Supernatural Psychic Mysteries: Four Book Boxed Set: (Misty Sales Cozy Mystery Suspense series)

by Morgana Best

  “Are you here to look at the museum?”

  I bit back the overwhelming urge to say something sarcastic. Why else would I be there? I simply said, “Yes.”

  The man scowled at me and went back into the museum. I wandered around the main room of the museum, relieved that, this time, I wasn’t aware of any ghosts of children haunting the old school house. Perhaps the gruff man had scared them away; nevertheless, the man was keeping an eye on me. I decided on the direct approach.

  “Hi, my name’s Misty Sales. Are you the curator of the museum?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Samuel Groves. I’m the new curator of the Hillgrove Rural Life and Industry Museum, which is its proper name.”

  I was encouraged by the fact that his tone was less unpleasant. “Hillgrove is an old place. There must be lots of ghosts here.”

  The man simply mumbled to himself.

  I pressed on. “Have you heard of anyone seeing any ghosts here? Or heard of bad things happening?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m a journalist for a paranormal magazine. I’m writing a story on the ghosts here in Hillgrove and Bakers Creek Falls.” I wasn’t getting anywhere with the man, so thought it wouldn’t hurt to give him that information.

  “You can’t use my name,” he snapped.

  I hurried to reassure him. “Oh no, of course not. Whatever you say will be completely anonymous. Do you know anything about any ghosts around here?”

  He walked to look out one of the large, sash windows at the back of the building, and I followed. “What sort of ghosts?” he asked.

  “Well, any sort really,” I said. “Is there an evil presence or anything bad around these parts?”

  “Could be. Why do you want to find it?”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t want to find ghosts as such. I just have to write about them.”

  He simply looked at me, and walked across the room and then out of the building altogether.

  I stood there, in front of a group of Freemasons’ photographs, shaking my head. That didn’t go so well, I thought. What will I do next? I walked around the museum, trying to gain inspiration, but there were no clues about any entity, whether evil or otherwise.

  The curator presently returned and busied himself stacking piles of pamphlets across a long bench against a side wall. I watched him from the farthest room. As I was about to leave, a younger man walked in and chatted to the curator. I walked back into the main room, and looked at an old cash register and an ancient set of scales on a bench, with packets of century-old cleaning products and foodstuffs on a big shelf behind the bench.

  I was peering at an old cardboard packet labeled Watson’s Matchless Cleanser Soap, when the younger man approached me. “Hi again. Misty, isn’t it?”

  I turned around. “Oh yes, Ethan the photographer. I didn’t recognize you when you were talking to the curator, sorry.”

  “You found the body, didn’t you.” He said it as a statement of fact.

  I nodded. “Yes. Did the police interview you too?”

  Ethan looked quite put out. “Yes, and they wanted my camera. I deliberately gave them the wrong one.” Ethan’s hand flew to his mouth. “Oh, don’t tell them, will you, whatever you do. I was just so excited at the photos of that unusual snake, so I gave them my other camera. I didn’t want them deleting photos of that snake by mistake, and who knows how long they would’ve kept it! They still have the camera I gave them. Anyway, I never go anywhere near the cliffs, so I knew I didn’t have anything they wanted.”

  I nodded. “They took my friend’s camera too, and she hasn’t got it back. Look, Ethan, I’m a journalist for a paranormal magazine, and I’m looking for ghosts around here.”

  “Ghosts?” Ethan repeated, in a shocked tone.

  “Yes,” I said. “Have you heard of any ghosts around these parts? I’m writing a story on ghosts at Hillgrove and Bakers Creek Falls, but so far I haven’t managed to find any.”

  Ethan looked thoughtful. “I haven’t heard anyone say anything about ghosts.” He scratched his chin. “There have been a fair few murders here at Hillgrove, as well as out at Bakers Creek Falls, so you’d think there would be ghosts around here, I suppose, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, sorry, Misty, no offense.”

  I shrugged. “None taken. So, no one’s ever mentioned seeing a ghost? Or even sensing the presence of evil?”

  Ethan narrowed his eyes. “You mean evil, because there were so many murders out here? You think Hillgrove must be an evil place or have evil spirits or something?”

  I tried to look nonchalant. “Who knows? It’s just that my boss has sent me here to write a story on ghosts, but so far, I haven’t found a single thing. I’ll be in trouble if I can’t find something to write about. Like you said, there have been murders here over the years, and usually where there are murders, there is the presence of evil.”

  “So, you want to find evil spirits?” Ethan asked.

  I was little uneasy that he had hit upon the truth. “The readers like evil spirits. That sort of thing sells more magazines.” I tried to keep my tone light.

  “And what will you do if you find an evil spirit?”

  I thought that a strange sort of question. “Well, I’ll write about it, of course,” I lied, convincingly, or so I hoped. I looked around and found that the curator had come up behind me, and was standing there, listening to the conversation.

  “I’ll be right back.” With that, Ethan hurried out of the museum.

  “Why do you want to find an evil spirit?” The curator stepped closer to me and I instinctively stepped back.

  “For my article, as I’ve already told you,” I said in the most even tone I could muster.

  “I don’t think you should go looking for trouble. If you go looking for trouble, trouble will find you.” The curator shook his finger at me and moved away.

  Had I just been threatened? Or was he simply making conversation? I had no idea. At any rate, I thought it was time to move on.

  I walked out to my car just as Ethan was walking back away from his car, which was parked next to mine under the big tree. “Misty,” he called, “I have the photos I took the day you found the body. I’m sure there’s nothing interesting about them, but come and see for yourself.”

  I thanked Ethan and hurried over to his car, where he spread out the photographs on the hood.

  He was right; there was nothing interesting about them, not unless you were interested in shrubs and bushes and tiny, little frogs. Oh, and snakes. Ethan was particularly excited about the photos of the brownish colored snake. “See,” he said, waving the photo under my nose. “It looks like an Inland Taipan. It can’t be, I suppose, as they’re not known to be this far east, but I’m sending these photos to a snake expert. The Inland Taipan is the most venomous snake in the world,” he added gleefully.

  I could see Ethan expected some sort of reaction from me, but all I could say was, “Oh.”

  Ethan showed me lots of photos of frogs, and then a black and white banded snake, and all the while, I was trying to think up an excuse to get away. I had to find out something about the evil entity, and fast, or SI7 would likely fire me soon. I had made no progress whatsoever.

  Chapter 13

  I left Ethan and his appalling close-up photos of snakes, and made my way once more to the small and ancient cemetery at the edge of town. While I had visited it recently with Melissa, I knew Melissa did not have an affinity for such places, so we hadn’t stayed long. I was excited to be able to take my time amongst the crumbling headstones, and also glad for the opportunity to use my new infrared digital thermometer, which I had bought second hand on eBay.

  I pulled my car to the side of the dusty road, parking next to the old sign, and left the window down as I was parked in the direct sun and the day was still quite warm. I made my way to the old, worn, iron gates that had fallen open. While most modern cemeteries have paved roadw
ays that wind amongst the graves, this one was far too old to have any such luxury. I climbed out and reached behind my seat, pulling up a soft gray case with a black strap. I slid the strap over one shoulder and shut my door.

  As I walked, I pulled the digital infrared thermometer from the gray case and flicked it on. I stood just outside the iron bars and swept the thermometer across my body, keeping an eye on the digital readout screen just above the handle. There was nothing to indicate a spirit or a supernatural presence. The temperature remained even.

  After making the offerings I always made when entering a graveyard, I began to make my way through. I wondered what Melissa would say if she could see me walking around a graveyard full of people, most of whom had been dead for well over one hundred years, holding a tool designed to find ghosts. It even sounded pretty ridiculous to me, and I could see and sense ghosts. Usually, that is; I could not see or any sense any here.

  I kept sweeping the thermometer back and forth, in between checking out a few of the headstones. Many of them were hard to read, and there were some that were nothing more than piles of rocks, the grave markers long since broken and destroyed by the unending march of time.

  I lost myself in the cemetery, despite the fact that the infrared thermometer did not indicate any spectral activity. It was interesting to look over the names of the dead, and to see when they were born and when they died. I found it to be a warm and comforting feeling to get close to the dead, as odd as that might sound to others.

  I turned, thinking about heading back to my car, but I saw someone making their way toward me in the distance. As he approached, I saw it was the local historian, Gerald Wayfield. He walked with a slight limp, although he was covering the ground at a good speed. I went toward him, meeting him next to a sad looking tombstone that had all but crumbled away. “Hi! You’re here again. Doing more research?”

  I nodded.

  “I can’t believe that the body was there when we were speaking last time,” he said. “What a horrible situation. Was it you who discovered it, or your friend?”

  “It was me,” I said, “Just after you left. I went back to take photos for Melissa as she’s scared of heights, and then…” I stopped speaking and shuddered.

  Gerald flashed me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry to mention it. The police interviewed me about it. They seemed to think it was an accident. They found a camera with him. They think he climbed over the rocks to take photos, and fell.”

  “How awful,” I said, while knowing that what he said was not the case at all. I wondered if the British government had put pressure on the local police to call it an accident.

  “Anyway, enough of this morbid talk. I saw your car parked here on my way to lay these flowers on graves, and thought I would see what you were up to.” He waved a bunch of flowers at me.

  I shrugged, and slid the digital thermometer into my bag. “I just like cemeteries,” I said.

  Gerald laughed. “Me too. My grandfather and grandmother and their parents are buried here.”

  “That’s right. I remember you said that your family’s been in these parts for some years.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, as long as it’s been a town. Now, what do you have in that bag? It didn’t look like a camera.”

  I paused. I didn’t want to disclose any details of my mission, but then again, Gerald already knew I was a journalist for a paranormal magazine. It couldn’t hurt to tell the truth; at least part of it, anyway. “It’s a digital thermometer. It reads heat signatures, and cold spots, and things like that.”

  He nodded, but one eyebrow was raised, as if he were perplexed.

  “It finds ghosts,” I said with a laugh, simplifying it for him.

  Gerald laughed, too. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever met a ghost hunter. I thought you were simply a journalist.”

  “For Horrors and Haunts,” I said. “It is a paranormal magazine, after all. But, yes, I’m just supposed to write stories, not look for ghosts. It’s fun using stuff like this, anyway.”

  Gerald lifted one eyebrow again, but then dropped the subject. “Would you like to come and see my grandfather and grandmother?”

  I followed Gerald on foot down Cemetery Road, past the Roman Catholic section, past the Presbyterians, and then the Wesleyans, to a far more ornate section of the cemetery. There were no broken, iron railings or overgrown grave sites here, and the monuments were tall and of marble. One large marble headstone had an angel perched on top. It was so tall that it dwarfed both of us.

  Gerald’s grandparents and great grandparents had large, rectangular slabs of marble in the ground next to one another, and nearby was one of their sons, who had died when he was only seven months old. We stood for some minutes, while Gerald told the few stories he remembered of his grandparents. They had died within a year of each other, when Gerald had only been eight years old.

  Twenty minutes later I was at my car, waving goodbye to Gerald as he climbed into his own car which was parked directly behind mine.

  I got into my car and slid the key into the ignition, after dumping the soft gray bag on the seat next to me. I cranked the engine over and reached for the water bottle that was sitting in my cup holder under the dash. The water was somewhat warm, but still refreshing, and I downed the rest of it before sliding the shifter into drive and pulling slowly onto the road, making sure I turned the car around three times.

  As I pulled out onto the main road back to town, I suddenly felt tired. My eyelids felt heavy and began to droop. I shook myself awake and then jumped as my phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket, but dropped it around my feet. I reached down, trying to pick it up, but couldn’t, so I pulled the car off the road. That was the last thing I remembered.

  When I next opened my eyes I was staring up at a white ceiling with long fluorescent bulbs behind milky white panels. I didn’t think I was dead. I tested my arms and legs; everything seemed to be working. I looked at the glass panel in the door opposite me; was that Jamie looking in at me? I tried to focus my eyes, but then he was gone, and I fell back to sleep.

  I woke up again, but did not know how long I had been asleep. I tried to sit up, but my head hurt and my ears needed to pop. I had no idea where I was. There was a familiar but unpleasant smell, and a faint beeping. I looked over and saw a small screen next to me with a bright green line zigzagging its way across it. I looked down at my arm, saw a few things stuck there, and a plastic ID bracelet on my wrist.

  I was in a hospital. How did I get here? My head was pounding, and my memories were swirling around; I couldn’t get a clear hold on any of them. I remembered my car, remembered the water bottle, remembered Gerald and his great grandparents and dead uncle, and remembered my phone ringing in my car, but I couldn’t piece it all together, and I couldn’t put it in the order it had happened. And had Jamie been here?

  Suddenly I heard a voice, low and soft. “Are you okay?”

  I looked up and saw a nurse, a middle aged woman with curly brown hair and too much eye make up.

  “Yes,” I said. I was concerned that my voice was ragged, and my throat burned when I spoke. “What happened?”

  “Let me get the doctor for you,” the nurse said, and, without waiting for a response, she turned away and left the room. Within minutes, a man of about fifty with a pointed chin and a receding hairline came in. He took my pulse before saying anything.

  Finally, he spoke. “Misty?”

  I tried to nod, but it hurt, so instead, I said, “Yes.”

  “I’m Doctor Reed,” he said. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  It still hurt to talk, so I simply said “No.”

  “You were in an accident. You fell asleep, and your car rolled into a ditch. A passing car found you and called an ambulance. You have a cut on your head, and a bruised trachea, from where your throat hit your steering wheel.”

  “I fell asleep?”

  The doctor hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, we did a drug screen on you, and
we found triazolam in your system. Do you know what that is?”

  “No.” I wanted to ask questions, but my throat was so sore.

  “Basically, it’s a fast acting sleeping agent. I understand from an officer investigating that there was a water bottle in your car and that it contained triazolam. The police believe that someone might have drugged you.”

  I was shocked, and frightened. I had spoken with three different men that day, and any one of them had access to my car when I wasn’t around, and I hadn’t locked my doors. Of course, someone else entirely could have drugged me, but I had no idea who it could be.

  “Are you okay?” the doctor asked, and I said, “No,” again.

  The doctor murmured something in a sympathetic voice. “You’ll have to stay in hospital overnight for observation.”

  I felt violated, and uneasy, and as I lay in the hospital bed, hot stinging tears came to my eyes. Doctor Reed patted me on the shoulder and then left, telling me I’d feel better in time when I’d processed everything. I kept crying after he left, holding my palms to my eyes and letting everything out. When I was done crying, I looked down at the cotton blanket over my legs.

  I soon began to feel better physically, but I was quite alarmed that someone had tried to kill me. I lay in bed watching The Biggest Loser on the television above my head. I ate tasteless, bland, hospital food and watched The Biggest Loser contestants eating chocolate cup cakes in a Temptation. I was also feeling strangely dizzy.

  After a while, the fear gave way to anger. I wanted to find out who had drugged me, and I thought of all the horrible things I’d like to do to him.

  Chapter 14

  I was certain it was the curator of the Hillgrove museum who had put the substance in my water and tried to kill me. After all, he had been outside twice when I was still inside the museum, and he’d had plenty of time and opportunity to put the drugs in my water bottle.

  The day after I was released from the hospital, I drove back to Hillgrove museum to judge the curator’s reaction to me. Surely he would give something away when he saw me alive and well, given the fact that he had tried to kill me. My only other two suspects were the wildlife photographer, Ethan Williams, and Gerald Wakefield.