by Tracy Lane
Jake pressed on. “What about rumors? After Frank was killed, was there word on the street about what might have happened?”
Crackers shook his head. “I was just a lowly high school dropout at the time, kid, bunking with my parents and working odd jobs for cash. I wasn’t really in the know, only saw the folks in that there picture when I’d saved up enough cash to buy a round or two for the gang, you know? I was no big shot. I wish I could be more help…”
Jake nodded, taking his picture back as Crackers slid it across the desk. He stood as Frank joined him at his side. Jake quickly glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye, wondering if Frank would be disappointed in his detective skills.
Instead, the old ghost wore a sad expression.
“Tell him,” Frank began, fiddling with the brim of his hat. “Tell him you’re sorry to hear about his wife’s passing last year…”
“But—” Jake blurted before stopping himself.
“What’s that?” Crackers asked, looking over at him.
“Go on,” Frank insisted.
Jake bit his lip. “Nothing, sir, it’s just…I want to say I’m sorry to hear about your wife passing last year.”
“But…but…” Crackers searched for words. “How did you know?”
Jake looked to Frank for help, but all he found was air coated in the slightest mist.
Nice, Frank, he thought. Real nice.
“My parents,” Jake said with sudden inspiration. “They’re obsessed with the obituaries…”
Crackers nodded, looking unconvinced. But still, the words softened the man’s face with what appeared to be comfort. Jake thanked him, excused himself, and fled the room before Crackers could ask him any more questions.
Chapter 8
“So tell me about Betty Cooper.”
Frank sighed, his breath a cold vapor in the darkening autumn night. Jake’s parents were inside the Manchester mansion, stop number forty-two on the Dusk, Carolina haunted residences list.
Jake could hear them squabbling inside as his Dad’s camera intermittently lit up to film a scene, and then, after a few minutes, dimmed so he and his wife could argue about it some more.
“She was beautiful, Jake, just…beautiful.”
It was somewhat uncomfortable talking to a grown person – not to mention a deceased grown person – about their love life, even for the sake of detecting. “Um, okay…was Crackers right? Did you two date?”
“Not in the traditional sense,” Frank said, sighing again and looking all swoony in his dark, intense eyes. “It was more like the occasional, passionate romantic rendezvous.”
Jake couldn’t help blurting an instinctive, “TMI, dude.”
“TM what?”
“Oh, sorry. Forgot you don’t use the Internet.” Jake smirked. “‘TMI,’ it means ‘too much information,’ as in what you’re giving me right now with the romantic and the rendezvous and the whatnot.”
He had to laugh. Whatnot. It was such a Frank word.
Frank chuckled loudly, slapping his knee in his zoot suit pants so hard that Jake thought his parents might hear. The sky was black now, another Friday night in Dusk. Tank was at the hospital – again – visiting her father. Jake felt bad that he hadn’t even gone to visit yet, but Tank was adamant that “he didn’t want any other visitors.”
Still, he wanted to go, if only for Tank’s sake. Usually she would be with him on a weekend taping, listening to his parents fight, helping him wrap cables, run in camera batteries and rig lights. It would only be right to return the favor, but just not today.
Since she was at the hospital, he’d invited Frank along instead; big mistake.
“Just wait, kiddo,” Frank said, leaning against the back of the Paranormal Properties van. “Once you’re big and grown, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
Jake sighed. He didn’t want to tell Frank that he was already interested in girls, just not hearing about how to get romantic with eighty-year-old ones.
“Be more specific,” Jake said despite himself as he watched his Dad turn the camera on again in the foyer of the mansion. Cobwebs and cracks filled the spooky old windows, casting Frank’s face in shadows just outside.
Frank paused and looked away for a moment. “Betty was ‘attached,’ as the saying went in those days.”
“To a mobster?” Frank fiddled with the brim of his hat, like he was embarrassed to admit it. “So went the rumor, kid. But…back then, everybody claimed to be a mobster.”
Jake shook his head. “Any idea which mobster?”
Frank shrugged, but Jake was skeptical. It was Dusk, North Carolina, not downtown Chicago. Even if it was moonshine central, how many mobsters could there have been back in 1951 when Frank died?
“Jake!” came a call from inside the mansion. “How’s it looking from out there?”
Jake sighed; that was his cue to go inside and get more involved with the taping. “Stay,” he joked only slightly to Frank, who nodded while leaning nonchalantly against the van.
Inside the house, Jake’s Mom was in front of the camera, re-applying her lipstick and fussing with her hair with a compact mirror. She had her standard uniform on, the pocket pants and vest over a Paranormal Properties T-shirt and looked ten years younger with that wide smile on her face.
“Jake! How do I look?” She slipped the compact into one of her endless pockets and struck a pose.
“Like you belong on primetime, Mom.”
She never got tired of his lame compliment, so he never stopped giving it.
“Step back here, son,” Mr. Weir said, waving with his free hand as he juggled the camera on his right shoulder. “Look over my shoulder and tell me what you think of this shot…”
Mrs. Weir was standing beneath a giant painting of Charles Arms Manchester III. It was one of those spooky, almost life-sized oil paintings.
“It sure looks creepy,” Jake muttered.
“That’s what I thought!” said Dennis Weir. “Now see if your mom’s intro is as spooky as the portrait.”
Jake’s Dad pointed to his wife and said, “Okay, Steph, in 3, 2, 1…”
The camera light flickered on. Mrs. Weir paused, breathed in and began her introduction to this week’s episode:
“Two hundred years ago, the Manchester family was one of the most noted in Dusk, North Carolina. They owned tobacco farms, storage warehouses, and nearly all the stores in town. The man above me, Charles Arms Manchester III, came into the family fortune when his father passed away. Charles III promptly set about spending his father’s money as fast as he could, and it was said he fathered five different children in just a few years alongside his escapades. It was on a dark and stormy night when one of those bastard children came to this home, seeking revenge for—”
“Cut!” Dennis Weir’s voice had an unmistakable tone of impatience. “You said it again, honey.”
Mrs. Weir’s face matched her husband’s tone; she hated being interrupted once she really got going on one of her segments.
“What?” she asked, holding her arm in front of her face until Jake’s Dad turned the light off.
“The ‘B’ word. You can’t say stuff like that on Public Access.”
Stephanie blushed. “Oh my God, did I?”
“You did,” replied Mr. Weir. Jake watched as his parents rewrote the line to eliminate “bastard” from Mrs. Weir’s intro. She was embarrassed, and not just because it could have been a live take. Jake’s Mom hated to screw up while on the job.
Goofy as they might have seemed – laughing and enjoying themselves – Jake’s parents took this ghost hunting stuff seriously.
To them, in fact, it was deadly serious business. They merely made the best of it however they could.
“They really like this stuff, don’t they?” Frank asked, appearing just over Jake’s shoulder. While his parents were busy rewriting the intro, Jake looked up at his new friend and nodded.
Mrs. Weir was now trying again. Jake whispered to Frank
, “Can you do something? Anything? Just give them a little sign? Make the picture crooked?”
Frank stiffened resolutely. “I can’t, kiddo.” He paused and added, “I won’t.”
“Cut!” Mr. Weir shouted once more. “You used the word ‘repeatedly’ six times in that intro, Steph. Let’s try that again.”
“But why?” Jake hissed, inching away as his father began shooting again. Frank followed all but dutifully. “I’m helping you. Can’t you help me?” He took another look at his parents. “Or, at least…help them?”
Frank glanced at Jake’s mother pointing to the oil painting, her voice passionate, her face sincere.
“It’s not about helping me or not helping me, Jake. It’s about the truth. The truth is, there’s no ghost here. Hasn’t been at any of the places your folks have filmed.”
“But…you’re here.”
Frank lightly knocked Jake under his chin playfully.
“That’s different, kid, and you know it. It wouldn’t be fair to your folks if I just ran around ruffling drapes and making pictures of old men move.”
Frank touched Jake’s face, cold fingers on warm flesh. He turned Jake’s head so they were both watching his parents. “Look at them, Jake. I’ve seen a lot of ghost hunters come to Dusk and put on a big show, cheapening what I am, what this town is. But your parents? They really believe this stuff. This means something to them: life, death, what happens after and all that. They want to find a ghost to prove that life goes on, that the end isn’t the end. And they will. But you have to give it time. You have to give them time.”
Chapter 9
“Gosh, Tank,” Jake said. “You…you didn’t say your Dad was this bad off.”
Tank stood by her father’s hospital bed, hands gripping the metal railing designed to keep Mr. Barton in the bed and off the floor. She wouldn’t meet Jake’s eyes.
“Actually, he wasn’t this bad when they brought him in the other day.” Her voice was muffled and soft, not a tone Jake was used to hearing from his boisterous friend. “The doctors say he suffered another heart attack last night. I…I…got here as fast as I could.”
Tank’s eyes were red all around and black underneath, like she’d been crying too hard to sleep the previous night. Jake wanted to reach out and touch her hand, like they always did in the movies, but something made him pause. He kept his hands in his pockets instead.
Frank stood at his side, quiet and patient even though they’d been heading off to the nursing home to interrogate a few more witnesses when had Tank texted him about her Dad’s latest turn for the worst.
Frank said, “This man is dying. I can practically see his soul begging for release.”
Jake looked at the thin man in the hospital bed. He could see ghosts, but he couldn’t see the soul. While Tank was pouring more water for her father in a glass he hadn’t yet touched, Jake turned to Frank. He wanted to ask Frank what he should do, but the room was so quiet. Deadly quiet.
“I know you can’t talk, kiddo,” Frank said, more gingerly than usual. “But I think— I think your friend should know what her Dad is feeling.”
Jake nodded. Tank saw him. “What…what are you looking at, Jake?”
He froze. Tank waited. Next to his hospital bed, a clunky machine breathed for Mr. Barton. The room was still too quiet.
Jake looked down at the dying man. He’d never met Charles Barton in person — Tank said he was always too busy — but he had seen him on those flashy car commercials in between his late-night monster movies. He dressed snazzy, almost like Frank, in fancy suits and perfect hair. He was big and he was bright, just like his daughter. Now, he looked at least fifty pounds lighter – and ten years older.
“Tell her, Jake,” Frank urged.
“Are you sure?” Jake asked too loud.
Frank nodded.
“Jake?” Tank’s face crumpled. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“Your Dad…” Jake faltered. “Your Dad wants to say a few things to you.”
Tank stiffened. “I bet he does,” she forced. “And I’d like to say a few things to him, too.”
Jake grabbed Tank’s arm and made her focus. “I’m serious, Tank. This is serious.”
Tank blinked her eyes rapidly and bit her lip so hard Jake thought she might draw blood. He was afraid, for just a minute there, she was going to ball her fists and clobber him. Then, her face softened and she looked him in the eye.
“I’m sorry, Jake.” Her voice was shaking. “It’s not your fault, I just…my Dad and I have some baggage.”
Jake thought of his own parents, of how they’d always been there for him, even if their apartments were lousy and dinner was often out of a can. Never once – even during his times as their “do boy” – had they made him feel anything other than special. Knowing how Tank’s Dad made her feel, he couldn’t blame her for being angry.
“I know that, Tank,” he said, looking up at her. “But now…now is the time for forgiveness.”
Frank said, “He’s going fast, kid. Tell her…tell her…he loves her, and he’s sorry.”
“He loves you,” Jake blurted. “He’s sorry.”
Tank narrowed her eyes at him. “How would you know that, Jake? Did he…did he tell you something? Have you talked to him before?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“You know what my parents hunt, right?”
“Ghosts?” Tank chuckled weakly in disbelief, but there was a catch in her voice just the same.
“Yeah, well…I found one first.”
Her eyes narrowed further into slits. “Not funny, Jake.”
“I know, but…it’s true.”
Tank yanked her arm from his grasp. He grabbed it back. “Listen to me, Tank! Where do you think I’ve been every day after school all week? With this ghost. His name’s Frank, Frank Barrone, and he was murdered sixty years ago. He’s…he’s…trying to find his killers so he can rest in peace.”
“If you’re trying to cheer me up, it’s not working.”
“Jake!” Frank shouted so loud that Jake was surprised Tank didn’t flinch with him. “You have to convince her.”
“You convince her!” Jake snapped, and this time, Tank noticed.
“Fine,” the ghost grunted. Jake watched Frank — and Tank watched Jake — as he stumbled around the room. He picked the phone up off the wall, waving it in the air petulantly.
Jake could see Frank doing it, hand on the phone, scowling as if these kinds of shenanigans were beneath him, but Tank couldn’t. Jake wondered what it would look like, a phone gliding through the air on its own. Tank’s expression said it looked incredibly spooky.
There was a coat rack in the corner with a white lab coat hanging on it. Frank put on the coat and waved his arms crazily. Tank slumped into a chair by her father’s bed, face as white as the dancing lab coat she was seeing.
“Believe me now?” Jake asked as Frank took off the lab coat and put it back on the rack.
Tank spluttered. “But…but…how?”
“They’re real, Tank,” Jake confessed, kneeling down next to her. “All those years I spent laughing at my parents, the joke was on me.”
“But…” she searched for words. “Why can’t I see him? Why can’t your parents see him?”
Jake shook his head. “I don’t know, Tank. I may never know, but this much I do: I can see him, and he’s here, and he wants you to know some things about your Dad.”
“I’m her Dad,” said a voice, low and soft, from beside the hospital bed.
Jake stood. Beside him, Tank clutched at his T-shirt. “What is it, Jake?”
The ghost of Charles Barton stood, in his hospital gown, by the bed where his body lay in its hospital gown. His spirit looked like someone had spray painted his shadow white. Jake looked down and noticed that the man’s – the ghost’s – feet didn’t touch the ground.
“Jake?” Tank urged softly.
“Go
on,” Jake said to the ghost.
Mr. Barton said, “Tell her that the day she was born was the happiest one of my life.”
Barton’s image wavered as Frank came close to him. Tank’s father ignored the only other ghost in the room and repeated roughly, “Tell her.”
“Your Dad…your Dad says the day you were born was the happiest day of his life.”
Tank gasped, looking at her father lying still on the bed. “No!” she blurted.
“Tell her that I’m sorry I called her names last week, when she wouldn’t turn the TV off for bedtime.”
“What names?” Jake asked.
“Jake!” Tank insisted. “Who is talking to you now? Frank?”
“Your Dad,”
“Where?” Tank exclaimed, racing around the hospital bed. “Where is he, Jake? Tell me.”
Tank was standing beside her father, then in the midst of him. Mr. Barton’s form turned to mist. Tank blinked twice and felt her face. “He’s here, Jake. Isn’t he?”
“He says,” Jake paused, watching Mr. Barton reform a few feet away, “he’s sorry he called you names last week when you wouldn’t turn off the TV.”
“Jake,” Frank said gravely from next to him. “It’s time. He has to go.”
“He’s going now,” Jake repeated. “Tank, he has to go.”
“Tell him—” Tank sputtered, whirling around the room, trying desperately to find her father. But Mr. Barton was little more than a puff of smoke now, a spiral of spirit wavering in the sterile hospital room air. “Tell him I forgive him. For everything. All of it. I…I love him, no matter what. He— he’s…my Dad.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Barton said. His voice was little more than an echo as his soul disappeared into ether. It echoed once more, “Thank you,” and was gone.
“He’s…he’s gone now, Tank,” Jake said, leading her back to her father’s bedside. Jake didn’t have to touch Mr. Barton’s body to know he was cold; death rolled off him in waves.
