A Brady Paranormal Investigations Box Set

by Harper Crowley

  “Good day,” he says, his voice gruff. He has a twinkle in his light-blue eyes that belies his gruff demeanor. Good thing we’d arranged this with him beforehand. I would hate to show up and freak him out with the cameras. “I’m Harold Thompson, a volunteer here at the Lily. I’ve lived in Tombstone all my life, and I’m proud to be here today, sharing my love and appreciation for the history of this great town.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk to us. We’re so excited to be here and to learn more about the Lily. When was it built?” I ask.

  Mr. Thompson beams at me. “It’s not every day we get young people, such as you kids, who care about history. To answer your question though, the Lily was built in 1886, right after a fire burned much of the downtown to the ground. While most of the buildings were rebuilt, some of the shopkeepers chose not to, because it wasn’t profitable enough. The Lily rose from the ashes of one of those buildings and is still standing to this day.”

  A tall, thin man in his late twenties hurries our way from a room behind the counter. He wears his short black hair in the same style as most of the other men I’ve seen—curled and wavy as if it’s seen the inside of a hat more than the sun—and he has a deep brown complexion that’s lighter where his shirt sleeve rides up. I wonder if he works on a ranch, too, when he’s not hiding in a museum like this. Seems like a pretty common job around here, and I can see why. Open air, quiet, cowboys... Sure, you have cow manure and probably a hundred other unsavory ranch things to deal with, but it must be worth it.

  “And now,” Mr. Thompson says, “I’d like to introduce you to Ted. He’ll be your tour guide for your visit to Lily Theater. My knees just can’t handle the steps like they used to.”

  “Hi, we’re from Brady Paranormal Investigations. I’m Meredith, and this is Russ and Jess. We’re here as part of our exploration of Tombstone.”

  “Um, okay. I’m Ted. I’ll be taking you on the tour of the Lily tonight.”

  “Would you mind if we recorded this for our viewers? They’re so excited to learn more about the Lily.”

  He agrees and signs the waiver. Mr. Thompson had seemed excited about this helping bring new customers to his theater, so I’m glad Ted’s on board, too. We wouldn’t be able to live-stream if he didn’t want to be on video, and we would have a lot to cut later on. I don’t worry too much about the other couple. Our focus will be on Ted, not them, so we’ll keep them off camera.

  Ted leads us from the entry into the next room, a sitting room, bedecked in luxurious antique couches and chairs, with paintings and pictures of historic parts of Tombstone and its patrons. A couple of mannequins play cards at a table under a chandelier, their hair fake and their skin plastic-looking—they obviously went bargain basement on the mannequins. Room after room shows scenes of women dancing and singing and men gambling and brawling, and Ted explains each one.

  Russ alternates between filming Ted and the scenery while Jess takes pictures. I pull out my EMF recorder and scan the various exhibits throughout the labyrinth of rooms. But I don’t pick up any spikes, except for a spot near the bathrooms and the stairway leading into the basement. Right as the EMF detector spikes, the room’s temperature drops.

  I wave Jess over. “Cold spike. Do you feel that?”

  Jess nods and starts snapping more pictures in an attempt to try to catch anything that’s around. I wish I’d brought Bear so he could alert us if he sees a ghost, but I doubt Mr. Thompson would have let him in here.

  Down the flight of stairs, Ted describes how the Lily ran a huge gambling ring. The other couple wanders away to snap pictures of the mannequins, and my heart leaps. This is my chance to talk to him alone. I give both Jess and Russ a nod, and they follow me at a distance.

  “Hey, I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” I throw on my most engaging smile.

  “What do you want to know?” he asks. “I can tell you all about the Lily, but I’ve only lived in Tombstone for about six months.”

  Ah, so he must be one of the newcomers then who came with the new group of actors. I wonder if he knew Hank Gladstone. I’ll warm him up with the easy questions first. “Have you seen any ghosts here at the Lily?”

  Ted’s shoulders relax, and he swipes a bead of sweat off of his brow. Interesting. I wonder what he thought I was going to ask him. Does he know Hank’s dead or that we found him? God, I hope Annette didn’t tell anyone. If not, I’m sure we’ll have the cops at our door sooner rather than later.

  “No, ma’am,” he says. “I’ve heard that other people have seen ghosts here and there, but I haven’t. Mr. Thompson upstairs said he’s seen the ghosts several times. At least a dozen people have died in the Lily, and this basement is where the most dangerous poker games were played, the ones with the highest stakes. Only the rich people, both law abiding and outlaws alike, could afford the grand it would cost to buy in. Here, miners would drown their sorrows in booze, prostitutes, and high-stakes gambling, often spending all of their hard-earned money before they had a chance to save it or do anything useful with it.” He gestures at one of the scenes, the same one the other couple was photographing with the gamblers.

  “These poker games went on all day and all night—with different players, mind you—for three years. Businessmen and outlaws alike, such as George Randolph Hearst and Doc Holliday, are said to be some of the most notorious players. Have you seen the O.K. Corral yet? You would love it. I know the guy who plays Hank, and he’s...” Ted’s face pales as his voice trails off.

  He knows about Hank. “What’s wrong?”

  He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Nothing. We, uh, we should get back to the tour.” He turns away and rushes through his spiel for the rest of the tour before herding us upstairs.

  “That was weird,” Russ says, his eyes glued to our tour guide’s back as he disappears into the back room after leaving us upstairs with Mr. Thompson.

  “Yeah, I bet he’s hiding something,” Jess says.

  “But what?” I muse. “Do you think he was involved with what happened, somehow?”

  Jess shrugs. “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem the type to do anything like that. He’s so nervous and skittish, you know?”

  “Well, let’s see if we can salvage something out of this mess and get Mr. Thompson to give us some good ghost stories.”

  We leave the Lily, still smiling at the stories Mr. Thompson told us about Tombstone’s heyday. At the corner across from the Crystal Palace, we hear someone cough, so loudly that it’s obviously fake. A darker shadow separates from the rest around the corner and waves us over. It’s Ted.

  He quickly looks around the corner then drags me into an alcove away from the street. Russ and Jess hurry behind me, so I feel slightly safer than I would if I were following him into a dark alley alone.

  “I heard you were the ones who found Hank,” he whispers.

  Thanks, Annette. “Yeah, we were. Did you know him?”

  He nods. “We worked together a lot, especially at first. Now I’m either here or on the streets, talking to tourists. He was a good guy, but he’d get really focused on things sometimes and lose track of where he was or who he was with.”

  The hairs on the backs of my arms stand up. “What do you mean?”

  He starts to answer when the door to the Lily bangs open. Mr. Thompson pokes his head out. “Hey, Ted, you still here?”

  The younger man sighs. “Yup. I’ll be right there.” He ducks his head closer to us, probably so Mr. Thompson can’t hear him. I’m not entirely sure why he’s worried about that, the guy looks to be a million years old. “Can you come back after the last tour tonight?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Maybe he can shed some sort of light on what’s going on.

  “Good.” Ted lets out a deep breath. “Meet me downstairs, in the basement. I always close up, so we’ll have some time to talk without worrying about being interrupted.”

  “Great. We’ll see you then.”

/>   “What was that all about?” Jess hisses after Ted disappears.

  I can’t stop the stupid grin from overtaking my face. “We got a break, that’s what.”

  Russ smirks. “Thank God,” he says. “I was afraid we’d have to go back to the ranch and watch you drool over Beau for the rest of the night.”

  Jess snickers.

  I groan. “I hate you both.”

  “Aww, you love us, and you know it.” Russ slings his free arm across my shoulders.

  “Hardly.” I shrug out from under him. “Sometimes you have your moments, but this is not one of them.”

  Chapter 12

  Beau still isn’t back at the ranch when we return, so we grab Bear and head back to Tombstone. Even though it’s frustrating to feel like we’re not to make any headway in the case, it seems like the embers are still burning here, and I refuse to let them die out without doing my best to figure this out.

  “You know, dead body and everything aside,” Jess says, slipping her sunglasses over her eyes to protect them from the harsh Arizona sun, “I’m still glad we came here. This sure beats being cooped up in some stuffy attic, looking for ghosts and digging around in Great Aunt Matilda’s nightgowns.”

  “Just you wait,” Russ chimes in from the passenger seat. “I’ve got a couple of cases in the pipeline that look pretty promising. One’s in Kansas.”

  Jess wrinkles her nose. Not that I blame her. There isn’t much interesting, as far as either one of us is concerned, in that state.

  “And Maine. If we pick the Maine one, we might get to see all of the leaves and everything change color before it gets cold.”

  “Which is when?” Jess asks. “Next week?”

  Russ rolls his eyes. “I’ll get you a case in Canada, if you keep it up. In January, no less.”

  His eyes meet mine, but I shake my head. “You’re on your own there. Take a bus or something. I don’t do snow like that, and neither does Bear. Portland wasn’t even that bad, compared to what Canada probably gets.”

  Jess snorts. “Could you see us lugging all of our gear on a bus? That’d be a sight, that’s for sure.”

  Back in Tombstone, Jess and I take a look at the various brochures we’ve grabbed from our tour and travels as Russ checks the equipment. He swaps out one camera for another, muttering something about a stupid battery that won’t hold a charge. It happens so frequently on investigations that we always carry several spares. Whether it’s faulty equipment or ghosts sapping the energy out of the technology, I don’t know, but it’s still annoying.

  “Hey, do you want to hit the show at the O.K. Corral if it’s back on?” Jess taps the glossy brochure. “Viewers will love it, I bet.”

  She’s right. She’s told me a bit about the activity in the forums, and I’m stoked. Five new subscribers in a week is pretty cool. “All right, let’s do it.” I grab a camera and the selfie stick in one hand, and Bear’s leash in the other.

  It takes some sweet talking to get the attendant to let Bear into the O.K. Corral theater part of the show. I might have had to stretch a bit, describing the popularity of our TV show, but in the end, Bear’s perched in my lap in the second row of bleachers in the mock O.K. Corral.

  Right in front of where we’re sitting, a low wooden fence has been erected, separating the rows of bleachers from the set. The backdrop is a series of brightly colored buildings, but they’re only props. With Jess on one side and Russ on the other, we get all of our equipment ready for the show.

  A few minutes later, a middle-aged man in a black duster jacket, pants, and a vest strides out into the middle of the arena. He tips his hat and surveys the crowd, his free hand on a shiny silver revolver. “Are you ready for a gunfight?” he yells. The crowd goes wild in response. He then instructs the audience to turn off their cell phones and take any noisy children out of the amphitheater. “Now, please sit back and enjoy the killing,” he says before disappearing into a side door in the teal CS Fly Photographer building.

  A couple seconds later, the sheriff walks out, and while he talks to a couple of other men standing in front of the Oriental Saloon, three drunk outlaws stagger onto the scene. The acting is so lifelike, it’s hard to remember that this is a reenactment.

  They exchange a few words, and all of a sudden, shots are fired, several of the actors drop to the ground, and I flinch. I know these are fake—I know they’re blanks—but I have had enough to deal with real guns. My heart starts to race. This is fake, Mer, a reenactment. You’re okay.

  I glance at my sister, but her eyes are glued to the scene. I’ll get no help from her or from Russ, as he’s so focused on what’s appearing on the screen of his camera to worry about my mini freak-out.

  And then, just like that, it’s over. Several of the actors lie on the ground, and the host tells us how both Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday were tried for murder and later acquitted before filling us in on the fates of all of the rest of the main players in the feud.

  Finally, he too walks off of the stage, and the crowd erupts in applause. I can’t help but substitute this man, who’s much older than Hank and has longer hair but still dresses in the same long dark jacket, white shirt, and bolo tie as his deceased predecessor. I wonder if they had an understudy Wyatt Earp, or if they all study all of the parts so they can fill in when someone gets sick.

  “That was so cool,” Jess says, her eyes wide. Some of her enthusiasm rubs off on me. I haven’t seen her this excited in a long time. Maybe it’s because we’re not staying in a tent or some roach motel.

  We spend the rest of the late afternoon and early evening canvassing the town. Much like Earl from yesterday, no one will talk to us, so we’re pretty much spinning our wheels until the Lily closes. But as soon as lights start winking out all over town, the excitement heats up my blood. At five after nine, I push the front door open, and it creaks ominously.

  “I think this is a scene in every horror movie ever made,” Russ quips. He double-checks the camera on his harness and the voice recorder in his pocket. Jess does the same.

  “Thanks,” I say. “That totally makes me feel better and not like we’re walking into some nefarious trap.”

  “That’s why we have these.” Russ touches his camera. “Life insurance.”

  “And these.” Jess holds up one of the pepper-spray cans.

  “At least Jess is smart,” I mutter, stepping inside.

  During the day, the Lily Theater suggested a kind of tacky elegance reminiscent of a long-ago era, mixed with a healthy dose of theater and pageantry. At night, the place is terrifying. I didn’t bring any flashlights, thinking that Ted would have left at least some of the lights on, but I’m really regretting it now. The picture frames look black, as if the subjects have walked out and are roaming the halls. Elongated shadows stretch and stagger behind all of the cluttered furniture, leaping out at us in the dim reflection of our phones’ glows as we pass. God, I hope no one saw us come in here. If anyone wanted to kill us, they’d have a great opportunity. No one would find us until morning.

  Bear tugs on the leash then stops. His tail goes all the way into the air, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up as he growls. There’s nothing in front of him.

  My skin prickles. “Just great,” I grumble. “Of all the times for you to see a ghost.”

  Jess chuckles, the sound out of place here in this area of infinite silence and darkness, bullet holes, secret poker games, and death. She pulls out her EMF recorder, takes a reading, then shows me the screen. The meter’s maxed out on the far right side of the screen. “Do you see this?”

  “Did we get anything here earlier?”

  Russ shrugs. “I haven’t had time to go over the footage. Hopefully, some of the viewers will have it done by the time we log back on. They love going over that stuff.”

  Be that as it may, I check the voice recorder in my pocket. It’s on, and hopefully, if there is a spirit present, we’ll find some evidence on the voice recorder or Russ’s video. I pan the r
oom with my phone, recording that for upload later. If not for the camera with the faulty battery, we would each have one, but we do with what we have. Hell, it might not even be a ghost. It could be a case of a scaredy dog and faulty electrical wiring. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  We hurry to the basement, our natural desire to ghost hunt—once a ghost hunter, always a ghost hunter—warring with our equally natural desire to stay alive and not get murdered by whatever ax-wielding cowboy ghost could be out there waiting to prey on unsuspecting tourists. I should have followed Jess’s lead and brought my pepper spray. I glance down at the little black-and-white mutt in front of me. He’s a force to be reckoned with.

  At the top of the stairs, we’re greeted by a faint light. Someone left the light on downstairs. It must have been Ted. Thank God for small favors. I really didn’t want to face those mannequins in the dark.

  Ted paces the basement. His tie is askew, and his shirt is untucked from his pants. He has one hand jammed in his pocket, and the other cradles his cell phone, which looks so out of place with his historically accurate costume. Some of the panic on his face eases when he sees us.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, all trace of a Western accent gone from his voice.

  I almost have to do a double take. He sounds so... Minnesota. He’s a good actor.

  “I didn’t know if you would, what with everything going on right now.” He wrings his hands.

  “Yeah, well, we really want to help figure out what’s going on,” I say. “Did you know Hank?”

  “Yeah, he was a good friend of mine. A good man. How did you...” His voice cracks. He can’t ask it, but I know what he wants to know.

  “We were investigating another case when we found him,” Russ says.

  Ted winces. “The cops were going around, talking to people, and then I saw you guys talking to Annette, and...”