“It’s just that every time I try to put it behind me, something, some memory, brings it all back.” She found this to be a more discreet answer. Kemp was an understanding man, but his old fashioned cynicism would suspect that she’d gone mad as a hatter.
“When was the last time you talked to Dr. Logan?”
And there it was, without even a mention of last night or today.
“So, you think I’m crazy? That’s what this is all about?”
“No, no, Tracy. I don’t,” he said, reassuring her. “It’s just that Dr. Logan was helping you after the accident, and I was thinking, well, when was the last time you saw her?”
Dr. Susan Logan was the psychiatrist on staff who was there to “help” her through her grief almost immediately after the accident and force her to except the fact that David was dead, as if any of that would be possible. Tracy reluctantly agreed to grief sessions, where she was diagnosed as having “survivor’s guilt,” and then stopped going. There was nothing a shrink could do to convince her to move on, as though she were blameless. There was no time table to stop grieving, and Susan Logan couldn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault.
“What is it that you think Susan can do for me? Do you, or anyone else, think that she is going to wave a magic wand and make everything as though it never happened?”
Her voice climbed in anger, and the impatience stamped on her face prompted Kemp to lift both hands to soothe her.
“Tracy, it’s been six months since David was killed. That is not a long time. No one expects you to stop grieving.”
A tear she tried to stop rolled down her face. He continued.
“It’s just that if something is bothering you now, you have to speak to someone, and that’s why Susan is here. Tracy, you’re an outstanding nurse. You can put this behind you and focus on your life and career again.”
If you only knew!
“Give her a call?” He tried to convince her with a wink. She dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex and cracked a half smile.
“I will,” she said, although she had no intention of doing so.
He patted her on the shoulder and after a few words on a different subject, she left his office. She sighed as she drove from the hospital parking lot. Just what would she have told the head shrinker about the recent episodes: the sound of David’s voice through the television, then Mr. Richardson’s dying words? She had no proof of any of it, and they would send her off to the state hospital in no time.
She pressed the button on the car radio; the advertisements were boasting. Save fifty percent now with no interest for six months...
A rush of static interrupted, then the radio began flipping from one station to another on its own, stringing together brief sounds of blips, bleeps, and blats. Fast musical notes and words spoken in mid-conclusion bounced back and forth in a chaotic collage.
Tracy looked down at the radio in shock; both of her hands were on the steering wheel, not touching the radio.
There was another quick rush of static then music. It was CCR singing that song, the last song she recalled at the party before the crash.
I see a Bad Moon Rising...I see trouble on the way...
Chapter Three
She was home within minutes after clicking off the radio and flooring the gas pedal. Her heart pounded fast, as the sweat poured down her face. Déjà vu swept her once again at her kitchen table; the scene was the same as earlier that morning, yet so much had transpired since then.
The shock was surreal, and her eyes stared at nothing as everything replayed in her mind. When Richardson had uttered his one final word, it sent her reeling into a world where she began to not only question her sanity, but reality itself. Then the radio had taken control of itself in the jeep, playing of all songs, that one.
She had to tell someone, anyone, before they all sent her off to an asylum for “not being herself.” Marcia’s role of guardian angel had become a constant after David’s death, and her parents had moved away from this quaint, college town in western Pennsylvania. They retired to the palms and sands of the Florida Keys; Tracy stayed behind to do what she did best, being a nurse.
She and David were going to be married, and live in this house, and have breakfast every day at this same table, but all of that was gone. She was alone now...or was she?
The silence of the house grew empty, dead, except for the maddening tick, tick, tick, of the clock that made her jump up in a frenzied fury from the chair. Much like the fly trapped by the spider’s web, she felt confused, confined. Her eyes searched the room for a way to break free from frenzy. She cringed at turning on the television or the radio. She stared at the phone and waited for it to ring. Nothing.
She retrieved the bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the cupboard along with a medium sized glass, which she filled with ice, and poured herself a double header. She swigged and swallowed hard, grimaced, and shook. Her blood turned hot and began to circulate the smooth, soothing, calm that bourbon did best. She breathed hard, closed her eyes, and thought.
What if I am losing my mind?
But she couldn’t be. She’d heard Richardson call her “Princess” just as sure as she’d heard the radio in the jeep go berserk and the strange voice from the static.
She swigged the glass again, then picked up the phone and dialed Marcia’s number. She answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Marcia, it’s me,” Tracy said, her voice creaking and raspy. “Do you think you could come over?” It was the cry for help that Marcia Ross had long been expecting; Tracy was ready to talk.
“I’ll be right over.”
Marcia’s answer was quick and final and the phone went dead. She was needed; no questions were asked. It was typical of her. She knew Marcia would listen. She needed Marcia to listen, to tell her she wasn’t losing it...but could she?
Soon, there was a knock at the door.
She let Marcia inside, and her quick embrace brought the tears back to her eyes.
“You’ve been drinking,” she said, clasping both sides of Tracy’s face in her hands.
Tracy led her back to the kitchen and offered her a drink. Marcia declined, taking a seat at the table and pointing to the bottle.
“First off—that is not going to help you,” she said. “So tell me, what is going on?”
Tracy wiped the corner of her wet eye with her knuckle. She was cautious, reluctant, but there was no turning back now.
“I’ve been seeing things, hearing things...”
Marcia stared back at her. This particular revelation was unexpected, and Tracy saw the look of concern on Marcia’s face, especially in light of the bottle on the table.
“It didn’t start until last night, and I haven’t slept since,” she said.
“Have anything to do with what happened today?”
“Yes,” she said, and started at the beginning.
She told her about the television the night before.
“I know I wasn’t dreaming,” she said. “I was at that point of drifting off but could still hear. I could hear the static on the television, but I just couldn’t wake myself to turn it off. Marcia, I know it was David’s voice. I heard it as plain as I can hear yours.
She mentioned the strange phone call and the caller id message: NO DATA SENT, and how it flashed multiple zeroes as a calling number.
“I answered the phone,” she said before Marcia could suggest an explanation. “There was no one, just an odd, far off sound and more static.”
“Tracy, what happened at work today?” Marcia reached over and clasped her trembling hand.
“I went in to check on Mr. Richardson, right before he--”
“Go on,” she said, prompting.
“He became excited, and I tried to calm him, and he...he...”
Her head drooped, and more tears fell from her eyes.
“He called me ‘Princess!’” It was an emotional dam that broke, gushing forth a flood of tears along with a painful sigh tha
t escaped her burdened breath.
Marcia stood, sat closer, and embraced her. “It’s all right now,” she said, shushing her. Tracy’s crying was an overload expelled and released to its fullest capacity, then calmed as her closest friend consoled her.
“Here, let me get you a drink,” Marcia said.
“I have one,” she said, raising the glass to her lips and sipping.
“I meant water, smart ass.”
Tracy reassured her and, in a calmer effort, continued. “Then, you’re not going to believe what happened when I left work today. I was driving home, and I turned on the car radio. I didn’t pick a station—I just drove while the commercials were on. The stations began flipping around, changing from one to another on their own, and I wasn’t touching the dial! It finally stopped on that song”
Marcia looked at her, not comprehending.
“The song that was playing at the party, right before we left. That song was still in my head when the crash happened.”
“So, what you’re saying is that the radio turned to that song all by itself?”
Tracy nodded. She couldn’t decipher the look she was getting from Marcia, who sighed and shook her head back and forth in a slow, grave manner.
Something from another realm had invaded Tracy’s life within the past twenty- four hours, and now she’d stumbled along the dividing line between reality and the unknown. The preceding events far exceeded anything that her thoughts or imagination could conjure, and while she couldn’t explain, the questionable stares from Kemp and others were depleting her patience.
“Tracy, I know you. I can’t say you’re right, but I know you’re not the type to imagine things. That would be enough to drive anyone to drinking, but are you sure that maybe a string of coincidences hasn’t overwhelmed you?”
Tracy gasped and shook her head.
“So, you think I’m crazy?”
“I don’t like the word,” she said with a laugh. “I’m just saying that maybe the memories of David and the accident are still unresolved, and those memories are so strong that maybe they left an overwhelming and powerful burden upon you.”
“That doesn’t explain Mr. Richardson!” Tracy’s voice rose with the persistence of a child who wasn’t to be believed.
“You’re right, Tracy,” Marcia said. “It doesn’t explain Richardson; and how he could have known David’s nickname for you, I don’t know. But I do know you’re not a crackpot; you’re the best nurse I know.” There was a pause before Marcia continued.
“You know, there are people who deal with these things, Tracy. I would say there is no harm in exploring it. It may even be a cathartic experience.”
Tracy’s eyebrows arched. Marcia’s years of experience made her sound more like a doctor than a nurse; Tracy never expected to hear the suggestion from her.
“You mean an exorcism?” Tracy chuckled at the thought.
“I wasn’t suggesting anything quite so dramatic,” Marcia said. “What I meant is there are people who are involved in paranormal research.”
Tracy’s eyes fixed upon her friend in excited disbelief, and the faintest crack of a smile dawned upon her lips.
“You mean a ghost hunter?” A small hiss of laughter escaped her. “No shit—a ghost hunter?!”
Marcia lowered her eyes to the table top.
“I never would have guessed,” Tracy said. Her relief now came in a howl of laughter. “I can’t believe it, you, of all people?”
“Look, Tracy,” she said. “I’ve been a nurse for twenty-five years. “Doctors, nurses, scientists, we all know that when a person dies, energy leaves the body. As a nurse, I can sense it, almost feel it. So let me ask you, where does it go?”
Tracy’s face was now blank and straightened, as Marcia spoke in her “Head Nurse” voice: the tone of the wiser, inquisitive mentor testing her pupil.
“It has to go somewhere,” Marcia said. “Where does it go? Where? The truth is, we don’t know.”
Tracy, stunned, shook her head and spoke.
“Then why doesn’t the medical community talk about this?”
“Now that really wouldn’t be appropriate, now would it?” Marcia said. “Truth is often hidden in favor of discretion.”
Tracy’s jaw dropped.
Chapter Four
Tracy awoke the following morning as a bitter orange burst of sunlight broke through the curtains, piercing her eyes with a stabbing pain, and stirring her from the cozy, makeshift swaddling where she tried to forget the day before. She’d slept hard through the night, and the neon green numbers of the alarm read 11:34.
She rose from the bed, reluctant, her eyes adjusting to the sunburst of the new day, until the weight of her head overwhelmed her. Dizzying spirals swept her back down onto the bed, and the spin in her head made her groan. A wave of sweat surged down her face as her temperature soared, and the parched, cracked, desert of her mouth ached for an oasis.
The hangover was an act of war declared on her, and she sagged back into the soft bed for a few moments, breathing in great, heaving gasps. She forced herself up to fight the enemy and made her way to the shower. The hot water washed away the sludge of sleep. Afterward, Tracy stood before the mirror, staring back with bloodshot eyes.
She gulped down a glass of ice water, knowing that it wasn’t the proper hangover remedy, and gasped in relief. She set a sobering pot of coffee to boil, and then turned on her computer to check her e-mail.
Tracy sorted through the various spam ads that continually infested her inbox: Buy One, Get One FREE; Give us YOUR opinion for $50; Get your degree online. She deleted them one by one until one e-mail stood out. It was from Marcia...
Just checking to see how you were holding up. How’s your head feel?
Marcia.
She would respond later. Right now, she had something to do.
It took only seconds to initiate the search engine, type the words “ghost hunters, and click for results. Many options filled the screen; she scrolled until an unexpected ad met her eye. It was from the local university. She clicked on the blue link and read the ad...
Have you had a paranormal experience? Do you consider yourself to be the subject of a haunting? If you have had any interaction or activity that could be considered “paranormal,” we would like to speak with you. We are experienced investigators and scholars interested in documenting your situation. Our goals are to seek, study, and assist. If we can help you, please send an e-mail and tell us your story. All information is confidential. No fees ever.
She clicked on a blue link that read, “Contact Us,” and up popped a blank e-mail self addressed to “drasche.” The email server for the strange address belonged to the university. She did an internet search of the name, as well as the university, and discovered their established team of paranormal investigators. A headline concerning the team of four stood out amid the online items...
University’s Paranormal Investigators “Ghost Bust” former Sanctuary Hospital.
The article detailed how this team had rid a haunted hotel, which had been a hospital during the Civil War, of its long-time ghosts. The hotel manager had labeled them “astounding.”
She filled in the subject line and after a few moments, she decided that a personal introduction worked best. She was finishing the last sentence of the first paragraph when the phone rang.
The unfinished e-mail was left open when she rose from the chair to answer the phone. Tracy stopped short, noticing the caller id. It was that number again: 000-000-0000 and the same words, NO DATA SENT. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
Nothing, then a slight static. Suddenly, the sound was rapid, inaudible. A voice, twisted and warbled, came from the opposite end of the phone line.
“HRMMA...”
“Hello?!” Fear and agitation rose in her voice at the sound of the bizarre, alien attempt at speech.
“RRRMAA...”
Then the static grew louder and died... and then silence.
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She replaced the receiver and trembled. Why was this happening? She was sure she’d heard someone trying to speak until the sound became overwhelmed by the static. Could it really be David?
Tracy closed her eyes and wished it all away, and then mustering her strength, she turned back to the computer; she had an e-mail to finish. Her body burned with the heat of alarm when she saw the e-mail she’d left open on the screen, and her pounding heart played percussion in her ears while her breath quivered.
This can’t be. But it was, and she was staring straight at it.
Strange typing had appeared after hers. She sat in disbelief, stretching her fingers toward the screen. It read in capital letters:
TRACYTRACYTRACYTRACYTRACYTRACYTRACYTRACY
Everything she’d ever known or been taught about certainty in life suddenly slipped away, seeing the letters of her own name typed across the screen. Her mind responded fast as she clicked the Print icon, and the inch by inch process finally shot the paper out with one quick flash. She snatched it from the carriage.
What was displayed on the screen had copied exactly on the page, and the magnitude of what she held in her hands felt like colossal triumph. Here was her proof that she was sane, or was it? She chuckled at the thought of Dr. Logan claiming that she typed it herself, but at least now she knew she wasn’t insane, not completely. She saved the e-mail in a special file and started typing another to the mysterious “drasche.”
She documented the entire experience, starting from the beginning with the TV, the phone calls, Mr. Richardson, and the radio, then debated whether or not to include this new incident. She supposed it might all sound exaggerated, crazy, but as of right now, the prospect became irrelevant.
She added a post-script at the end, and then clicked “SEND,” realizing its finality and continuing to stare at the screen. How long would it take for “drasche” to respond? A cool, quick, rush of air suddenly swept her, along with the feeling of someone standing over her shoulder. How absurd it was to feel that sensation, being all alone in the house. She stood up from the chair, stretched her legs, and took a deep breath. Then, she turned around and saw him.
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