Ghost Trackers

by Grant Wilson Jason Hawes

  “Switch places with me, Drew,” he said. “I want to get a picture of you and Amber in the same position we stood back then. You know, for comparison’s sake.”

  Drew did as he requested and stood next to Amber, while Trevor stepped back, raised his camera, and lined up the shot.

  Drew and Amber stood, their hands at their sides, neither one smiling.

  Trevor couldn’t help laughing. “C’mon, this isn’t a funeral. Smile a little!” As soon as he said the words, he regretted them, especially considering what had happened the night before. Still, Drew and Amber managed a pair of smiles, and Drew even put his arm around her shoulder. He considered teasing them about that, but after his funeral crack, he decided to keep his mouth shut and take the picture. Again, he tried one with the flash and one without. He had Drew and Amber remain in position as he showed them the photos on his camera display to check if they resembled the original picture. Drew confirmed that they did, and, satisfied, Trevor saved the images to the camera’s memory stick.

  “Want to see if we can get inside?” he asked.

  “I’m sure it’s locked,” Drew said. “And it’s probably not safe to enter, anyway. The outer construction may be finished, but I’m sure they’re still working on the inside.”

  “Maybe,” Trevor said, “but aren’t you curious?”

  “Not really,” Amber said, and shivered. He doubted that it was because of the breeze. “Not after last night,” she added.

  “Are you suggesting that Sean’s death is somehow connected to what happened to us in the Lowry House?” Drew asked. “You heard what the paramedics said. He had a fatal heart attack. Sure, he was a bit young to have heart trouble, but it happens. It was just a coincidence. Nothing supernatural about it at all.”

  “Riiiiight,” Trevor said. “And while you’re at it, maybe you can explain why he smelled like he’d been skinny-dipping in formaldehyde before his ticker gave out on him.”

  “Whatever the chemical was on him, I doubt it was formaldehyde,” Drew said. “It’s impossible to say what it was without doing some tests, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was some kind of astringent, likely used to treat a skin condition of some sort.”

  Trevor eyed his friend skeptically. “His skin looked fine to me. And did you see his face? And the way he was lying there, with his hands raised, as if he’d been trying to fend off an attacker of some sort? Maybe a heart attack is what the coroner is going to put on his death certificate, but it looked to me as if he’d been scared to death.”

  “You have an overactive imagination,” Drew said, not unkindly. But Trevor thought he detected an edge of uncertainty in his friend’s tone.

  Amber looked at Drew. “Is it possible for someone literally to die of fright?” she asked.

  Drew thought a moment before answering. “The mind’s a powerful thing,” he said, “and people’s mental and emotional states can have very real effects on their physical health. So, yes, it’s possible someone could be so terrified that they have a heart attack.”

  “We heard him screaming right before he died,” she said. “He sure sounded terrified to me.” She shivered again.

  “But what could have frightened him that badly?” Drew said. “There were no signs that he’d been attacked. There were no marks on his body, and there was no one else in the hall when we reached him. The hallway’s long enough that if someone had attacked Sean and fled, we’d have seen him or her running away. And if whoever it was had ducked into a room, we’d have heard the door close.”

  “Well, whatever the reason, I’m sorry the guy died,” Trevor said. He shook his head. “It’s a hell of a way to start off a reunion, isn’t it? I mean, people are already melancholy at these things. Thinking about the passage of time, wondering about the choices they made, and even more about the ones they didn’t make. Having one of their classmates die before the festivities begin makes it that much worse. Nothing like getting smacked upside the head with a cold, harsh dose of mortality. And then there’s us. We brought a lot more emotional baggage with us this weekend than anyone else, and for Sean to die outside your room, Drew . . . you have to admit it’s more than a little weird.”

  Before he could respond, Amber said, “I had a very strange dream last night, not long before Sean died.” She went on to tell them about dreaming that she was a young Native American girl whose village was slaughtered by British hunters, one of whom had turned out to be Greg. As she spoke, she curled her hands into fists and tucked them beneath her arms, as if hugging herself to ward off a chill brought on by relating the details of her dream.

  “It seemed so real,” she said. “I truly believed I was Little Eyes, and I felt everything that she would’ve felt. But when Greg appeared, he told me I was dreaming, and then it was like I was two people: Little Eyes and Amber. It was very strange, like listening to two different songs playing at the same time. But the worst part was at the end, when Greg . . . changed. Those tentacles . . .” She trailed off and hugged herself tighter.

  “It’s common for dreams to be made up of unrelated elements,” Drew said. “You’d seen Greg in the bar earlier, so he made a guest appearance in your dream. As for the rest, well, you do have a history of nightmares, and it’s not surprising that you’d have one on the night you returned to Ash Creek.”

  Trevor had listened intently to Amber’s story, his excitement building the entire time. “In the dream, Greg told you that the massacre had really happened, right?” he asked. “Right here, on the site where the Lowry House would one day be built.”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t know how much you two remember about the history of the Lowry House,” he said. “I know we researched the house’s background before we did our original investigation, but I don’t recall how much we learned back then. At any rate, I’ve researched the house’s history in greater detail in the years since, and while there are no official records of British hunters massacring a Native American tribe on this soil, I did find a few brief hints here and there of such an event taking place in the general vicinity. If a tragedy like that did occur here, it could explain why this land became, for lack of a better word, tainted. All those powerful negative emotions released in one location—the fear and pain of the villagers, the cruelty of the hunters—left a dark psychic imprint on the area, making it a kind of breeding ground for paranormal phenomena.”

  Amber looked at him. “Are you saying that what I experienced really happened? That it wasn’t a dream, that I made some sort of . . . psychic connection to the past?”

  “It’s possible,” he said.

  Drew sighed, and from the expression on his face, it looked as if he was trying very hard to maintain his patience with the two of them. “Trevor, you said we researched the history of the Lowry House when we were kids. It’s more likely that we learned about the massacre back then, and Amber unconsciously drew on that memory to create her dream.”

  He started to argue the point, but instead he shrugged. “That’s possible, too,” he admitted. He gave Drew an irritated look. “You’re a real buzzkill sometimes, pal. You know that?”

  Drew smiled. Then, as if to mollify him, he asked, “What else did you dig up about the house’s past?”

  “During Prohibition, a bootlegger named Russell Stockslager lived here,” he said. “He was also a serial killer who murdered seven women—seven that the authorities knew of, anyway—and buried them on his property. One of his intended victims managed to escape and went to the police, and he died in a shoot-out with the cops when they came for him. After that, the house remained empty for a while, and then it went through a number of different owners who reported experiencing various paranormal phenomena. Noises at night, objects that moved on their own, whispering voices, ghostly apparitions”—he glanced at Amber—“intense nightmares. Most families moved out after a few months, and the house would remain unoccupied for long stretches of time. Eventually, John Lowry, an electrician, moved his family into the house, a
nd they managed to stick it out for a couple of years, until one night, Lowry picked up his nine-millimeter and killed his wife and two children before turning the gun on himself.”

  “I think I remember when that happened,” Amber said. “We were in grade school then, weren’t we?”

  Drew nodded. “The Lowry House had a reputation as being haunted long before that, but it got worse after the murder-suicide. It was one of the reasons we were so excited about investigating it, remember? There were so many stories about kids who snuck into the house, only to flee terrified after only a short time inside. It was almost like the house was daring us to investigate it.”

  “I do remember,” Trevor said. And he did. Remembered afternoons spent over at Drew’s house, the three of them comparing notes from interviews they’d conducted with kids who’d gone into the Lowry House—or at least claimed to. Afternoons during which they’d discussed how they were going to go inside the house themselves one day.

  “Me, too,” Amber said, a tone of wonderment in her voice. “At least, I think I remember.”

  Drew smiled again. “Looks like coming back home is starting to do us some good, after all. So . . . what next?”

  “I’d like to get a few more pictures of the grounds,” Trevor said. “After that . . . well, it’s been a while since any of us have been in Ash Creek. Want to do a little sightseeing, check out how the town’s changed? Might help us shake loose a few more memories. After that, we could have lunch.”

  Drew and Amber looked at each other before turning back to him.

  “Sounds good,” Drew said.

  “Why not?” Amber said.

  He grinned. If things kept up like this, maybe he’d get to write that book about the Lowry House, after all. More important, maybe the three of them would finally remember the details about that night. He tried to imagine what it would be like not having a huge question mark hovering over him all the time, what it would be like to really know. Part of him was eager to find out, but part of him was afraid that maybe there was a damned good reason the three of them had repressed the memory of what had happened. Maybe they’d be better off never knowing the truth.

  The breeze seemed to turn colder, and Trevor crossed his arms and shivered. He told himself it wasn’t an omen, was nothing more than a hint of autumn’s approach, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

  Greg Watched the three friends get into Trevor’s car and drive off. He’d been standing nearby in plain sight the entire time, but none of them had seen him. Oh, their eyes had passed over him often enough, but their brains had failed to register his image. He’d made certain of that.

  He’d enjoyed watching them make their first visit back to this place in fifteen years, and it had been a real treat to see Drew and Amber stand in front of the oak tree as they had that afternoon before they’d entered the Lowry House. Of course, Trevor had posed with them back then, and it had been Greg who’d taken the original photo. When they took the new picture, he’d been tempted to sneak into the camera’s frame and let it capture his image even though the others couldn’t see him. How much fun would it be when they looked at the photo later and saw their old buddy Greg standing there alongside them, grinning? But he’d resisted. He didn’t want to reveal too much, too soon. Still, it had been so tempting.

  He remembered that afternoon well. Amber, Drew, and Trevor had stopped at the Lowry House after school, and he—after following them at a distance—caught up and, when he saw they were taking photos of the house, offered to take one of the three of them. They hadn’t entered the house then, though. They’d returned later that night, after it got dark. They hadn’t told him of their plans, but he’d guessed what they were up to and snuck into the house after they were already inside. He’d never been a member of their group, even though they’d allowed him to tag along on a few investigations. But he hadn’t taken them as seriously as the others—he was primarily interested in being near Amber—and so the boys hadn’t wanted him along. He’d been angry at them, and he’d planned to enter the house without them knowing and give the three of them a good scare.

  Funny how things worked out sometimes.

  Things had gotten off to a good start, he thought, but there was a lot more still to do before the main event later that evening. Best he get to it. Busy, busy, busy. Good thing he enjoyed his work.

  He whistled a jaunty tune as he headed back to his car.

  NINE

  “I Can’t believe this place is still here!” Amber said as she lifted another slice of pizza to her mouth. She took a big bite, using her fingers to break through the thick strands of mozzarella that still extended from her mouth to the pizza slice. She laughed as she tucked the broken strands into her mouth. “Pardon my manners!”

  As for so many other kids who had grown up in Ash Creek, Flying Pizza had been their hangout when they were young. A hole-in-the-wall pizza joint in a strip mall between a dog groomer and a smoothie café, its plain white walls, simple wooden tables, and permanent odor of burned pizza crusts gave it an endearingly seedy quality. The pizza itself wasn’t noteworthy, but it was inexpensive and filling, and best of all, it was served in a place that grown-ups tended to avoid. What more could a teen want from a hangout joint?

  Not that there were any teens here today, she noticed. The lunch crowd at Flying Pizza consisted almost entirely of men and women who’d come to town for the reunion, all of them there for the same reason as Drew, Trevor, and herself: a short trip down memory lane with oregano and Parmesan cheese sprinkled on top.

  They’d ordered the same pizza they’d always gotten when they were kids: half extra cheese, onions, and mushrooms, half pepperoni and Italian sausage. Amber had ordered a Diet Pepsi to drink, while Drew had bottled water. Instead of getting a Dr Pepper as he had when he was a teenager, Trevor had ordered a bottled beer. Not a very good brand, though, given the way he wrinkled his face every time he took a sip.

  “Recognize anyone?” Drew asked. From his tone, Amber could tell that he was doing more than making small talk. He wanted to test their memories, maybe check his against theirs. Last night, the thought of purposely testing her memory would have frightened her, but now she was surprised to find that she was looking forward to it, almost as if it were a game. It seemed that being around Drew and Trevor was having a positive effect on her. Especially Drew.

  She turned to Drew and gave him a smile. He’d been so kind and understanding last night. She hadn’t gone to his room with any thoughts of romance; she’d simply needed a friend to talk to. But now, sitting here and looking at him, she found herself wishing something had happened between them.

  Suddenly embarrassed, although there was no way he could know what she was thinking, she looked away from him and glanced around the room. Her gaze came to rest on a tall blond woman sitting with a beefy guy who, even sitting down, looked at least a head shorter than his dining companion.

  “That’s Patty Miller in the corner,” Amber said. “She was . . . in the band, wasn’t she? Played flute, I think. I don’t recognize who she’s sitting with, though.”

  “She played clarinet,” Drew corrected. “And the man she’s with is Jerry Cottrill.”

  As soon as she heard the name, she remembered. “He was a bully who used to corner boys in the restroom and beat them up.”

  “That’s him,” Trevor said with undisguised contempt. “Although he didn’t really beat up anyone. Mostly he just intimidated you, gave you a punch in the stomach, or got you down on the floor in a headlock. Stuff like that.”

  Amber looked at Drew. “You stopped Jerry from”—she glanced at Trevor—“intimidating Greg once, didn’t you?”

  His brow furrowed in concentration, as if he were trying to make himself remember. “Yes. Yes, I did. Unfortunately, I didn’t get there in time to stop Jerry from giving Greg a swirly, but at least he didn’t hit him.”

  “I remember that, too,” Trevor said. “Greg was so mad. He kept talking about getting bac
k at Jerry, but of course, he never did anything. Who would?” He paused. “Funny, but Jerry doesn’t look so tough now, does he?”

  “Bullies get their power from instilling fear in others,” Drew said. “When you think about it, anyone can hurt anyone else. You don’t need much physical strength, just the will to commit an act of violence. But in the case of bullies, the threat of violence alone is usually enough to get them what they want. He doesn’t seem intimidating to you anymore, because you’ve matured past the point of being afraid of him. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I guess that means you’re not afraid of him, either,” Trevor said. “So, why don’t you go on over to his table, say hello, and tell him you don’t hold the past against him?”

  Drew looked at Trevor for a moment. “You first,” he said, and Amber laughed.

  The three friends continued identifying their classmates for several minutes until the conversation turned back toward the Lowry House, as she knew it would. She was, however, surprised to find herself bringing up the subject this time.

  “I think I’m ready to talk about it.” She didn’t have to say what. She knew Drew and Trevor would understand what she meant. And without waiting for either of them to respond, she began.

  “It was a Saturday in September. Later than now, closer to the end of the month. I remember taking the picture in front of the Lowry House that afternoon. I didn’t before, but I do now. You used a disposable camera that had a couple shots left on it. You took them and dropped the camera off at a drugstore on the way home to get the pictures developed.” She thought for a moment. “I remember we didn’t say anything to Greg about our plans for later that night because the two of you didn’t want him tagging along.”