by Morgana Best
“No, I’m terribly sorry. I’m a journalist for a paranormal magazine. I’m in Morpeth for the week working on a story about the Morpeth ghosts.”
Crawley’s energy shifted, and then he was again masked. I was relieved to see that he wasn’t angry. In fact, he laughed. “Then you would be most interested in my collection. But tell me, why my house?”
Shadows from the garden played across the wall in shifting patterns as I decided what to say. Put on the spot, I again went for the truth. “My editor wants me to research the treasure.”
“Treasure, what treasure?” David Crawley raised one eyebrow over a deep blue eye. He was a little too old for my liking, but he was nevertheless quite attractive.
“The treasure that Scotty, the tour guide, speaks about.” His energy definitely shifted then. I noted it and continued. “My editor thinks that our readers would be interested in the treasure.”
“What is the connection?”
“With your house?”
“Yes.”
“Scotty says that Baxter Morgan was executed as one of the Jewboy Gang back in the 1840s, and I found out that this property used to belong to Baxter Morgan, so I came to have a look. The realtor told me that Baxter Morgan left your ancestor, Joe Crawley, the property in the will. Scotty says the ghost of Baxter Morgan will tell people where the treasure is once he finds out who the accuser was.”
David laughed. “Clearly your magazine isn’t interested in facts.”
How did he know? After a moment, I came to my senses and realized that he was expecting me to disagree. I tried to muster disagreement, but failed. “What do you mean?” was all I could manage.
“Village gossip, pure and simple. I’m sure it’ll make a good story, but there is no treasure. If you look into the records, you won’t find any evidence that anyone falsely accused Baxter Morgan.”
That was true enough. My research had turned up nothing so far.
“Have you heard of Ogun?”
David’s rapid subject changes were throwing me off-guard. I nodded.
David looked surprised. “So you’re familiar with African spirits?”
I shook my head. “Not overly. I interviewed a lady from the USA about New Orleans hoodoo voodoo for an article only recently, and she lists the orisha and the lwa in her newest book, only I’ve already forgotten the difference between the orisha and the lwa.”
“You’re not a practitioner?”
“Of voodoo?”
David nodded.
“No.” I laughed. “I don’t know anything much about it, although I’d like to learn more. I do know that it’s nothing like what Hollywood portrays, all that black magick nonsense.”
David nodded again. “In the Yoruba tradition, Ogun is the god of iron.”
As David drifted off into propounding the minute details of Yoruba art, I wondered if he was into voodoo or even Wicca or anything at all, but he only had art and books in the study. There was not an altar in sight, not even a candle.
I furtively looked around at the book titles. If only I had worn my glasses. The books were all a blur. I could, however, make out all five volumes of Harry Middleton Hyatt’s Hoodoo, Conjuration, Witchcraft, Rootwork books, as I’d seen the books before and recognized the plain gray covers. I didn’t have a hope of reading any other book titles at this distance.
I picked up the book opened on the table in front of me. Africans in Colonial Louisiana: The Development of Afro-Creole Culture in the Eighteenth Century; Author: G.M. Hall; Date: 1991, Publisher: Louisiana State University Press.
Innocent enough.
David finally drew breath after a lengthy and detailed lecture on Gabon vipers. I was beginning to have an inkling of the effect my speeches must have on people.
My iPhone vibrated. I had switched off the sound for the viewing. The blocked sender again, with the one word: Govi. I wished I could text them back to tell them they had the wrong number and to stop bothering me, but of course, that was impossible with a blocked sender. I held up the screen to David, who mercifully had stopped talking for the moment. “Do you know if blocked senders can send texts? I thought they could only make calls.”
David peered at the screen, perplexed. “That is strange.” His voice was cold. He looked thoughtful, then added, “Dinner?”
Again, I had no idea how to respond, and not just because of the subject change. If I pretended I had a boyfriend, he could say, “What? I’m not interested in you in that way!” and if I said, “In what capacity?” that too would be rude, not to mention embarrassing. I did want to ask him more questions, but was wary in case he wanted to make a move on me.
Fortunately he added, “I haven’t lived here since my brother insisted on putting the place on the market, but I’m staying here for a few days to do a bit of work. There’s no food in the house, so you could interview me over dinner, if you would like an interview, that is.”
I sighed with relief before I could stop myself. “Yes, thank you. That sounds good. I’m flying to Melbourne early tomorrow morning and I’ll be back late. What about the day after tomorrow?”
Chapter 10
I met Melissa at Tullamarine, Melbourne’s International Airport, although I met her, of course, at a domestic terminal. My two hour flight had been uneventful, but the coffee had been disgusting, and on the cheap flight I had to pay for it. Never again.
When I say uneventful, I mean that there wasn’t a lot of turbulence, as I did have the most horrid nightmare—so bad in fact, that the flight attendant had to shake me gently by the shoulder to wake me. I can’t remember the nightmare, only the fact that it was terrifying.
I’d had a nasty nightmare the previous night too, but thankfully my alarm had sounded, bringing me into the present realm of dreamlessness. In that dream, an entity the shape of a small round object flattened at the sides had walked toward me, talking. It had tiny black arms and legs, but with a huge mouth that chopped and cut as it spoke. Its mouth flickered unsteadily. I know that doesn’t sound at all frightening in the retelling, but the malevolent power it oozed left me petrified and shaking with dread.
The shuttle bus pulled up at Southern Cross Station, and by the time we’d walked to Bourke Street Mall, countless blocks away—or so it seemed to my suffering feet—I was wishing that I had worn runners. Melissa abandoned me on a seat outside Myer, and left to interview someone at the Princess Theater about their famous ghost, which went by the name of Federici.
I was going to track down the Spellbox, a witches’ supply store in the Royal Arcade off Bourke Street Mall, down at the Elizabeth Street end. My guidebook told me that the Spellbox stocked a range of spells, talismans, books, wands, exotic household items, ritual tools, magical curios, and objects from all cultures, as well as offering tarot and psychic readings. Apparently, on an upper level and near the main store, the Spellbox outlet, a spell and herbal dispensary, could be found.
It took me a while to find the Royal Arcade as there were two other arcades in close proximity. When I did, I was struck by its beauty: a piece of history amidst the hustle and bustle of the high-speed city life in which it was ensconced. My guidebook said the Arcade was in the Renaissance Revival style. I had no clue what that meant, but I did recognize it as Victorian era. The ornate, high glass roof afforded strong natural light to the rows of specialty stores. I walked over the black and white Victorian era tiles, while keeping an eye out for the Spellbox. Just as I spotted it, my attention was drawn to the end of the arcade.
At the Little Collins Street end, the Royal Arcade displayed enormous effigies of the mythical figures Gog and Magog, as well as a huge clock. Below was a sign that said the clock is struck by Gog and Magog every hour. A crowd of tourists was already in place, cameras ready. The sign said that the two seven foot giants have been striking the time on Gaunts Clock since 1892. They were carved from pine and modeled on the figures that had been erected in Guildhall, London, in 1708 to symbolize the conflict between the ancient Britons and th
e Trojan invaders.
I was quite disturbed by this and decided to email the people responsible for having the sign in the Arcade. Trojans and Britons at conflict, what utter nonsense. Someone had their time frames off by a long way.
I stood against a jewelry store window and googled on my iPhone. I was distracted for a while by the large diamonds in the window.
My googling was fruitful. Apparently, a twelfth century work by the name of Historia Regum Britanniae and written by a Geoffrey of Monmouth, chronicled the lives of mythological kings of the Britons over the previous two thousand years. In a wild flight of fancy, it alleged that the Trojans founded the ancient British nation.
From my iPhone, I emailed the Arcade office and asked them to put up a sign stating, ‘Disclaimer. This is according to a recent, unfounded myth. The Trojans were in fact never in conflict with the Britons, only with the Bronze Age Greeks’.
The Spellbox was close by. I don’t think I’ve ever been as entranced as I was with this store. It was fairly packed with shoppers, so I walked outside and up the stairs to the herbal dispensary. A large black crow perched on high, guarding the store. It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t alive.
I purchased some rue and hyssop and was making my way down the stairs, when halfway down I met a ghost. I could not see her, but I sensed a female and also sensed that she meant me no harm. I sensed she was in Victorian clothes. I stood there, on the stairs, pushing out with my senses, when she moved suddenly and brushed past me, so close that I could feel her breath on my cheek. The word she whispered, ‘Danger’, hung in the air long after she had left.
I was a little shaken, but would have to expect spirits in such an old city, and such an old arcade.
There were now fewer people in the Spellbox, so I asked one of the store assistants if she knew about ghosts in the arcade.
“The upstairs used to be a brothel. Several people have reported seeing a lady at a spinning wheel.”
“Are there many haunted places in the city?”
She nodded. “Oh yes. The Haunted Bookshop in McKillop Street runs tours of haunted Melbourne. They’re very popular.”
“I’m only here for the day, but I’d like to come back at some time. So there’s plenty of haunted stuff to see then?” I figured I could convince Keith to do a feature on haunted Melbourne, especially as the magazine was already intending to run the story on the Princess Theater ghost.
“Yes. The Haunted Bookshop has a website.” The assistant broke off to serve a customer. I walked outside and back down the Royal Arcade, looking in the store windows. If only I wasn’t an underpaid journalist with a mortgage. Some intensive retail therapy would do me some good right now.
A hand grasped my shoulder. I turned around. No one was there. Although the arcade was crowded, no one was close behind me. A chill ran right through me to my very bones. At the same time, I told myself again that any city would be ripe with ghosts. This was my first time in a city after becoming the Keeper. While I as yet had no idea what being the Keeper entailed, I did know that it enabled me to see or sense spirits. I had been practicing grounding meditations daily, as well as shielding visualizations to keep my new found sights and sensations at bay.
Any confidence my self-talk had provided was immediately shattered by a black shape looming over me. For one second I could only stand and stare. This was no ghostly snapshot of a bygone era; this apparition was filled with hatred and malice. The all too familiar feeling of being drawn into another realm overcame me, and I struggled against it. Too late; I became immobile, unable to speak or move. I felt ghostly hands reaching for my throat, squeezing, lightly at first and then urgently. I wanted desperately to pull away, but stood paralyzed.
As suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. I forced myself to focus, to come back to reality, and then realizing where I was, I looked around, embarrassed. No one was looking at me.
City folk, I suppose, are used to all sorts of sights. Yet that was the least of my problems. Why was this happening to me? I would have to come up with a strategy to defend myself before it happened again.
I figured the best thing to do was to head for a coffee shop, ask for a corner table, and position myself with my back to the wall. I could do a grounding meditation followed by a shielding meditation, and wait for Melissa.
I walked back in the direction of Collins Street and found a coffee shop on Little Collins. I was in luck. Although it was crowded with patrons, there was a spare table for two on a back wall in an alcove. I didn’t have to ask for it; it was the only spare table. What’s more, I had cell phone service in there. I would sit, drink coffee, and wait for Melissa to call.
Morpeth was very much on my mind. Skinny was looking for an excuse to fire me. Irritating, to say the least. I was only making ends meet as it was. My feature story on Morpeth ghosts would have to be good, and even more to the point, would have to satisfy Skinny’s unreasonable expectations.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the temperature dropped. I again sensed a hostile spirit, and at the same time experienced a moment of disorientation. Enough procrastinating. I immediately launched myself into a grounding meditation where I visualized my feet extending into the earth to let out negative energy and take back the earth’s energy. I then opened YouTube on my iPhone and pulled up my favorites, where I selected CharmingPixieFlora’s Number 275 grounding and centering meditation. I find that to be an excellent one, and a fast exercise that makes me feel good immediately.
The air appeared to have returned to its normal temperature. I rubbed my arms, and then noticed an incoming call from Melissa. My phone was on silent, so I had no idea how long she’d been calling. I gave her directions, which must have been accurate, as she arrived soon after.
“How did it go? Did you get what you needed?”
Melissa was beside herself with enthusiasm. “Yes, it was great! The Princess Theater’s the oldest theater in Melbourne. Now, only two years after it was built—oh, the original one was built in 1854 but replaced by the current one in 1886—there was an onstage death. This is what happened.” Melissa paused to consult her notes. “It was the evening of March the third, in 1888. Frederick Baker, whose stage name was Federici, was performing the role of Mephistopheles in the opera, Faust. It ended with Mephistopheles returning to Hell with Dr. Faustus. There was a trapdoor on stage and Federici had to go through it. Get it? The trapdoor was how he went down to Hell.”
I nodded. “Sure, I get it.”
“Well, when he went down through the trapdoor, he had a heart attack and died. He was only thirty seven. The interesting thing is, the other actors weren’t told, of course, as they were onstage. They all took their bows, and every one of them saw Federici take his bow too, only he was already dead. Since then, right up to present times, many people have reported seeing a ghost dressed in evening clothes with a cloak and top hat at the theater, usually in the dress circle. They even used to keep the third row seat in the dress circle vacant in his honor, but that hasn’t happened in the last few years.”
I was fascinated. “Are there any photos of him?”
“Yes. There was documentary maker by the name of Kennedy Miller who made…”
I butted in. “Let me guess, a documentary.”
Melissa glared at me over the top of her notes. “And it was in the early 1970s.”
I interrupted again. “You mean the Kennedy Miller Production Company?”
“I suppose.”
“That’s George Miller and Byron Kennedy of Mad Max fame—they did Happy Feet, too.”
“You’re kidding. I didn’t know that. Anyway, someone took a shot of the film set in the Princess Theater. It was a short dramatized documentary, by the way. No one saw the ghost on set while they were making the documentary, but that photo clearly shows someone looking at the stage and he is partly transparent. So they have a photo of the ghost of Federici.”
“Wow, that’s great. Can you get the photo for your story?”
“No.” Melissa looked crestfallen, and then changed the subject. “Misty, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. Now don’t get cross.”
I steeled myself for what was coming. I could hazard a guess.
“I’m worried about you with that Jamie guy.”
I sighed.
“Misty, can’t you be happy with being single? Don’t latch onto the first guy that comes along just ‘cause he’s good looking, or because it’s nice to date again.”
I sighed more loudly. “Melissa, I am happy being single. I didn’t latch onto Jamie. I know you don’t like him and I understand you’re concerned for me, but I am not dating him, and I’m sure he’s not the slightest bit interested in me. Besides, he’s on the other side of the world and I’m sure I’ll never hear from him again. Ever.”
Melissa shook her head. “Look, I know you’re a hopeless romantic looking for true love and all that, but why don’t you concentrate on fixing yourself up first, and then the right man will come along?”
The atmosphere became chilled, and it wasn’t due to ghosts this time.
Chapter 11
David Crawley had asked me to meet him at a Maitland restaurant. I was annoyed on two counts. One, I felt it was ungentlemanly of him not to offer me a ride, even though it was a business dinner, and two, I would be unable to have a glass of wine before driving back to my motel.
I spent a few hours on the net, and then drove back to Morpeth before dinner to see if I could find Scotty at the River Royal. This time I was in luck. He was sitting by himself under a window, not even a beer in hand.
Mindful that I was about to drive to Maitland, I ordered a lime soda. I was surprised to find that the bartender was Mr. Suspected Fake Ghost from the Gavin King tour. He scowled at me. I took my drink and sat opposite Scotty. He did not look up. I put my bag on the ground then looked through it for a pen and notepad. When I sat back up, Scotty was still looking out the window.
“Scotty, I’d like to ask you some questions about the treasure.”
