears off of her face with her hand.

  "Grandma?"

  Rachelle sat straight up on the couch as a chill ran down her spine. "Charlie?" she asked quietly, unsure of what she had just heard. She quickly scanned the living room, but found nothing. She shook her head. "The stress is getting to me," she mumbled.

  "Help me, Grandma."

  Rachelle stood up and spun around. Her eyes quickly focused on a bright light emanating from the top of the stairs. "Charlie?" she asked again. Grabbing her cane, she began to walk slowly across the living room. The click of her shoes against the hard wood floors was the only sound she could hear. As she walked across the broken shards of glass, she ran her hand along the thick wooden banister. Rachelle stopped when she reached the bottom of the stairs. "Is that you, Charlie?"

  Looking up, she saw a soft blue light. It was spilling down onto the staircase as it rippled through the air. Rachelle swore she was looking into a pool of water. Fear gripped her body. Looking around the banister into the dining room, she wondered if she should go and get Enbaugh. Turning back toward the staircase, she began to hear the muted sobs of a child. Her motherly instincts overcame her. Rachelle steadied herself against the rail as she started to move up the stairs. One foot after the other, she slowly walked up.

  A dark form streaked across the hallway in front of her. Rachelle stopped. Her hand was gripped firmly around the railing to her left. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't get the words to pass her lips. Swallowing hard, she took another step. "Charlie," she asked quietly, "is that you?" The sobs slowly mutated into the low rumble of laughter. The hairs on the back of Rachelle's neck stood straight up at the sound. It was an evil laugh. "Detective Enbaugh!" she called out frantically.

  The blue light quickly faded and was replaced by darkness. It seemed to flow through the emptiness, choking it. Then a pair of red eyes appeared at the top of the stairs. They seemed to stare right through her. Now terrified, Rachelle spun around on the steps and began to move awkwardly toward the bottom with her cane. Her old legs became tangled and she began to topple. Her body hit the stairs with a sickening crunch. She rolled down uncontrollably. Finally hitting the bottom, Rachelle tried to roll herself onto her back amidst the broken glass of the mirror. She knew she had broken several ribs and one of her hips.

  Crooking her head to look back up the stairs, she saw a dark mass hovering toward her. It had no form, but its two red eyes remained fixed near the top. "You will not escape," the being said menacingly with a laugh.

  Rachelle watched in agony as the form floated above her. She couldn't move and was too frightened to cry out. Wisps of darkness began to arch out of the form toward Rachelle. They slithered slowly, almost erratically, as they neared her body. The being's red eyes hardened. They became no more than horrible slits in the mass. With the speed of a striking cobra, the wisps wrapped themselves around Rachelle's body. They felt ice cold against her skin. Slowly, the form began to lift her off the floor. Her head fell limply backwards, allowing her to see she was now at least seven feet off the ground. The wisps suddenly hardened around her. Pain shot up her body as they pressed against her broken ribs. Rachelle cried out. The being's eyes widened, then hardened again. Rachelle could almost sense it was enjoying her suffering. Two wisps snaked around her neck and began to constrict. She found herself unable to scream.<
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  ****

  Walking around the solid white kitchen, Enbaugh ran his finger along the counter. There was no dust, no food crumbs and no water spots. Did these people ever use this lavish kitchen? A rack of pots and pans hung above a small wooden island in the center of the kitchen. A small metal basket of fruit accompanied the pots. Reaching up into the basket, Enbaugh removed a red apple. Rubbing it against his shirt, he took a large bite.

  Moving across the room, Enbaugh checked the knobs on the stove. He wanted to make sure they were off. Opening the oven door, he spied a pink cardboard box inside. While holding the apple in his mouth, Enbaugh carefully removed the box. He let out a sigh when he gazed inside through the clear plastic window. It was a birthday cake. Setting it on the island, he flipped open the top. He couldn't tell what kind of cake it was through the layer of white frosting, but the words "Happy 8th Birthday Charlie" were scrawled lovingly across it in blue frosting. Setting the apple on the counter, Enbaugh closed the box and lifted it up. Holding it carefully, he walked across the kitchen toward the silver fridge. He grabbed the black handle on the door and carefully pulled it open. Spotting an empty area on the second shelf, Enbaugh carefully slid the cake inside.

  Enbaugh stopped. Did he just hear a scream? Closing the refrigerator, he moved around the small island in the center of the kitchen toward the door. Reaching into his trench coat, he pulled his black pistol and cradled it in his hand. He reached down and slid his other hand around the handle. Twisting it to the left, Enbaugh pushed on the door, but it didn't move. Enbaugh twisted the knob in the opposite direction and pushed again. The door wouldn't budge.

  "What the hell?" Enbaugh said out loud. Turning to the side, Enbaugh slammed his shoulder into the door. He felt the door give a little, but not open. He slammed himself against it again, then again. "Fuck it," he said finally. He took a step back from the door. He fired his weapon at the lock three times. The crack of the pistol echoed around the empty kitchen. Lifting his leg, Enbaugh kicked the door just below the handle, but it remained closed. He heard a disembodied laugh echo through the room.