All of the distinctions of his face were present: his chestnut shaped eyes, the upward arch of his eyebrows, the layers of shaggy, sandy colored hair. She closed her tired, uneasy eyes and fought to re-focus, shaking her head to clear her cluttered mind, telling herself it was only an image etched into her subconscious mind and nothing more.
She opened her eyes and discovered she was wrong. David was even more visible now, and she could see the shape, the outline of him. He was there, yet he wasn’t there, and she could see her living room through him. There he stood as a vague outline, a complex configuration of atoms and energy with no physical host to anchor it, no longer part of this world but separate from it.
A lightning bolt of shock struck her, and an electrifying force charged her heart, pulsated her soul, and raised the skin and hair from her shaking body. Her jaw quivered, and out of her mouth came a high pitched wail of paralyzed fear, the only sound she could muster.
He moved with a flash, but Tracy didn’t take her eyes away from the fleeting entity. He moved again, faster, fearful of her startled cry. Then he was gone. The room seemed whole again, no longer hiding his ghostly presence.
A stream of guilt washed over her in a new cold sweat. Why did she scream? Why didn’t she talk to him? I blew it, she thought, her eyes still searching the scene for signs of him.
“No!” she said to the empty room. “David?! Come back, come back!” She slouched down in a chair, reduced to one of the unknowing, crying out through a cascade of tears.
Chapter Five
Dylan Rasche sat behind his desk at the computer, reading and deleting two days worth of e-mail. It was his job as chief investigator of the university’s Paranormal Research & Investigative Society, to oversee all outside communication addressed to the group. Much of the e-mail that day had been the usual advertisements, but one e-mail’s subject line jumped out at him.
I need your help!
He clicked it open.
The e-mail was from a nurse at University Hospital who explained that she and her fiancée had been in a car accident six months ago, in which he was killed. The young woman was experiencing strange and unexplainable occurrences as of late, which she detailed in specifics. Dylan’s interest peaked as he read on about a voice speaking through the static of a television screen, strange phone calls documented by a caller id, and her patient’s deathbed ramblings of specific and private information.
The final paragraph of the e-mail detailed an incident concerning a car radio, and at the end, a post-script was added. It was this that spurred his secret excitement; it read in conclusion...
PS—I just tried to send this e-mail, when I was interrupted by one of the same phone calls I have described. When I returned to the computer screen, someone, or something, had typed my name across the e-mail. I am alone in the house. I have saved the initial e-mail for you to see, and I am sending this new one. I really hope you can help me. I feel as though I’m losing my mind. It was signed...Tracy Kimball, R.N; University Hospital.
An address and telephone number were left.
He could tell that this wasn’t a crank, or a fake e-mail sometimes received by the society from everyone including partying frat boys, to eccentric old ladies overreacting. This was a young, accredited professional whose one request was a cry for help. Dylan had read about such experiences from various sources: the dead communicating through certain technologies but never had the society been approached on such a case.
His heart pounded with excitement, releasing a swarm of anxious butterflies from his stomach. The word “pipeline” popped into his head.
Dylan’s expertise was in EMF’s, or Electromagnetic Frequencies, used to identify the presence of a haunting through means of various technologies. If the team were allowed to study and produce results of this particular type of paranormal activity, it would be a huge success to the society. He began picturing himself in all of the published journals for the discovery that would propel him to the top in his field. Tracy Kimball was someone he had to meet.
He printed four copies of the e-mail.
“Guys, you’ve got to take a look at this,” he said.
Seated across the room were his colleagues, surfing and diving deep into Internet research, scaling different heights for the latest information both technological and mundane, and staying informed of everything current. The sound of Dylan’s voice broke the dead silence of concentration.
“We’ve just received an interesting e-mail, and I’ve printed copies for all. Everyone, roundtable.”
“Hear that? Roundtable discussion! It’s kindergarten time,” Sidney Pratt said, repeating Dylan’s request in a louder tone, teasing his terminology.
Sidney was one of four that comprised the small motley crew of paranormal investigators led by Dylan. A sarcastic wit boasted from his robust semblance, and his smart-assed quips sometimes caused them to stray from their focus. Yet, the fat, funny guy had one distinct asset well documented by the paranormal research society’s archive: Sidney Pratt could hear the dead. The society listed him as a “Listener,” a term describing those who could hear the voices of the dead as they called out from beyond.
“C’mon, Sid. You’re going to want to see this.”
Dylan took his place at the head of the table, and to his left sat Sidney and another investigator. Brett Taylor had the look of a modern day hippie, with shoulder length brown hair and a heavy, khaki green, army jacket that pre-dated him. His proficiency as a master of monitoring sound waves and detecting paranormal patterns within them was well documented. He was also noted as a technological wizard.
To Dylan’s right, sat a small, soft, angelic beauty with a pad, pen, and laptop in front of her. Leah Leeds’s blond hair, blue eyes, and tiny structure caused one to wonder how this portrait of purity and innocence hung so well fitting amid a gallery of oddities. She served as secretary and archivist to the society, her vocation of a voluntary basis, overseeing the full documentation of all cases. But her main role was of investigator because like Sidney Pratt, Leah Leeds also possessed a special talent: she could see the dead.
Various titles had been attributed to people like Leah and Sidney: medium, clairvoyant, psychic, none of which encompassed the true definition of either of their capabilities. Leah defined herself as a “Seer:” not a seer of the future, but one who saw and acknowledged the dead as they dwelled in the plain light of reality.
Her young life had changed forever the day that her parents moved into the house on Cedar Drive: a three-story, colonial fortress that captured her mother’s heart, destroyed her father’s mind, and held Leah prisoner in a world haunted by ghosts and tormented by the wrath of poltergeists.
From the second day after they’d arrived, Leah could see the dead that remained within that house, unlike her parents. They’d shrugged off the sightings as the fascinations of a child, and Leah’s “playmates” were not to be taken seriously.
They had soon discovered otherwise.
The society had record of Leah’s Cedar Drive experiences, all of which she’d transcribed in autobiographical format. Her capabilities stemmed from her first-hand experience because the ability to see ghosts and apparitions didn’t die in the child but became stronger in the adult. Both she and Sidney were powerful assets to the society, phenomenal psychic beings that were not only utilized, but studied.
Dylan passed copies of Tracy’s e-mail around the long, rectangular conference table that was surrounded by lush, purple velvet chairs. A fifty-two inch, widescreen TV and video apparatus were placed strategically at the far end of the table, providing a clear view for all seated.
The four sat in silence, reading, and the meeting of minds in synchronicity restored the deep concentration so abruptly broken earlier. Their eyes met when finished.
“So, what can we assess here?” Dylan said, quizzically.
“A voice through the television static... intense.” The far out, distant vocal tone belonged to Brett, whose persona lived
up to appearance.
“That was the first incident,” Dylan said. “Brett, what’s your take on it?”
“We’ve all studied it before—sounds that are said to be voices coming through the static of televisions, radios that have gone haywire. There is a theory that the dead can manipulate these outlets as a form of communication.”
“Precisely,” Dylan said. “And she thinks she’s had other forms of contact as well, specifically, the phone.
“Try to find out when those calls came, as close as possible,” Leah said, taking notes. “We can verify through the phone company.”
Sidney joined the conversation.
“And she knows, or thinks, that this contact is from her fiancée that was killed in the accident?”
Dylan nodded.
“I wonder if she’s seen him yet,” Sidney said.
“What’s on your mind, Sid?” Dylan’s question turned all attention toward Sidney.
“I have the feeling that if she hasn’t seen him yet, she’s about to,” he said. “Other forms of contact, whether they’re noticed or not, usually occur prior to a ghostly manifestation.”
“What interests me is her patient’s last word before he died,” Leah said. “If this is the kind of activity I’m thinking of, we’re talking about something very powerful.”
Memories of the Cedar Drive house flashed in her mind, and in an instant, she blocked them and focused again.
“Yes,” Dylan said. “But if there is contact through these means of technology, then we may have proof of a theory rarely experienced.”
“The Pipeline Effect,” Sidney said.
“Exactly. It is a rare occurrence, but the theory is a strong one. It speculates that when the dead attempt to communicate through technology, they form what is called a ‘pipeline.’ The theory is thus named. There are many cases documented around the world, but conclusive proof is sometimes elusive.”
“This, of course, is not to be confused with the geological pipeline effect.” Sidney’s humor materialized at the oddest moments, causing the others to stare at each other. “Sorry, just wanted to make that clear,” he said, shrugging.
“So, we may have a case,” Brett said. “Which means—?”
Dylan interrupted him. “We have to meet Tracy Kimball... right now.”
Chapter Six
Her knees shook when she saw the return address of the e-mail awaiting her, and she sat quickly. It was from “drasche;” she could feel the moment of confrontation about to begin. She clicked it open.
Dear Nurse Kimball,
We wanted you to know that we received your e-mail and after meeting with my colleagues, we have decided that we would be very interested in reviewing your situation. Here, at the university’s Paranormal Research & Investigative Society, we have explored a variety of cases involving haunted people, homes, and other locations, but we are specifically interested in your case from the aspect of contact and communication. We are located in Room 208 of Levin Hall, and we could meet with you at your earliest convenience. We hope to speak with you soon.
The e-mail was signed, Dylan Rasche, and beneath, a phone number was listed.
She jumped from the chair. Today was Wednesday, her day off, so it was now or never. She grabbed her keys and locked the door behind her.
The multi-colored panorama of autumn leaves from the trees whizzed past her as she drove in silence, and this time, she kept the radio off.
Soon, the winding residential boulevards gave way to the picturesque campus set serenely against a brilliant network of fall foliage, displaying reds, oranges, and yellows. The main building stood rectangular, poised to perfection with its towering, Victorian structure crowned by a pointed steeple. Its long, Corinthian columns encased an entranceway, and a steep set of stairs led upward into the majestic edifice.
She searched for Levin Hall and soon discovered it around the corner.
A twisting, spiral staircase to the second floor awaited her once inside and she climbed to the top, where many doors lined both sides of a long hallway. Small plaques accompanied each door, and her eye caught the one that read 208. She knocked with faint apprehension.
A male voice called out after a five second pause.
“Come in.”
Tracy turned the heavy doorknob and entered. Three young men and an even younger girl, not more than twenty, stared back at her. Room 208 was a vast, academic haven with an elongated, black top conference table in the middle, surrounded by plush, purple velvet chairs and a giant screen TV. There were several computerized work stations equipped to the fullest capacity with printers, photo scanners, and web cameras. One wall contained several white marker boards, and the opposite wall displayed an array of video equipment including: TV sets, VCR’s, DVD players, sound mixers, and amplifiers.
A young man with dark, curly hair and equally dark eyes stepped forward.
“I’m Dylan Rasche. Can I help you?”
“I’m Tracy Kimball. You responded to my e-mail today,” she said, glimpsing the spread of surprise on his face when she extended her shaking hand to meet his.
“Yes, of course. We were just waiting for you to respond.”
“That’s what I call a timely response,” Sidney said.
“Ignore him,” Dylan said, with a lighthearted laugh.
Leah stepped forward and shook hands with Tracy. “Yes, please do. I’m Leah Leeds.”
“Tracy, this is Brett Taylor,” Dylan said. Brett stepped forward and they exchanged introductions. “And this is our court jester, Sidney Pratt.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sidney said, and shook Tracy’s hand.
Dylan motioned for Tracy to sit at the head of the table, the space he usually occupied. The four divided themselves to the left and right of her so she would have their undivided attention. She spoke about herself in a brief introduction and uttered a nervous laugh.
“This is a little awkward for me,” she confessed. “I understand that you all study this type of thing, but this has never happened to me before. I wouldn’t blame you all if you thought I was crazy; I’m having second thoughts, myself.”
“No, no don’t,” Leah said. “That’s why we’re here.”
“That’s right,” Dylan said. “People call us ‘nuts’ because we do what we do and spend hours, sometimes days, researching this field of study. If the truth be known, we have all chosen this because of reasons that are close to us on a personal level.”
This time, Brett spoke. “Tracy, why don’t you just relax and tell us everything you can remember, starting at the beginning.”
She began with the night of Rex’s birthday party: the drinking, the fateful drive home, and David’s mutilated body, dying only inches away from her inside the mangled vehicle. She detailed the months of grief and the blame she assumed for the accident, and how the grief counseling proved to be fruitless; yet after six months, things were starting to become normal again. Then, one night she had almost fallen asleep on the couch when the sound of an unexpected voice caused her a sudden and rude awakening.
“It came from the television—I know it did,” she said. “I wasn’t asleep, not yet. I could still hear the static from TV, and then I heard his voice. He said, ‘Tracy’ twice, then ‘love... you.’ I was awake before that point. I know what I heard.”
“Just for the record, you live alone, right?” Sidney said.
“Yes, and I was alone.” She hesitated, embarrassed. “I even checked.”
“In your e-mail, you mentioned something about the phone,” Brett said, prompting her.
“Yes. That came next, and I’m not really sure what happened. I mean, it might be nothing. The next afternoon, I was having my coffee before work and thinking back on the night of the accident, when the phone rang.”
Tracy detailed the strange number on the caller id and the remote, crackling sound of static on the other end.
“I answered, but there was no noise other than the static. The next strange call came l
ater, and I heard a muffled voice.”
The hardest part of the story came next: Mr. Richardson’s final words.
“There was a patient I had to check on,” she said. “He had suffered awhile with a deteriorating, cardiac condition. We knew that he didn’t have much longer, so we were just trying to make him as comfortable as possible. I was checking his vitals which were falling, and I tried to stop him from speaking, but he spoke anyway.”
Leah honed into this part of the story. She noticed the look of uneasiness on Tracy’s face and waited for her to continue.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You can tell us. It’s not like we are strangers to this sort of thing.”
Tracy took a few calming breaths, then explained that Richardson had called her ‘princess,’ David’s nickname for her, which he had no way of knowing.
“He said this just before he died. When the ER team arrived in the room, I was frozen. They think I’m losing my mind through grief, but I’m not. If only they’d been there when it happened.”
“Go on,” Leah said, clasping Tracy’s hand in hers, reassuring her.
“Then I left the hospital, got inside my car, and turned on the radio. There were commercials on, and as I drove, something happened. The radio began flipping through the stations, and I watched the dial as it rolled back and forth on its own. I never touched it. After a few seconds, it stopped on the song that was playing just before we left the party that night. Unbelievable--but it stopped when it found that song.”
Brett Taylor was listening and taking notes, verbatim.
“Then I confided in my friend, Marcia. She knows I’m not crazy and even suggested that I contact someone with knowledge in this field.”
Pipeline Page 3
