Give Up the Ghost: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery

by Juliet Blackwell

  “Is Dog another of your helpers?”

  “In a manner of speaking. He’s my dog.”

  “You named your dog ‘Dog’?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “So anyway, if this is where the music comes from,” said Landon, “might it have been a ballroom?”

  “It’s certainly big enough.”

  The line of arched windows along one wall were echoed on the opposite wall by a series of double doors. I remembered what Egypt had said, that there used to be a stage in this house. The orchestra’s waltz was still playing in my mind in a constant loop: ta da dan, dan daaaan. . . . I could just imagine the couples whirling around the floor, liveried attendants at the doors, the cream of San Francisco’s society dressed in their finery. . . .

  “I think you might be right.”

  “But why would a secret passage lead from the foyer to the ballroom?” Landon asked.

  “This storage closet might have been a wine cellar, or a small antechamber of some sort. . . . Maybe it was in case the host wanted to escape his own parties. Also, I think the main floor plan was significantly altered during the remodel—that bookcase upstairs was probably part of a library or parlor until the foyer was expanded.”

  Landon and I walked around the Pilates studio/ballroom, but there wasn’t much to see.

  “Waltzing would be a challenge on flooring like this,” Landon said, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

  The flooring had been replaced with a slightly spongy surface which, I supposed, was helpful to bones while exercising, but held little romance. There was no sign at all of the old stage.

  I tried to imagine the angry man I’d seen when out on the roof escaping a party through the cobweb-strewn passageway. Of course, back in his day it might have been neat as a pin, if he’d allowed the servants to take care of it—of course, that would necessitate them knowing about it, in which case it wouldn’t have remained a secret for long.

  And then Karla’s story came back to me, about the poor woman from Dubai hearing a man’s voice telling her to hit the floor. I remembered thinking I heard a man’s faraway voice calling “Ooooooor!”

  Could he have been crying out for Flora?

  “According to my source, Flora Summerton has been seen wandering California Street, trying to get home.” For some reason I didn’t feel ready to share what had happened last night with me and the hitchhiking ghost. It felt private, somehow. “She wears a long gown; I suppose it could be a ball gown.”

  “Who is your source?”

  “A little old man named Dingo.”

  “Ah.”

  “I take it where I can get it.”

  “Why do you suppose the ghost wanted us to see this, and led us here?”

  “No idea. Although . . . it’s possible that the ghost isn’t orchestrating things, pardon the pun.” I thought, again, of Dingo. He had urged me to help Flora get home, but he didn’t say how. And frankly, I wasn’t convinced she should go home if Papa Peregrine was so out of sorts. Imagine living with that scowling, yelling man for all eternity. “What I mean is that the music might be independent. There are different kinds of hauntings: some are residual, just the energy of that time caught in the walls and replaying over time. Only some ghosts are independent actors.”

  “I’m sorry, Mel, but it’s going to take me a while to get used to speaking of such things like this.”

  “I understand. It took me a while, too, but I didn’t really have much choice. It was get with the program or go insane.”

  He gave me an odd look, tinged with something like sympathy.

  “I mean, it’s not all bad. It can be a privilege, and it certainly makes life interesting.”

  “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  We retraced our steps, closing the secret door behind us and mounting the steps. Behind us, the ghostly orchestra started up again. We arrived back at the T.

  “Are you up for a little more exploring?” I asked Landon. I was hyperaware that not everyone loved the grime and funk that necessarily went along with secret spaces in historic buildings.

  “I am at your command, my General.”

  I smiled, and turned down the passage leading off to the right.

  The music swelled. I heard giggles, and whispers. The atmosphere shifted. The weathervane squeaked overhead, as though the wind had turned.

  Anger pulsed through the air to confront us.

  A sensation of rage and panic.

  The smell of something strong and acrid.

  And out of the corner of my eye I spotted the man I had seen through the skylight, dressed in a formal waistcoat, running through the passage behind us, yelling.

  “Flora! Floooooraaaaaa!”

  I staggered and slammed back against the wall, a few splinters from the rough wood poking through my coveralls and embedding themselves in my skin.

  Before I could catch my breath, the apparition was gone.

  “Mel. Mel, are you quite all right?” Landon asked.

  “Um . . . yes,” I said, trying to calm my wildly thudding heart. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  I looked up and down the passage. All was still: cobwebs and old lumber, dust and grime. “Did you hear anything? Anything at all?”

  He shook his head, looking concerned.

  “Sorry. I just . . .” I looked around, simultaneously wanting to see him again, and yet not. “You might not believe this, but I just saw a ghost. And he wasn’t happy.”

  Landon frowned, then shone his light around the passage. “Where?”

  “He was running from the Pilates room. The ballroom, I mean. Calling for Flora.”

  “The young woman in the photographs?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you wish to get out of here? Or shall we carry on?”

  His phrasing made me smile despite my fright. A few more deep breaths and my heart rate slowed to something approximating normal, and I reminded myself that as angry as this ghost was, he had yet to do anything to harm me. Other than nearly scaring me off the roof, but that was my fault more than his.

  “Let’s carry on, by all means,” I said. “I want to know where this passage leads.”

  A few yards down the hallway there was an open door.

  Landon and I stood in the doorway and surveyed the small room, equipped with two large sinks, wide trays, and shelves full of very old jars and bottles and canisters, made of glass and clay and metal. Many of the containers sported handwritten labels. There were papers hanging from lengths of rope, and the walls were peppered with tacked-up photos. The air was rank with something noxious.

  “Wasn’t there an old Frankenstein movie with a secret passage leading to the mad doctor’s laboratory?” I whispered. I couldn’t get my mind off Mary Shelley’s story. This whole thing—the secret passages and now a hidden laboratory—seemed almost manufactured. A theater student’s idea of a haunted house. Could someone—Egypt maybe?—really be screwing with us, as Skip had suggested?

  “Yes, but this room is too small for a laboratory. . . .” Landon said. “Let’s check it out.”

  Just then I saw an old man—the same man who had just appeared running through the passage—hunched over one of the trays, poking at something with long pincers.

  He looked over his shoulder at us, and yelled.

  “Get out of here! Leave me my photographs!”

  I jumped back. Landon caught me and twirled around, as though to put himself between me and danger. In one smooth move he grabbed a metal rod leaning against the wall and held it up, as though to ward off an attacker.

  But there was nothing to see.

  “What was it?” he demanded.

  “I—it was a ghost.”

  “Another one?”

  “Same one, actually.”


  “It’s gone then? Do you see anything now?” He was still holding me, protectively, eyes still scanning the perimeter, then looking down and searching my face.

  “No,” I croaked, then cleared my throat when I realized how husky my voice sounded. I pulled away from his arms, wondering whether my fluttering heart was due to the ghost or Landon’s closeness. I blew out a long breath.

  “You seem upset,” Landon said. “What happened?”

  “I was startled, that’s all. He yelled at me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “‘Get out of here.’”

  “Did he really?” And with that, Landon walked into the room.

  Impressed by his bravery—or was it stupidity?—I crept in behind him. I searched my peripheral vision for old grumpy-pants, but saw nothing.

  “This is no laboratory,” Landon said, pointing to the rope from which hung a series of sepia-toned photographs, two ancient-looking cameras, and a tripod. “This is an old darkroom.”

  He picked up a couple of bottles from the shelf and read off the labels, which meant nothing to me.

  “A former owner must have been a photographer—an early photographer,” said Landon. “Some of this stuff is very old indeed. Fascinating.”

  “Maybe that’s what I smelled.”

  “Smelled?”

  “The first time I saw the ghost, I thought I smelled something . . . acrid.”

  “Like photographic development chemicals?”

  “Maybe; I’m not sure what those smell like. But that doesn’t make any sense, does it? Would he still smell of chemicals after all these years?”

  Landon raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t realize ghosts adhered to the laws of physics. If you can see him when he’s clearly not here, it doesn’t seem a stretch that you could smell him as well.”

  “Excellent point. But he lived so long ago . . . I guess photography goes back into the 1800s, right?” I asked, thinking of Civil War photos. “Before the turn of the twentieth century?”

  “The earliest was in the 1820s, I believe.”

  “You know maths and history?”

  Landon seemed absorbed in what he was finding, as he picked up one jar after another and poked through the cupboards.

  “That’s the fixative you’re smelling. People were playing with the technology to take photographs quite early on, but it was the fixatives that proved to be the real challenge.”

  “What does the fixative do?”

  “It fixes the image so that it doesn’t fade away or turn dark.”

  “You know a lot about photography.”

  “My dad had a little darkroom made out of a basement bathroom when I was lad,” he said, looking back with a small smile hovering over his lips. “Brings back some nice memories. I even like the smell. I remember one time—”

  He stopped short.

  “Landon? What is it?” As I said it, I realized that the chemical smell had become stronger, almost overwhelming in the stuffy, claustrophobic room. Had we knocked something over?

  “Look.” Landon stood in front of the rope, onto which was clipped several photographs. He gestured toward them. On the end, I recognized one of them: it was yet another a photo of Flora—this time dressed like a maharani, or an Indian queen. As Landon and I stood together and examined the photograph, a second figure slowly began to emerge.

  “I think it’s a woman,” I said.

  “Definitely a woman,” Landon agreed. “In fact—”

  It was Chantelle.

  Chapter Twenty

  Landon yanked the photo from the rope line, sending clips flying through the air. He gazed at it, then dropped it on the floor and stepped back, as though the image would burn him.

  “This is not funny.” He glared at me. “How dare you.”

  “It’s not me! Landon, seriously. Not only would I never do such a thing, I would have no idea how.”

  “It wouldn’t be difficult,” he said, spitting out the words. “Computers and technology can do wonders. Piping in music to lead us through mysterious passages, setting up vintage darkrooms, using special filters to make photographs appear old . . .”

  “I’m going to take your word that would all be possible,” I said, slowly. “But not only do I not have any of the skills required to do what you suggest, I wouldn’t do such a thing in the first place. Why would I? What could I possibly have to gain?”

  “How on earth should I know? Maybe you’re bored. Maybe this place is studded with cameras taking film footage that you’ll upload to YouTube and become the next viral video.”

  “Okay, I realize we don’t know each other very well, but has there been anything—anything at all—in our interaction over the last few days that would suggest I have the time, the ability, or the interest to set up some elaborate prank for a YouTube video?”

  I bent down and picked up the photo. There was no mistake: It was Chantelle, dressed in Indian finery like Flora, looking very much of the time period.

  “Of course not,” Landon said, shaking himself and blowing out a long breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not at my best. I arrived from England two days ago, found my sister murdered”—his voice wavered—“and have realized that perhaps she did, indeed, have some relationship with the beyond that I simply can’t fathom. Also, the Internet connection at my hotel is terrible. I am . . . off my game. I do apologize.”

  I smiled. “Apology accepted. You have been through the wringer, haven’t you? I hope you can believe me when I say I’m trying to help. And while my route to figuring out these things is usually pretty circuitous, I tend to figure things out eventually. My boyfriend says I’m like a dog with a bone, once I’m onto something like this I won’t quit until I figure it out.”

  He gazed at me for a long moment. “Boyfriend?”

  I nodded.

  “I would think he’d accompany you when you are dealing with certain . . . situations. Such as this one.”

  This made me laugh. “If the man tried to accompany me to every haunting, I suppose we’d be attached at the hip. This sort of thing happens to me fairly frequently.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What does hmmmm mean?” I was beginning to ask, when another wave of noxious fumes enveloped us. A jar fell over into the sink, then another. Photos flew in the air.

  Landon wielded his metal rod again, crouching just slightly, as though ready to throw himself on something.

  “I think we should go,” I said.

  “Get out!”

  “We’re leaving!” I yelled in response to the ghostly command, then said more quietly but with urgency, “Landon, let’s go.”

  “Right after you,” he said.

  We backed out of the room, me still clutching the photo of two women of mystery: Flora and Chantelle, together for eternity?

  • • •

  “Does this mean my sister is now haunting Crosswinds?” Landon asked after we stumbled out into the foyer, brushing off cobwebs and dirt.

  It was the next logical question.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “In fact, though I’ve seen a lot of photographs of Flora, I’ve never seen or felt Flora in the house either. But I can’t figure out why Chantelle would have shown herself like this . . .”

  Landon took the photo from my hand and gazed at the image of his sister. She was wearing that same beatific expression, the same Mona Lisa smile she had when I had seen her spirit in the hallway outside her apartment.

  I was trying to maintain my Experienced Ghost Communicator mien, but in truth my mind was reeling. What did this mean? Had Chantelle somehow existed at the time of Flora? Were we talking about reincarnation now?

  More likely was that Chantelle was making herself known to us for some reason. I would have thought she’d be able to communicate with me, especially since she was able to go beyond th
e veil in her living days. Olivier had told me sometimes it happened like that. But then, since Olivier was nowhere to be found I guessed I shouldn’t base too much on his interpretation. With a lot of this ghost stuff I was beginning to think I was treading on new territory, seeing things Olivier had never experienced.

  Setting aside the possibility of reincarnation for the moment, what might Chantelle be trying to tell me? Why would she want to be seen in a photograph with Flora? Unless perhaps they appeared in that photo because of Flora’s father’s ghost? Was he the one trying to communicate? Or had he shut things down? Could he be trying to keep them from communicating—and if so, why?

  Or were these ghosts just confused? Maybe killing a few of the endless hours of the afterlife by having fun with a gullible ghost buster?

  I wouldn’t put it past them. I was beginning to think some of these spirits had very twisted senses of humor.

  • • •

  Landon’s demeanor was always so rigid that I couldn’t tell whether he believed me or thought I was insane. Which is a sensation I’m familiar with, since I sometimes experience it when dealing with myself.

  On the other hand, the poor man had found his murdered sister the other day, and was still dealing with jet lag and, apparently, a wonky Internet connection. So he might well be slightly more open to possibilities than he might otherwise be.

  We walked through the rest of the house, but other than hearing the squeaking of the weathervane I didn’t hear or see anything else untoward. I called out to the ghost, hoping he could hear me and might be willing to communicate, but nothing.

  “Karla mentioned her client threw herself on the floor,” I said, “but I suspect the ghost had been yelling ‘Flora,’ not ‘floor.’”

  “What does that prove?”

  “Only that I’m not the only one to hear this particular ghost. Which is strangely comforting. Not for the woman from Dubai, of course, but for me, there’s some comfort to be had in company. Also, Dog saw him.”

  As we descended the stairs to the main floor, I remembered one book I had seen on the hidden bookshelf: a San Francisco social register. I went back, crawled through the opening, and took the old book off the shelf. I opened it to the “S’s,” found Summerton, and read: father Peregrine, mother Clara, two brothers Peregrine Jr. and Thomas Allen, one daughter, Flora. There were marriage dates for the boys, but nothing for Flora.