Stumptown Spirits

by E. J. Russell

  When he thought of it that way, the fans might be outraged if a real ghost did show up.

  No. Absolutely not. Riley never freaking ever falsified his findings. He hadn’t abandoned his professional ethics when he dropped out of school, and he wasn’t about to start now, with so much more at stake.

  A few days ago, this story had been nothing but a way to prove himself in a job he wasn’t sure he wanted. Now? It was personal. He needed to get it right for Logan’s sake, whether Logan admitted it or not.

  He thrust the map at Julie. “Here. Make sure they don’t get distracted by pretty camera angles or spooky atmospheric shots. This is where we need to film.”

  She peered at it, tracing the green line with one finger. “The Witch’s Castle is barely in the picture. Just that one little corner. Scott won’t like it.”

  “If Scott wants ghosts, he’ll pay attention to the map.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Jules. You trust me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then engage those UPM superpowers. Do your job and let me do mine.”

  She rolled her eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Fine.”

  As soon as she left, he raced back to his room and booted up his laptop. Saturday. God, so little time to figure this out, especially since his schedule was already packed with Production Bitch errand-running and preparation for his first time at the shoot location.

  So he’d better channel Hercules and get on with the labors.

  It was almost too easy. With the right name, Riley found what he was looking for immediately.

  Sean O’Connor and Joseph Geddes had been trapping rabbits—illegally—in Forest Park on the night of October 17, 1952. O’Connor had been seen running from the park near midnight, but Geddes was never seen again.

  In the sensationalist journalism style of the time, reporters had trumpeted foul play, but xenophobic, not supernatural. With the country in the early throes of the Cold War, they’d been quick to blame the disappearance on conspiracies by agents unknown.

  Then Logan’s grandfather had been arrested, and the shit had well and truly hit the fan. The newspapers had been merciless, launching a positive feeding frenzy with Logan’s grandfather as hapless chum. They’d torn him apart.

  Logan’s grandmother had been a schoolteacher before her husband’s arrest. She’d lost her home and her job, and from what Riley could discover, had lived the rest of her life with her sister, as a house cleaner, sometime seamstress, and eventual unpaid caregiver for her brother-in-law.

  But as rabid as the reporters had been about Sean O’Connor, his arrest, and subsequent institutionalization, none of them had spared an inch of ink on the family of his alleged victim. Joseph Geddes had had a wife and two children, who’d been mentioned in the reports of O’Connor’s arrest, but Riley couldn’t find a single story that mentioned them afterward.

  The death rolls told their own tale.

  The youngest child died not six months after her father’s disappearance. Their mother later the same year. Of the eldest child, he could find no trace at all, as if with no adult to care for him and protect him, he’d ceased to exist.

  God, Logan’s grandfather hadn’t been the ghost war’s only victim.

  But if Sean O’Connor hadn’t been a delusional homicidal maniac, if his claims were correct and the ghost war had somehow captured a living man . . .

  Holy shit.

  Riley leaned back and clutched his hair with both fists. What if the Witch’s Castle legend was more than a ghost story? What if its mythic roots went even deeper?

  Folklore annals had tons of instances of humans lured or forcibly abducted to places outside the normal plane of existence. Hades, Faerie, Annwn—the lists went on. The flow of time in the alternate world frequently tracked differently than the real world, so that when the victim returned, years, decades, even centuries had passed.

  Although the odds were that Geddes was dead, and had been since the night he disappeared, what if he wasn’t? What if he was trapped in the ghost war in a kind of supernatural stasis? What if he could be released? No matter what Logan had said about burying the story, it would have to mean something to him to clear his grandfather’s name. Joseph Geddes, freed from ghostly captivity and able to bear witness, could do it.

  Riley plunged back onto the net, searching for every ballad, myth, legend, or folktale with a “rescue from the other world” scenario. As he cataloged each of them—and a depressing number ended in spectacular failure—he discovered a disturbing motif: the odds were heavily weighted against the rescuee, either because the rules governing their imprisonment were fricking secret, or because the boneheaded rescuer knew the rules but screwed them up anyway.

  For Persephone, it had been eating six lousy pomegranate seeds when nobody had told her it meant she’d be stuck in Hades for one month per seed. How was that fair? For poor Eurydice, it had been a husband who couldn’t wait another five freaking minutes before he turned around to look at her. Sure, all the odes were for poor bereaved Orpheus, but he was the one who had screwed up and Eurydice had paid the price by dying—again. Orpheus just mooned around demoralizing everyone with his dirges until the Maenads finally got fed up and had him for lunch.

  If the ghost war followed the classic pattern, it could have a number of its own booby traps, and tripping any of them could cause the rescue to fail, sending Geddes down the path of Persephone, Eurydice, or even Orpheus, if the ghosts decided to take exception to outside meddling.

  Crap, crap, crap. If there was an answer to the Witch’s Castle riddle, he’d never figure it out with so little data. He needed more, damn it. A single verified incident wouldn’t cut it statistically.

  He got up and paced the narrow alley between the foot of his bed and the dresser. Was he limiting his options because of invalid assumptions? He’d tracked every recorded witness account when he’d prepped the pitch for Scott. But what if he’d been looking in the wrong place? He’d been treating the ghost war as the effect of the Balch–Stump feud—but what if he turned it around and viewed it as the cause of real-world problems, like the fate of Geddes’s family?

  If he wanted to find other incidents, maybe he needed to look at the response, not the stimulus—not only on October seventeenth in that year or any other, but in the days and weeks and months afterward, when the fallout began to affect the people left behind. That’s when atypical behavior would surface, when the pattern would begin to emerge. Once he had more data to analyze, he’d stand a better chance of discovering why a man could be caught in a supernatural snare, and clues about how to release him.

  He plopped back onto his chair and pulled up a new browser window, modifying his Witch’s Castle search criteria to include any crimes, disappearances, or anomalies that mentioned Forest Park since the date of Geddes’s disappearance. Scrolling down the list of stories, he discarded all the standard DUIs, domestic disturbances, and misdemeanors.

  Ha! There.

  Seven years ago this month, Trent Pielmeyer, a nineteen-year-old PSU student, vanished without a trace. The official story was frustratingly bare of detail. Trent’s car had been abandoned near the Lower Macleay trailhead. The police had discovered blood at the intersection of the Wildwood and Lower Macleay trails—the location of the Witch’s Castle—but it hadn’t matched Trent’s type. With no body or motive, the story ended with nothing but a request for any information leading to the whereabouts of the missing man.

  But then, buried at the end of an article published two weeks after Trent’s disappearance, Riley discovered an account of police questioning Trent’s PSU roommate, an architecture student.

  Logan Conner.

  Fingers numb, Riley slumped in his chair and stared sightlessly at the door. How likely was it that Logan knew nothing about his own freaking roommate’s disappearance at the same place his grandfather had witnessed a ghostly kidnapping?

  Exactly zilch.

  Was this why L
ogan had rabbited this morning? Not because of his grandfather, but because he was afraid the show might link him to the later scandal? Riley had always assumed Logan never touched him in public because he was ashamed—either of being gay or being seen with someone as dorky as Riley. Could it have had nothing to do with Riley at all?

  After public testimony, public outcry, and public reaction had destroyed his grandparents’ lives, maybe Logan had overcompensated, adopting an obsessively low profile to avoid similar danger.

  Or maybe . . .

  Riley’s fingers stilled on the keyboard, his stomach suddenly hollow. Could Logan be complicit in Trent’s disappearance?

  No. Not my Galahad. But odds were even that Logan knew more than he’d let on about the ghost war, and Riley intended to ferret the rest out, one way or another.

  Before he faced Logan, though, he needed to do his homework.

  As he started to type, to cross-reference source material and plan his attack, his nerves settled, his breathing deepened, panic sloughing off and leaving confidence and certainty in its place.

  No matter how awkward he was with people, how often he screwed up his social life, this he could do. This was his life, his blood, his purpose.

  He pushed up his sleeves and settled his glasses on his nose. “Move over, Production Bitch. Folklore Boy is in the house and ready to throw down.”

  When Logan arrived for his shift that night, still raw from the scene with Riley, he found his boss holed up in his office in a more-than-usual foul mood.

  “Infernal toorists. Asking for something called a tropical piranha.”

  Logan tucked in his smile. “Maybe a tropical caipirinha? Cachaça, coconut rum liqueur, and pineapple and lime puree.”

  “If they wanted golblamed fruit, why’d they come to a saloon?” Bert slammed the top file drawer closed with a clang. “Why can’t they order whiskey like any normal man?”

  Logan chuckled as he stowed his helmet on top of the bookshelf and hung his leather jacket on the peg behind the door. “Why’d you ever decide to run a bar, Bert? People come with the job.”

  “That’s why I hire fellas like you. To put up with all that bull-pucky.”

  “Yeah. About that.” Logan rubbed the back of his neck and stared at the six-year-old calendar above Bert’s ancient rolltop desk. “You do remember Wednesday’s my last bartending shift, right?”

  Bert’s shaggy white eyebrows shot up, making his face look even longer and narrower than normal. “Thursday’d be better for me.”

  Trust Bert to cut to the chase. “Sorry. Like I told you, I’ll do the stockroom Thursday morning, but that’s it. I’ve got stuff to take care of before I . . . head out.”

  “Bah. Get out there, then. The place is full of folks with more money than sense.”

  “Better take care of ’em, then.”

  He stopped in the stockroom. Yesterday, he’d nearly run out of drink umbrellas, and if the bar patrons were in the mood for tropical drinks, he’d need a fresh supply. He grabbed the first box within reach and headed down the hall. Heather met him outside the kitchen.

  “Hey, Logan. Full house tonight.” She brandished her order pad. “I think they’re about to eat us out of burgers.”

  “Rowdy ravenous frat boys?”

  Heather giggled. “No. Way more fun. It’s the entire crew of a television show that’s filming in Portland.”

  Logan’s heart lurched sideways. How many shows could be on location here at one time? “Do you know what—”

  “Heather!” one of the cooks called. “Order up.”

  “Oops. Gotta run. Later.” She ducked into the kitchen.

  Logan crept the rest of the way down the hall and peered around the corner into the main part of the bar. Yep. A bunch of guys in black and neon-green HttM show T-shirts, with techie written all over their scruffy faces, clustered around an island of tables in the middle of the room. Their no-talent douche of a star sat at one end, and judging by the empty chairs on either side of him, the crew’s opinion of Max Stone wasn’t much higher than Logan’s.

  Logan ignored Max and held his breath, searching the room for that thatch of board-straight dark hair, the glint of narrow rectangular glasses, but Riley wasn’t there. Logan didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. One more glimpse. What could it hurt?

  It could hurt one hell of a lot, that’s what. Looking, but unable to touch, forced to pretend disinterest if he expected to pay his debt to Trent and keep Riley safe as well.

  He scowled at the box of drink umbrellas in his hand. Shit. They were the special ones Heather had conned Bert into ordering for Halloween: black, with red-eyed grinning skulls. She’d shoot him if he used them up before the holiday—although he’d be out of her reach by then.

  Wait a second. He opened the box and took out one of the kitschy things. Maybe this was his golden opportunity. How many times had this crew faced actual paranormal phenomena? Exactly never. If that idiot Max Stone ever encountered anything more threatening than a five-martini hangover, Logan bet the guy’s vanishing act would put Penn and Teller to shame.

  So if Riley wouldn’t step up to the plate, Logan could try his own hand at killing the story.

  Heather approached him, balancing three plates, the aroma of burgers and fries reminding him he’d skipped both breakfast and lunch. No matter. He’d eat later. As for now . . . A smile tugged at his lips. I’ve got other priorities.

  “Whoa.” She wrinkled her nose as she brushed past. “Whoever you’ve got in your sights had better watch out. That is one evil look, my friend.”

  “No clue what you’re talking about,” Logan said, and sauntered into the bar, ready to scare the shit out of the toorists.

  He counted heads while the burly guy at the end of the table tried his level best to impress Heather.

  “It’s not just anyone who can film this stuff, right? We work in the dark so standard tools don’t cut it. We’ve got special . . .” Mr. Bear tucked his chin in and waggled his bushy eyebrows at Heather “. . . equipment.”

  “You don’t say.” She slapped his plate on the table in front of him. “Takes a brave man to face ghosts, I guess.”

  He puffed out his barrel chest, probably under the mistaken notion he was about to get lucky. “You know it.”

  “Takes a braver one to announce the shortcomings of his . . . equipment . . . to the whole bar.”

  He reddened while the rest of the men hooted with laughter. Heather turned away, caught Logan’s gaze, and rolled her eyes. He beckoned her over.

  “Guys giving you trouble?”

  She snorted. “No. But if they expect to get anywhere, they need to try it with someone who doesn’t spend forty-plus hours a week with guys drunk enough to think that’s a good line.”

  “I’ve got a couple of ideas about how to handle them.”

  “There’s that evil smile again.” She leaned over the bar. “Whatever you’ve got planned, I want in.”

  “You’re on.”

  Logan lined up a shot glass for each guy and poured doubles of the mid-shelf whiskey. He plunked a black umbrella in each one. “Hand these out to their table? I’m buying.”

  Heather loaded the drinks onto a tray. “Only if you promise there’s more to this plan.”

  “Count on it.”

  He followed her to the table. She served the shots, saving the last one for Mr. Bear. “You’re in luck, boys. These drinks are on the house, courtesy of our bartender.”

  The men set up a ragged cheer except for Mr. Bear, who poked at the umbrella. “What’s this?”

  “I heard about your plan to shoot at Witch’s Castle. Figured condemned men could use a last drink.”

  A square-jawed guy, the only clean-shaven one at the table, gave Logan an appreciative once-over. “You know something we don’t?”

  “Couldn’t say. You’ve heard about Sasquatch.”

  Max blew a raspberry. Attractive. “That’s for the tabloids, man. We’re serious paranormal
investigators.”

  “Could be. But this is the Pacific Northwest. You shouldn’t turn down tips from the natives.”

  Mr. Square Jaw aimed a flirty grin at him. “If you’re the native in question, sign me up.” He pulled an empty chair from a nearby table, parked it next to his, and patted the seat.

  Logan sat down and leaned back, giving Mr. Square Jaw a good view of his package. He had no intention of following up on the invitation, but anything that made the group more likely to pay attention to his bullshit was a good thing. “Sasquatch doesn’t hang out in Forest Park, so you’re safe from him. But ghosts . . . yeah.”

  Max scoffed and downed his shot. “I’ve heard big talk about these ghosts, but they sound pretty tame compared to some of the things we’ve faced.”

  “Really?” Logan drawled. “Where are you staying?”

  “Up in the industrial district,” Square Jaw said. “Vaughn Street Hotel. Need directions?”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  “It’s practically a dump,” Max grumbled. “Our unit production manager is too cheap to swing a hotel for us downtown. You’d think she could at least manage a suite for me at a more upscale place.”

  “She may have done you a favor. You don’t want to be too close to Nina.”

  “Nina? Wiley didn’t mention any Nina in that briefing.”

  “How would you know, Max?” Mr. Bear asked. “You were too busy lobbing paper wads at the poor guy to listen to anything he said.”

  Max didn’t acknowledge him, but his knuckles whitened around his glass. “So. Nina?”

  Logan shook his head. “Very sad case. A working girl who got tangled up with some mobsters, about a hundred years ago. She was about to turn them in, but then . . .” Logan put his palms together and mimed a dive. “Took an unscheduled trip down an elevator shaft, sans elevator.”

  “Where does she . . . uh . . . walk?”

  “Building that used to be the Merchant Hotel, not far from here.”