Contents
Copyright
The Phillip Experiment
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Author's Note
The Observer
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities with people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.
Jabby House Publications
Cover Design by Nathaniel Dasco
Copyright © 2014 T Patrick Phelps Writing Services, Inc
All rights reserved.
In 1972, Dr. G. Owen conducted an experiment to prove his belief that ghosts have an "objective reality," but that they are created out of the minds of those who witness the ghost. For his experiment, Dr. Owen created a fictional character named "Phillip" and gave his fictional character a full life story that included plenty of tragedy. Phillip's wife, for example, was tortured then burned at the stake for being accused of being a witch. Phillip fell into a deep depression before he eventually ended his own life.
Participants in Owen's experiment were asked, after learning everything about Phillip, to try to contact his spirit. At first, no contact was made. When Owen decided to arrange a séance and employed the 19th century paranormal practice of "table turning," things started to change.
While the reports and interpretations vary, the Phillip Experiment did create a mystery that turned many disbelievers of the paranormal into believers or, at least, into those who consider themselves to be "curious" about all things paranormal.
"A poltergeist will usually claim to be whatever its human observers believe it to be." – Rupert Mathews, 2009
CHAPTER ONE
His visits began in the same manner: A slight chilled breeze carving out a narrow stream into whatever area he was invading, followed by the briefest fetid scent of rotting, foul decay. In a matter of seconds, he was there.
His transformations from one stage to the other were not always as quick as they had become. At first, there were delays as windows were missed and his formation waffled between one plane and the other. But he understood the importance of expedience. Though each visit brought unimaginable risks, he practiced at moving from one plane to the other until he was certain there was not even a sliver of a second left to be carved out.
"How ya doing, Robby?" he whispered.
"Okay, I guess. You don't need to whisper today. My parents aren't here."
"Yeah, I know that," he said, his voice still held whisper thin. "Know where they're going?"
"To meet some guy, I think. They said they're going to talk to someone who can help me."
"Help you with what?" he pressed.
"With you." Robby sat still, pausing his video game and giving his attention to his visitor. He had been told that being distracted when he had a guest was rude. He was no longer terrified of the visits but he understood that they were not normal. Though none of the previous visits ended with him being hurt, he sensed that potential existed. "They want to find someone that can make you go away, I think."
"But I go away all the time," he answered, a smile dancing on the corners of his lips. "We don't need help with that."
"To make you go away and stay away."
He paused, holding a deep gaze into Robby's innocent eyes.
"Is that what you want? For me to go away and never come back?"
"I don't know," Robby said, breaking his gaze as he feared his statement would reveal his doubts. "People think that there's something wrong with me because of you."
"There's nothing wrong with you, Robby. Not one thing wrong."
"Phillip," Robby said after allowing a smile to invade his face, "I know you told me before, but, why do you visit with me?"
"To keep you safe."
"Yeah, I know but you never told me what you're keeping me safe from."
"From people who want me to leave you and to never come back."
"Do those people want to make me go away and not come back?"
"One does," he said.
CHAPTER TWO
"We didn't know where else to turn."
"I hear that a lot," Derek said as he sat, huddled against the cold breeze blowing off the Maine shore. The bench he shared with his potential clients was perched near the highest point on the Marginal Way in Ogunquit, Maine. The ocean vistas the Way awarded those who chose to walk from the Ogunquit beach to Perkins Cove were stunning. One and a quarter miles of beautiful homes on one side and the vast, open expanse of the Atlantic Ocean on the other.
In summer, the Marginal Way would seldom be without a steady stream of vacationers crowding along its narrow path. But in January, when the ocean's breath was more punishing than rewarding, the path was lonely, isolated, and filled with promises that would be granted when summer again returned to the coast of Maine.
"You understand that whether or not I can help you, my meter is running?" Derek asked, a question he had grown so accustomed to saying that he wondered if it still delivered any impact.
"Yes, we understand," the woman said.
She had the look of someone who had moved beyond feeling desperate and into utter helplessness. Her name was Margaret Bryant. She sat beside her husband, Jack, and held her hands folded with her fingers laced tightly together. She held herself in the protective position, not to brace herself from the cold, but to steel herself against the possibility of hearing, "I can't help you."
Jack Bryant was a man of slight build. His hands, rough from years of carpentry work, were engaged in nervously scratching his thighs.
"Tell me, as briefly as you can, why you contacted me, and how you learned about the services I offer my clients."
"Something is wrong with our son. We have reason to believe that someone has done something to him, and no one will listen to us," Margaret said.
"What do you mean someone may have done something to him?" Derek asked.
"We don't know," she said. "Only that he's not the same anymore. We don't know what happened to him, but we need your help. Please, no one else will listen to us."
Derek had no doubt that whatever may or may not have happened to their son, Margaret and Jack Bryant were certain that something had happened that changed their son. The question of what "it" was that they believed had happened to their son was at the core of Derek's decision of whether or not he could help.
"I need to know what you think happened to your son, why you think it happened, and who yo
u think may have done it."
Derek had been a freelance detective/private investigator for over three years. Once he had proven himself to be someone who provided excellent results, his calendar – and his bank account – were filled. Two years after opening his agency, Derek decided that whenever a potential client contacted him, he wouldn't ask for any details of the case. He instead asked for a down payment of $5,000 to be sent to an online bank account. Once the deposit was confirmed, he would arrange a time and location to meet with potential new clients. If the client's balked at paying the $5,000, Derek would simply dismiss the case, assuming that he would end up having to fight for payment after his services were rendered or, worse yet, would be forced to negotiate his fees.
"Our son, Robby," Margaret said, "he's, I don't know how to say it, but he thinks or believes that there is a ghost that visits him. A spirit. I know what you're probably thinking," she said quickly, "you think we should see a psychiatrist and not a private investigator, but you just don't understand everything that happened."
"You're right about what I think," Derek said. "I don't know if my services are really what you're looking for. I'll refund your down payment less my travel expenses." Derek shifted his weight forward, preparing to stand when Margaret snapped her hand and gripped his shoulder.
"But we need you to find out who did this to our son," Margaret said, releasing her grip from Derek's shoulder. A quick apology flashed through her eyes.
"Are you suggesting that I track down a ghost, identify him or her, and make it stop haunting your son?" Derek said as she slid back against the bench. "I just don't know what you expect me to do."
"Listen," Jack Bryant said in a voice that belied his size, "I know this sounds way out of your field of expertise, but I believe, we believe that someone messed with Robby's head and got him all screwed up inside, to the point he actually believes he sees a ghost."
"How old is your son?" Derek asked.
"Twelve. He turns thirteen next month."
"No offense, but how many people have enough unsupervised time with your son that would allow them enough exposure to, as you say, 'mess with his mind?'"
"We're not bad parents. It's not like we just let Robby go wherever he wants, or that we don't know where he is or who he's with," Margaret protested.
"Like I said, no offense," Derek said.
"We have our suspicions about who may have done this to our son," Jack said.
"Have you spoken with them? The people you suspect?"
"We haven't," Margaret said. "I was about to when we decided to hire you instead. I'm not sure what I would say or even if I could keep my cool when speaking with them."
"And have you brought Robby to a psychologist?" Derek asked.
"Of course," Margaret said. "We took him to two different psychologists, and both say the same thing: active imagination of a young boy."
"But you feel differently?"
"You have to know Robby to understand," Jack said.
"My getting to know your son isn't really the way I would investigate this case, if I even decide to take this case. I'm sorry, but I really don't think my services . . ."
"No!" Margaret yelled, standing straight as an arrow, arms pressed tightly to her sides. "You cannot walk away from us. We gave you a deposit, and we will keep paying you. You just can't walk away from my little boy."
"I don't think I can help you," Derek said. "It's not that I don't feel for you or don't care about your son. I just can't, in good conscience, accept payment from you without believing that I can help."
"Give us two days," Jack said, as he stood next to his wife, holding her close to his side in an awkward-appearing embrace. "Two days is all we ask. Come to our house, meet Robby, ask him any questions you want. We'll give you the list of people we think may have messed with his head. You talk with them and see what you think. After two days, if you still believe you can't help us, then you keep the money and walk away with a clear conscience. Sound fair?"
Derek considered Jack and Margaret as they stood in front of him, staring with pleading eyes. Derek's caseload was light, due to him just getting back on his feet after being shot in the stomach during his last case. He didn't need the money the Bryants promised to pay, but was eager to resume working again. He knew that when he agreed to meet with the Bryants after receiving their down payment and learning that the case involved a young boy with some unique challenges that he was doing so partially out of curiosity and partially to stave off the boredom that had settled in.
His last case had been emotionally and physically challenging, and his recovery had taken much longer than he liked. He had spent six days in a hospital on Long Island and then another three weeks recovering in his home. The first week of "limited activity and plenty of rest," per doctor's orders, were wonderful. The days of rest gave him time to process, not only his last case, but also the last few years of his life. He didn't end his recovery no longer missing his wife, Lucy, who had been killed over three years ago, but instead, knowing that she was still, somehow, always by his side.
"Two days. Forty-eight hours starting right now?" he offered to the Bryants.
"Deal."
CHAPTER THREE
The drive from Perkins Cove, which sat at one end of the Marginal Way and where Derek had parked his rental car, to the home of the Bryants took less than ten minutes. Derek had visited the beaches of the Maine coast five years ago with his wife, Lucy. As he was driving, he remembered how driving just a mile or two would have taken as long as twenty minutes during the summer months. But in January, the deserted roads made travel simple, while at the same time casting a lonely feeling on all those who visited the area during the winter months.
The Bryant's house was positioned on a quiet street of homes, many of which were vacation homes used only during the summer months. The street was far enough off the main road that the summer traffic sounds were diminished and muted. Derek pulled his car into the driveway of a large, pristinely kept, two-story Cape Cod, completing its East Coast shoreline appearance with weathered cedar shingles.
Margaret Bryant was standing in the driveway when Derek pulled in. Her arms crossed against her stomach, her hands gripping their opposing elbows. As Derek exited his car and approached, her desire to tell him something was etched across her face.
"I don't want you," she said in even tones, "to say anything that might make my son feel embarrassed about what he believes is happening. No judging, and do not tell him that you think he is making everything up to get attention." Her face softened. "Okay?"
"Fine," Derek said. "I'm not here to make fun of your son. I'm here to see if there's anything I can do to help. Again, I want to remind you . . ."
"We know your feelings, Mr. Cole. But you told us that you will give us two days," she said.
"Margaret," Derek said, "I will do everything and anything I can to help you. And please, call me Derek."
"Thank you, Derek. Please call me Maggie."
There was something about Maggie that stirred Derek. The way she held herself – braced against outside worries – told Derek that she had a strength within her that provided an abundant supply of courage. Derek sensed that if he had refused to give her and her husband two days of his investigative time, that she would have found the words or resources needed to convince him otherwise. Though he felt that this case was not one for which he could provide an expected and desired resolution, he believed that he was powerless in refusing to try.
Maggie Bryant was no older than 35, making her the same age as Derek. Her thin, athletic frame, shoulder-length blond hair, and stunning green eyes gave her the advantage of attraction that Derek was sure had forced others to drop whatever resistance they put up as quickly as he had dropped his.
Derek's clients ranged from high-powered business owners with unending supplies of cash, to people, desperate for professional assistance, who oftentimes needed to sell some of their personal belongings to pay Derek's fee. His clients w
ere, most often, a team of stakeholders, each sharing a desired outcome. Some of his clients, however, were parents trying to locate their missing child or to find evidence that would prove their child innocent of a crime they were accused of. While Derek never liked trying to read the chemistry between his clients who happened to be married, he sensed something disturbing between Maggie and Jack. A distance. An air of accusation without the possibility of forgiveness.
Judging solely on the house that stood before him, Derek could tell that whatever the Bryants did to earn a living, they did it rather well. While their home certainly lacked the multi-million dollar views of the homes he had passed along the Marginal Way, its size, appearance, and appointments wanted for nothing when compared to those homes.
"You have a very nice home," Derek said to Maggie and Jack as they walked up the moderately sloped driveway towards the front door. The driveway was completely bare of any traces of ice, and not a single snowflake could be seen on its surface, making Derek wonder if the Bryants had gone through the considerable expense to put in a heating system beneath the driveway.
"If you're wondering about my ability to pay for your services, you don't have to worry," Jack said.
"Actually, I was just complimenting you for your home."
"Jack's very good at what he does," Maggie said, darting a glance at her husband. "He's one of the most respected contractors on the Maine coast. Keeps him busy, and keeps us in this house."
The front door opened into a large living room. Maggie led Derek to an overstuffed leather couch and invited him to sit. Beside the couch was an expertly crafted stone fireplace, prepared with kindling and two logs, ready at a moment's notice to accept a spark and burst into warming flames.
"I'll go get Robby," Jack said, and then disappeared down a hallway toward, what Derek assumed led to Robby's room.
Maggie sat across from Derek, arms straight, hands clasped between her knees. She had the look of someone with a story to tell etched across her face. Something that she was battling with herself to share.
Those of the Margin: a Paranormal Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 2) Page 1
