Chasing Shadows

by Jamel Cato

  CHASING SHADOWS

  By Jamel Cato

  CHASING SHADOWS

  Copyright © 2019 Jamel Cato

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Version k1.5

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  EPILOGUE

  Chapter 1

  “How’s the sunglasses business these days?” Alan Berquist asked from the speaker of my phone. Like always, the question was an insult. Berquist and I had once been colleagues. The Physics Department of The University of Pennsylvania had hired us both the same year and we’d developed a tentative friendship as we traded war stories over the hazing that rookie professors are subjected to.

  That was before I became a ghost-chasing heretic.

  “Dark,” I answered evenly.

  “That was almost funny.”

  “Right. It’s ironic that you called, Alan. I was just reading your paper on Quantum Factoring.”

  “Why?”

  “I like to keep up with the field.”

  He laughed. “I would’ve thought you could keep up with your field just by watching reruns of The X Files.”

  I saw that being gracious was fruitless, so I stopped trying. “Listen, you dangling piece of pig snot, the next time you call here and insult me, I’m going to come over there and stick a chair leg so far down your throat you’ll be coughing up wood chips ‘til next Christmas.”

  Then I hung up.

  Eve was hovering somewhere nearby because I heard her gasp at the crudeness of my words.

  Sunglasses barbs always irk me because they’re rooted in truth. Not long after I won the McAllen Prize—yes, that McAllen Prize—it occurred to me that my EUV filter would make one hell of a sunglass lens. I called a consultant and the next thing I knew we were selling two million pairs of V Shades a year. It’s why I don’t charge people for my help. But the McAllen folks weren’t thrilled about my product. They said it denigrated the status of the award. Then, as if plastic sunglasses weren’t crass enough, I started releasing YouTube videos showing the world how to retrofit a webcam to an EUV filter and glimpse ghostly apparitions with a laptop. The blowhards at the McAllen Foundation went ballistic and had me drummed out of Academia.

  But life goes on. I opened a V Shades store just off campus and put the offices of my paranormal research institute on the floor above it. Anyone who doesn’t know the backstory naturally assumes the Institute is affiliated with the University, which is just how I like it. Some occasional taunting from my ex-colleagues is really the only downside to the arrangement.

  The phone rang again. I let Eve take the call.

  “One moment, Dr. Berquist,” she said before putting him on hold.

  Most of our callers would probably faint if they knew that the pleasant voice on the other end of the line was a ghost. Eve thinks she was a wealthy white woman when she was alive. She’s not sure because she suffers from After Death Amnesia. I’m helping her overcome ADA and get to the root of why her soul hasn’t moved on to The Other Side. In return, she volunteers as my administrative assistant and friend.

  “Put him through,” I said.

  “Preston,” Alan said when I was back on the line. “I was just pulling your chains. What happened to your sense of humor?”

  “I lost it when I got fired because none of my so-called peers would vouch for the validity of my research.”

  “But you were researching the physics of goblins.”

  “Remind me again why you called.”

  He suddenly forgot how to complete a sentence. “I uh…well, I wanted to…”

  “Spit it out, Alan. I have sunglasses to sell.” I hadn’t lost my sense of humor after all.

  “It’s my sister,” he said. “Actually, it’s my sister’s house. Some things have been happening and, uh, we think it might be…”

  I smiled then. If you have roaches, you call an exterminator. If your toilet breaks, you call a plumber. But when things won’t stop going bump in the night, you call me.

  “You think it might be what?” I asked, pressing the receiver closer to my ear.

  I could’ve sworn I heard Alan’s teeth grind before he said, “Haunted.”

  My favorite word.

  “Tell me more,” I said.

  Chapter 2

  After I hung up with Alan, Eve said, “It sounds like we have a new case.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I have to go down to North Carolina to check it out.”

  “What are we talking? A haunting? Demon possession? Soul Snatchers?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a haunting.”

  “By a plain old ghost?”

  I cocked my head. “I believe the politically correct term these days is Disembodied Soul.”

  “Bite me.”

  “If I did that, you would like it so much it might compromise our working relationship.”

  “Preston, if you ever find yourself biting me, you’d better have been turned into a vampire or it will be the last time you use your teeth—or your tongue.”

  I gave her my best impression of a sad emoji.

  “Save the wounded puppy look for someone who doesn’t help you fill out the restraining order paperwork when one of those poor women you date finds out you can’t commit and your ex-wife is still listed in your phone under Boo.”

  “I can’t help it if I have two gifts.”

  She stopped floating. “I know one gift is the ability to see people like me, but what’s the other one?”

  “My left stroke is my best stroke,” I teased—mostly.

  She rolled her eyes. “Your flight leaves at Eight Fifteen, Bram Stroker. You have a layover in Atlanta, so I loaded some new books on your phone. Hertz didn’t have any Volvos available, so I rented a BMW. And I set your thermostat to vacation mode because you always forget to do it.”

  “What would I do without you?” I said into the thin air.

  “Probably get a real secretary.”

  “You mean you’re not real?”

  “I’m quite real. I’m just not a secretary.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “A woman of means.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s good to hear. I mean, if you were a real secretary then I’d have to pay you.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m keeping a tab.”

  I walked out the door wondering if she were kidding.

  Chapter 3

  Alan Berquist’s sister lived in a posh gated community in Davidson called Hillside Country Club. The place had money written all over it. From the security gazebo at the front gate I could see the ridgeline of a lu
sh golf course and a manmade lake surrounded by twelve luxury homes, two of which had jet skis moored at the docks. The landscaping put the Gardens of Versailles to shame and the streetlamps were all solar powered.

  The gate guard eyed me suspiciously. Despite his classy blue blazer with the Hillside logo stitched into the breast, the gruff thirtysomething white man looked like he was just passing time until somebody answered his ad in the back of Soldier of Fortune.

  “Can I help you?” he asked me.

  “You can. Dr. Tiptree here to visit Mrs. Hollenbeck in Four Twenty-Three.”

  He really gave me the once over then. “Is she expecting you?”

  I smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “Why don’t you call her and see?”

  He narrowed his eyes at my sarcasm, but there was really nothing he could do but pick up the phone next to his head. When someone answered, he said, “Mrs. Hollenbeck, this is the front gate. There’s a black guy out here claims he’s here to see you.” A brief pause. “Yeah, says his name is Tiptree.” Another pause. “Okay. I’ll send him through. Would you like me to escort him?”

  Buzz Cut hung up the phone and grabbed his clipboard. He walked out of the security hut and then around to the back of my car, where he wrote down my license plate number. After reentering the gazebo and appraising me one final time, he lifted the gate.

  I drove off thinking that either Hillside Country Club had the best security in America, or the South wasn’t as warm as I remembered.

  The Hollenbeck residence was on a cul de sac called Championship Drive. The split-level French classical house was easily seven thousand square feet, including four garages. Everything about the property was impressive but the grass. The front lawn was shin high and the shrubs were lopsided. The shoddy greenery stood out like a black sheep against their neighbor’s impeccable landscaping. I made a mental note on my way to the front door, where I rang the bell.

  A uniformed maid answered the door and ushered me into a stylish foyer. I was so preoccupied admiring the quality of the hardwood floor that I didn’t notice the maid slip out and someone else slip in.

  “Dr. Tiptree?” a dainty female voice asked. She sounded surprised.

  I glanced up from the floor. Patricia Hollenbeck was short and attractive with a face that was round but not chubby like her brother’s. Her blond hair was casually pulled back into a ponytail. She was brightly dressed in a yellow blouse and a long white skirt with a huge sunflower printed on one side. Her clothes looked happy, but she didn’t. She was sleep deprived and kept her arms drawn in close like an old woman even though she couldn’t have been older than thirty-five.

  “Mrs. Hollenbeck?”

  “Please, call me Pat,” she said.

  “In that case, you can call me Tree.”

  That got a slight smile.

  We sat down in her living room for a chat.

  “Why don’t you tell me why you haven’t been getting any sleep,” I said.

  She clasped her hands together in her lap. “This is somewhat awkward. I’m not sure how much Alan has told you.”

  The National Association of Paranormal Researchers recommends that an investigator avoid asking leading questions during an initial interview. I’ve never followed that recommendation because I’ve never had to. Unlike most investigators, I know if your house is haunted before I ever walk in the front door.

  “He said you think this house may be haunted. He called me because he knows I deal with this kind of situation all the time. I’m not here to judge you, Pat. I’m here to help you. The only way I can do that is if you’re completely honest with me.”

  Her eyes began to water. “I’ll try to be.”

  “That’s all I ask. Now let’s start over. What’s been happening?”

  She said it had all started about five months earlier with her cat. Dixie would often scowl at nothing or sprint from the room for no apparent reason. Then objects began to get moved, subtly at first. She would emerge from the shower to find that her towel had been switched to a different rack. Or she would return to the dining room from the kitchen to see that her plate had been moved to a different seat. Eventually, the disturbances became more noticeable. Doors would slam. Lights would flick themselves back on. She would often have the eerie feeling of being watched, even when she was alone.

  Pat wasn’t the only one in the house to experience the strangeness. Her husband Bobby had recently walked into the garage to find everything, including their car, stuck to the ceiling. She might not have believed him except he had snapped a picture of the stunning scene with his camera phone. When Alan came over to see it, the car suddenly fell from its perch, nearly killing him.

  Then there were the incidents involving Ronnie, Pat’s mentally challenged teenage son. Peculiar things happened to him too, except all of them were positive. When Pat absentmindedly locked him inside her car and ran to get help from her neighbors, they arrived to find Ronnie sitting on the sidewalk next to the car, which was still locked and running. On another occasion, Pat claimed she saw bleach freeze in midair when her son mistook it for a cup of water.

  As the weeks went by, the abnormal happenings became a problem. The landscapers started skipping their grounds because their equipment always malfunctioned when it crossed onto their property. When the Homeowners Association sent a warning letter about the overgrown grass, Pat tried to cut it herself with an old-fashioned push mower. But Ronnie had tried to drink bleach the moment he had been left alone. Now they faced the embarrassing possibility of being forced out of the development unless they got things under control.

  That’s what prompted Alan to find my phone number.

  “What about your microwave oven?” I asked her.

  “That’s on the blink, too,” she said. “I’ve had it replaced three times, but I can’t get one to work. We think it might be an electrical problem. Why, does that mean something?”

  “Maybe. What about your clocks? Are they slow?”

  “As a matter of fact, they are. Well, except for the digital alarm clock on our nightstand. It’s just a few-minute lag, but no matter how often I reset them, I can’t get rid of it. Did Alan tell you about that?”

  “No. Those are just common symptoms of a haunting.”

  She gasped. “How can you be sure? How do you know I’m not crazy and making this all up? I’m not even sure myself. When I told Alan that I wanted to see a shrink, he asked me to give you a try first.”

  I decided to take that as a compliment. “I don’t know if you need to see a shrink, but I’m one hundred percent sure you haven’t made this all up.”

  “How?”

  The answer to her question was looming ten feet behind her. The crimson-skinned creature had been eavesdropping on our conversation the entire time. It didn’t have any body hair and its limbs were elongated, but it was basically humanoid. There was a series of tattoo-like markings covering both of its muscular arms. I’d say it was about seven feet tall. It was hard to tell because it was crouching.

  Interpreting the markings as a sign of intelligence, I looked directly at the creature and asked, “Are you the source of all this trouble?”

  Startled and confused, it made a sound that I can only describe as a roar.

  Pat leapt from her seat and screamed.

  The creature fled, knocking over an expensive vase in the process.

  When the vase smashed against the floor, Pat became hysterical. As she bounced around my chair like a jackrabbit on crack, I just sat there peacefully, wondering how long this case would take.

  Chapter 4

  Pat had calmed down by the time I swept up the scattered shards from the vase. I asked her what she wanted to do.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “I want it to stop.”

  “Then why don’t you just move?”

  “Is that your solution? I thought you said you came here to help us.”

  “I did. But I would be incompetent if I didn’t offer you the simplest solution first.”


  “We don’t want to move.”

  “Shouldn’t you discuss it with your husband?”

  “I have and he feels the same way.”

  “Well, if you don’t tame that jungle growing in front of your house, you might not have a choice.”

  She started weeping and I felt like an ass.

  “Perhaps that was a poor choice of words. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It’s the divorce,” she said between sobs. “That’s why Bobby won’t help with the grass.”

  “He won’t help because of the haunting activity?”

  “Yes. Well, that was just the icing on the cake. He never wanted to come here in the first place. He was perfectly happy in California.”

  I imagined that moving into a home you didn’t want and then discovering that it’s haunted is probably the biggest I-told-you-so in the world.

  “Why do you want to stay?”

  “It’s Ronnie. He has a medical condition. Our doctor back in Menlo Park told us about a specialist at Duke who has had great success with cases like his. I talked Bobby into moving here so Ronnie could get the care he needs. And it’s been working. Dr. Gerstner’s team has made a world of difference.”

  “But not enough to make Bobby want to stay?”

  “There are other issues,” she said sharply, signaling that my questioning had gotten a little too personal.

  “This is not the only house in Davidson,” I offered one last time.

  “I don’t want to move,” she said resolutely.

  There are only two types of people who want to continue living in a house once it’s confirmed to be haunted: Those who are crazy and those with something to hide. I have yet to meet the former type.

  “Then we have a lot of work to do,” I told her. “Getting rid of three entities can take a while.”

  “Three? How can there be three?”

  “Well, I’ve already met two and based on what you’ve told me, there’s a third.”