GHOSTS: 2014 edition (THE GHOST STORIES OF NOEL HYND # 1)

by Noel Hynd

  “Have you been over to your old house recently?” Brooks asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “I was just wondering if it was still, well, afflicted.”

  “Haven’t been in it since the day I described,” Friedman said. “And I don’t care to.”

  “Mind if I do a walk through? Take a look around.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m investigating a similar case on the island. Sometimes,” Brooks said steadily, “I hear that when one house ceases to be a problem, another house starts. I was wondering if you still had your tenant.”

  The doctor sniffed and shook his head. “Who knows?” he asked.

  “Maybe we should find out. If we don’t see anything,” Brooks encouraged, “maybe the word will get around and your place will sell faster. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Stranger things already have,” the doctor said.

  Brooks grinned. Rachel reappeared. Her father sent her for two gallons of one-percent milk.

  “When did you have in mind?”

  “I didn’t have anything in mind until I ran into you right now. So, now’s as good a time as any, isn’t it?”

  Friedman thought about it. “I swore to myself that I’d never set foot in that building again,” he said. “And quite frankly, I have no inclination to break that vow.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll walk through,” Brooks said. “That way you have nothing to lose, right?”

  The doctor didn’t answer.

  “Still have the key?” Brooks asked. “Or do the real estate brokers have it?”

  Dr. Friedman’s hand disappeared into his pants pocket. “The brokers have a key and I have a key,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket. He gave it a final moment’s thought. “I want to take the groceries home and leave my daughter at our new place. No point involving her. I don’t even want her to know I’m going near the place. All right?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “I can meet you there in thirty minutes. How’s that?”

  That, too, Tim Brooks said, was fine.

  Dr. Friedman then gave him the address.

  Brooks arrived first at the house twenty minutes later. He took a walk around the outside of the house as he waited. The house was a fine piece of property, a good example of 1880’s Nantucket-Victorian architecture. The property was well kept, the house freshly painted. From the outside, there was nothing ominous or threatening.

  Dr. Friedman arrived in a red BMW convertible, top down, a few minutes later. Classic rock and roll played loudly from the car.

  Meat Loaf. Bat Out Of Hell. Appropriate, Brooks thought.

  “Hello,” the doctor said, arriving and grinning amiably. He spoke above his wall of music. “I was hoping you’d be here already.”

  “Likewise,” Brooks answered. The doctor never acknowledged being late. He cut the engine and the backbeat fell as if hit with a bullet. He stepped out of the BMW, left it unlocked in front of the house, and rattled the keys.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get on with this. I still don’t know what you’re even looking for.”

  Brooks shrugged. “If I knew,” he answered, “I’d tell you.” They walked to the entrance that faced Milk Street. It was set back about fifteen feet from the road. Brooks had the distinct impression that he was pulling the doctor along.

  “I’ll tell you something, officer,” Dr. Friedman said, approaching the front door and starting to loosen up for the first time. “I don’t want this to sound pretentious or self-serving. But I consider myself a man of science and knowledge. Sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? But really, I do. You know, medicine. Natural laws. Physical sciences.”

  “Yeah. So?” Brooks said.

  “But here’s my point,” the doctor said. “My training, when faced with something unknown, is to consult experts. Or learn what studies have been done into the subject. That’s how I’d approach a disease or a symptom that I’d never seen before. And that’s how I thought of what I’d witnessed here.”

  The two men stood at the front door. A cloud passed across the sun and they were abruptly in a shadow.

  “I didn’t just walk away from this place and try to sell out,” Friedman explained. “I approached it intellectually. I tried to apply the written knowledge of the subject—ghosts, I mean, spirits—to what I’d experienced. Am I losing you?”

  “No. But I don’t know where you’re leading me, either.”

  “To the library at Harvard University. That’s where,” the doctor said with a smile.

  Faced with such a precise location, Brooks frowned. He was finally lost.

  “Keep talking, Doctor,” Brooks said. “It’s just getting interesting.”

  “Would you call me, Richard?’ he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “And what was your name again?”

  “Timothy Brooks.”

  “Timothy,” said Friedman, settling on the first name as if Brooks were a child.

  “Tim is fine,” Brooks said. Absently, the two men exchanged a handshake, accepting the notion that they should speak on familiar terms.

  “Now tell me about the Harvard Library,” Brooks said.

  “Oh, right. Sorry,” Friedman said, keeping the key in his hand. “See, Tim, I’m as fascinated by my experience as I am frightened of it. I admit that. Fear and fascination. That’s probably not too far from most people’s reaction to ghosts and spirits, is it?”

  “You’re probably pretty close to the mark,” Brooks said.

  “So I went over to Harvard’s library one time when I was in Boston. I spent an afternoon there, looking through some of the more esoteric stuff. Ended up over in the psychology and psychiatric sections. Ever heard of the Eksman Collection?”

  The name rang no bells for Tim Brooks.

  “Harvard has a massive collection on the paranormal. The supernatural. Psychic research. You should give it a look. It’s called the Eksman Collection. I think some wealthy old alum from nineteen-twenty or something willed the university his collection of stuff. Well, I spent a couple of hours in there reading.”

  “Can I access it on-line?” Brooks asked.

  “No. You have to go in person.”

  “Okay. And so?” Brooks asked. “What did you find?”

  “All sorts of things. Did you know, for example, that there are perfectly reasonable explanations for all the ghost sightings on Nantucket?”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “There’s one theory that apparitions are part of an electrical process that we don’t yet understand in terms of science. Part mental, part atmospheric electricity. The process might be greatly abetted in Nantucket and on other similar islands by the constant presence of humidity in the ground and in the air.”

  Dr. Friedman firmly held the detective’s attention now. He continued to talk. Distantly within the house, something squeaked.

  “The water level on the island sits very close to the surface. As for the air itself,” Friedman said, shrugging, “well, the fog here is legendary, isn’t it? Know where a parallel situation exists?”

  “Where?” Brooks asked.

  “Ireland. Southwestern coast and several other regions. Sections of Scotland and England, also, the ones which border on the North Sea. And know what? Studies were done revealing that those areas had exactly the same number of ghost stories per capita as we do here.”

  Brooks managed a smile. “Curious,” he said. “A good explanation for skeptics, in other words. The vision is in the mind. Not really there.”

  Richard Friedman nodded.

  “Sure,” the doctor said. “But I came away with some other interesting points, too,” the doctor said. “And intellectually, they’re much more substantive. They go a long way to temper the circumstances that I just mentioned.”

  “What’s all that?”

  “Did you know that virtually all primitive cultures presume the reality of a spirit world parallel to ours? And that reports of ghosts date back
as far as history has been recorded? And that purported contacts with spirits, just in the literature of the European languages, number into the millions?”

  “I’ve never made a study of it,” Brooks said.

  “Maybe you should,” the doctor suggested. “There’s nothing very new on this planet. Contact with spirits doesn’t seem to be very unusual at all. The truth is that two of the great forces of modern civilization—scientific rationalism and the Judeo-Christian religious thought—have both sought to refute the possibility of contact with a spirit world. Other than the ones within traditional religious views, of course.”

  The doctor nodded.

  “Kind of shakes you up, doesn’t it?” he asked. “The theory is that we should be able to contact the spirit world. The power is within all of us. But we’ve lost the skill. Or we repress the mental capability.”

  “Now that you know all of this,” Brooks asked, “what interpretation do you have on what you saw?”

  The doctor looked at him. There was a slight pause between them. Friedman took the liberty of filling it.

  “My wife, my daughter and I,” Dr. Friedman said steadily, “we know that we saw a ghost. And as far as I know,” he continued, jingling the keys from his pocket, “this ghost is right inside the house here today. Watching. Waiting for us.”

  Brooks pursed his lips. “Well,” he concluded, “we don’t want to disappoint it then, do we?” He motioned to the front door.

  “Yeah, fine,” the doctor said. “Sure. But I’m not going upstairs.”

  Unable to stall any longer, Friedman turned the key to the front door. The door gave way easily and came wide open with a big silent yawn.

  The two men stepped inside, Friedman with obvious apprehension. They left the front door open and walked to a den on the west side of the first floor. The room was clean, empty and bright. A yellow print wallpaper was still in excellent condition. The only sounds in the house were their footfalls, then their voices.

  “We’ve dropped our asking price from nine seventy-five to eight twenty-five,” Richard Friedman said. “Any number lower than eight two-five and I lose money. Not that I care at this point. I mean, I’d even arrange creative financing if the deal were right. I’d just like to be out of this situation. So would my wife. She’s going crazy. Know what I mean?”

  Brooks knew.

  “Are you married?” Friedman asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re lucky. Must be a lot of great tail to chase on this island over the summer.”

  Brooks turned on the doctor and was ready to be angry. But Friedman was scarcely aware of his offense. Instead, the doctor made another reference to the bank and its bridge loan, this one profane. He had added Tuesday evening hours to his medical practice in Boston, he said, just to keep current with what he referred to as “the extortionate financing. “

  They left the den and followed a corridor that led into an open dining room with a gorgeous old hearth.

  “This is the kitchen,” Friedman said next as they stepped into it. Clean and modem and spacious, a wall had been removed from what had once been a pantry. Recently renovated. Microwave and work island, as never envisioned by the architects from the 1880s.

  “I dropped fifteen thousand putting a modern kitchen in,” Friedman said. “Opening up the space. Then we took a walk.”

  The men went into the living room next. Neither spoke. Brooks looked around and tried to feel something. He couldn’t. His overriding sensation was that Dr. Friedman was scrutinizing him.

  “Well, it is a nice house,” Brooks finally offered.

  “Thank you. Want to buy it?”

  “Not on a policeman’s salary.”

  “Ah, yes. Cops don’t earn much, do they?”

  “Not if they honest,” Brooks said. “Plus, I hear the place has a reputation,” he said.

  “Sure does,” the doctor said with a sigh. They stood in the living room, an attractive space with light blue walls. Brooks could understand the love and care that Dr. and Mrs. Friedman had put into the place.

  “Well, that’s it,” Richard Friedman said, standing in the empty living room and pointing toward the landing below the staircase. “You heard what I had to say on ‘Spirit Night.’ That’s where I saw the ghost. He came down the steps right over there. Then he charged over to me. I’m standing where I was standing then. He was where you are now.”

  Brooks glanced up and looked at the area in question. He walked to the landing at the base of the stairs. It was adjacent to the front door, which remained open. Outside, the air was fresh, the day was sunny. There were voices from people passing on foot.

  “I have to ask you this,” Brooks said, almost with a tone of apology. “I know you moved out of here, I know your family was frightened. I know you went and did the subsequent research at Harvard. But, tell me, Richard. Is there any chance that this…” Brooks searched for the tactful words.

  “Didn’t happen?”

  “Yes.”

  “No chance at all. My wife and I stood here. We saw it. My daughter saw it. And having done the reading at Harvard, I’m more sure of it than ever. There’s something in this house. Or at the very least, there was something when we were here.”

  Brooks arrived at the base of the steps. He stared upward. The sensation reminded him of gazing up Annette Carlson’s attic steps. He turned back and looked at the doctor. Then he peered upstairs again, half expecting some nightmarish, devilish vision to charge down the stairs toward him.

  None did. He walked back to Dr. Friedman.

  “What’s upstairs?” Brooks asked.

  Friedman didn’t answer.

  “It’s empty?” Brooks asked.

  “There’s no furniture there, if that’s what you’re asking. We cleaned the place out when we moved. Or I should say, the movers took everything out for us.”

  “Did the movers report anything unusual?”

  Friedman shook his head.

  “Where was the original trouble spot upstairs?” Brooks asked. “If I remember, you remodeled a room.”

  “It’s down the hall to your left. Second doorway. You can’t miss it.”

  “Mind if I have a look?” Brooks asked.

  “If you dare,” Friedman said.

  “Want to come with me?”

  “No.”

  Brooks smiled. “I didn’t expect you to.”

  Brooks returned to the base of the front steps.

  He paused for a second, then he slowly climbed the stairs. Again, he expected some sudden spiritual manifestation as he took step by step.

  He reached the halfway point. Did he feel anything? A presence pushing against him, forcing him back down? No. See anything? No, again. In five more seconds he was on the landing at the top of the stairs.

  The second floor was more ominous. He heard Dr. Friedman walking in the living room below. Brooks turned and walked down the hallway toward the renovated end of the second floor, the area where the construction had possibly dislodged a resting spirit.

  Brooks surprised himself with his own boldness. He glanced in the first room, then arrived at the room that young Rachel had slept in—the room where the Milk Street ghost had first appeared.

  The door was partially closed. For some reason, an image of George Osaro flashed before his mind. Brooks reached to the door. He put his hand on the knob. He wondered what horrible thing might lurk on the other side.

  He drew a breath.

  The thought came to him: George Osaro lying dead. Decapitated, maybe. His brains bashed out. His arms and limbs tied into a playful knot.

  Brooks shuddered. The premonition was very strong before him now. He drew another breath and held it. He felt the sweat starting to run off him.

  He pushed the door open.

  Brooks lowered his eyes, gathered his courage, and looked up, searching quickly through the empty room as he stepped into it.

  Nothing. Nothing at all. An empty room like a million others in the world.
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  “Nothing? Anything?” he asked aloud.

  No answer.

  His eyes settled upon a closet. That door, too, was partially open. And it was at just the perfect angle so that Brooks couldn’t see into it.

  His courage faltered.

  Then an inner voice flirted with him again. “Osaro is a dead man. Can’t you see it?” it asked.

  Was he brave? Or chicken? “I don’t see anything,” Tim whispered.

  He blew out a long breath. He knew that he was psyching himself. Knew it and couldn’t stop.

  Should he walk away from that closet?

  Or find George hanging there, neck tied to the cross bar, hanging by a belt?

  “Are you a cop or a coward?” the voice asked. “Have a look, why don’t you?”

  The internal voice asking him all these questions was his own today. Something had crept within him and given words to all the self-doubts that he had entertained in a lifetime.

  “Well, what are you?” he asked himself. “A coward or not?” Brooks crossed the room toward the closet. Before his eyes, the closet door took on an extra dimension. “Same shape as a coffin. Rectangular, like the lid to a pine box. Or maybe you’d like rosewood!”

  Brooks cursed angrily.

  He reached to the closet door and yanked it open, expecting the worst.

  A few wire hangers hung undisturbed, swaying slightly from the vibration of the door. The hangers were where the Friedmans had left them. Right where the movers had missed them. Brooks exhaled long and deeply. He turned, relieved, retraced his steps and walked back downstairs.

  He found the front door open. Dr. Friedman was standing outside. He also looked relieved when Brooks reappeared in the frame of the front door.

  “You told me your dog wanted no part of this place? Am I right?” Brooks asked.

  Friedman recalled from the account he had given at Reverend Osaro’s church. The dog had avoided the section of the house in which the ghost had first been disturbed.

  “Right,” he said.

  “I wonder if I could borrow the key,” Brooks said. “I’ll return it later today. I want to bring in another expert.”

  “If you’re thinking of George Osaro,” Friedman said, “forget it. He won’t come.”

  “I had another expert in mind,” Brooks said.