The Good, The Bad and The Ghostly ((Paranromal Western Romance))

by Keta Diablo

  Burke cursed. He didn’t have time to search for missing people. He needed to get to the house. They’d never get anything done the way matters were going. Yet he couldn’t leave an injured man out there somewhere to suffer possible hyperthermia.

  Once more, the mare whinnied and clip-clopped up the lane. Spook barked.

  Frowning, Burke paused. Thanks to his years on Pop's ranch, he'd learned horse talk and had little doubt what this one wanted. "Gabe, I think she wants me to go with her. I'm going to try to ride her. Follow in the van but don't get too close."

  "How am I going to do that with a dead motor?"

  "Just try it." Years as a P.S.I. Agent had honed Burke's understanding of the unusual, and instinct warned this was no ordinary situation.

  Behind him, the van's engine roared to life, sweet as apple pie.

  "Stay close, Spook. Understand? Or you’ll go back in the van."

  Spook used his odd half-whine, half-bark to indicate he understood.

  Shaking his head, Burke inched closer to the horse. "How about you take me to your owner so we can help him?"

  This time, she stood still, watching over her shoulder. Burke hadn't dealt with horses since leaving for college, but some things never changed. He patted the long bridge of her nose while she sniffed his hand and snorted her approval.

  "Like that, huh?" Burke stroked the sleek gray coat, checking her neck, withers, and legs. She seemed in good shape.

  Skittish, though. She danced away a few steps, whinnied and looked back as if to say come on.

  "You want to show me where your rider is?"

  Another nod.

  "Damned if you aren't a clever one. I'll call you Silver." Burke admired the way this beautifully expressive creature communicated so effortlessly. Like Spook.

  She stomped her hooves with impatience.

  "All right, all right." Burke adjusted the fit of his Stetson. After a quick check of the cinch strap, he hoisted himself into the saddle. Silver snuffled. To Burke's surprise, Spook leaped into his lap. Had the mare invited Spook to join them?

  Spook tipped the scales at fifty pounds and made for a definite lapful. Burke wrapped his arms around Spook’s thin, ruddy body and received a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

  Silver trotted up the road. Gabe followed, guiding the van over washboard ruts and through puddles from yesterday’s rain.

  To be on a horse again gave Burke a surprising sense of rightness, of belonging. As a youngster, he’d had a yen to become a rodeo cowboy, but the desire to hunt ghosts outweighed all other wants. Not knowing where the fallen rider might be, Burke gave Silver her head. She'd know where to take him.

  A rickety old fence bordered the road. Fence poles, gnarled and gray with age, lay on the ground like pick-up sticks.

  Two miles later, Burke glimpsed the dark, hulking Halstead House in the distance through the trees. His pulse ratcheted up.

  He'd truly made it back! Before sundown and before the storm. He gave Spook a celebratory hug.

  A spider web caught on his whiskered cheek. He wanted to wipe it away, but holding onto the reins with one hand and the dog with the other made that impossible. He ducked to keep tree boughs from stealing his hat. A coyote burst out of the underbrush and scurried away.

  Silver trotted over a fallen gate, leaving the road and cutting across an open field. The trees thinned abruptly. Only stumps remained.

  What the...? Burke hadn’t seen this coming. At what exact point had the forest ended and this logging devastation begun? He tried to look back at what they'd left behind but found it awkward with Spook in his lap. Why cut down the forest? Did the Historical Society plan to put in a parking lot here? Perhaps the lumber sale financed the renovation of Halstead House.

  The van's engine faded to silence as Gabe kept to the lane leading to the house. The separation troubled Burke. Number eighteen of the psychic investigators code book: never leave a team member behind. He reached into the pocket of his lamb's wool coat for his cell phone.

  No service. Shit. Probably couldn’t text either.

  With no trees to block the view, the old house remained in sight, but he saw no crumpled body anywhere.

  At last, they arrived in front of the two-story, once white, clapboard structure, its dark windows like eyes staring at him. Silver stopped directly in front of the solid wood door. Burke nudged Spook to get down, then dismounted.

  The house appeared pretty much as he remembered it, plain, boxy and serviceable, with the rock fireplace on the left-hand side and a crude, unroofed, unfinished porch. Two windows flanked the door, still sporting dirty, tattered lace curtains. A dented bucket lay beside the porch.

  If memory served, there should be a woodpile by the back door and a path to an outhouse on a rock foundation, surrounded by saplings.

  Burke smiled with genuine pleasure. Then remembered the lost rider. He’d take care of Silver and then do a thorough search.

  "All right, girl," Burke said and turned to Silver. "Let’s get you unsad...."

  Gone. Vanished. As if she had never been there.

  Burke looked down at his palm where the reins had lain. How had the horse pulled free without him noticing?

  The hair on his arms and neck rose.

  * * *

  Burke's gaze cut back to the house while an eerie déjà vu sensation washed over him. Would this visit turn into a nightmare too? He shook off a feeling of uneasiness. He had a job to do.

  The logical assumption, since Silver had brought him to the front door, was that Burke would find what he sought inside or on the grounds.

  The scent of smoke wafted under his nose. Gray plumes curled up from the chimney, ghostly pale against the deep blue sky.

  Silver’s owner must not be too badly injured if he were able to build a fire. Burke stepped up onto the rickety porch and lifted his fist to knock.

  He froze with his hand in midair.

  Something was wrong here. The Halstead place had become an historic landmark in the 1930s as an attempt to draw in tourists and fill the town’s coffers. The Historical Society had made some improvements at the time and installed a plaque beside the door proclaiming the house a historic site. Burke saw no plaque there now.

  The vinyl-protected display stand that related the Halstead story had gone missing as well. Had the Historical Society given up maintaining the property? That would explain the peeling paint and sagging roof, but not the missing deadbolt lock that had been there seventeen years ago. The door Burke had been about to knock on had never seen any sort of lock bolted to its thick, solid wood.

  Whatever was going on here, he'd get to the bottom of it. In fact, he couldn't wait.

  Lifting the cuff of his jacket, he checked his watch. Not an ordinary watch, but a specially fashioned piece of modern equipment that gave the time, date, weather, and recorded audio. The device contained an EDI meter, an infrared thermal scanner, an EMF detector, and GPS. Right now, the detector showed red, indicating a disruption in the electronic field. A ghost? No, the presence of a specter would lower the temperature considerably. Instead, it rose.

  Before he entered the house, he wanted his specter equipment from the van so they could be ready to record findings.

  He knocked on the door and waited. Was the injured rider in there, too hurt to answer a door but well enough to build a fire? Didn’t make sense. Several things made no sense.

  He walked over to peer through a distorted glass pane past the lace curtains. The furniture appeared the same. No occupants in sight, unless they were in the kitchen or upstairs.

  Flummoxed. This whole mystery had Burke plain flummoxed.

  Hell, where had he come up with that antiquated word? The house and its atmosphere were getting to him.

  He glanced at the window again. A face—stark, shadowed, creepy as hell—looked back.

  Chapter Two

  Burke yelped and stumbled backward, nearly tripping over Spook.

  He blinked, and the face vanished.


  Damn. Burke couldn’t believe he’d been so startled. No one seeing him would believe him to be a professional ghost hunter. Ghosts pulling pranks were old hat to him, and he knew better than to react hysterically because it tended to encourage more outrageous behavior.

  At least Gabe hadn't been here to see him act the fool. Spook had, though, and he stared at Burke, head cocked, as if to figure him out.

  Burke had just experienced his second sighting of the Halstead ghost.

  Or was the missing rider playing games?

  He pounded on the door. "Hey, you all right in there? You need help?"

  Silence answered.

  Burke put a hand on the door knob. It opened. The room was empty. His watch remained quiet, registering nothing paranormal. "Anybody here?"

  He explored the ten by twelve front room with its stone fireplace, lumpy upholstered chair, and wooden couch with embroidered pillows. He’d never gotten this far as a teenager. The ghost had lunged at him from behind a tree just outside. When Burke saw the red-hot poker in the specter’s hand, he had fled, terrified.

  The kitchen sat at the back. A wood-burning stove occupied one wall, crude wooden shelves on either side. Ceramic plates, tin cups, assorted bowls and utensils took up more empty shelves. Dirty dishes filled the wash basin on a dry sink. There was no counter, only a large, obviously homemade table, as heavy and homely as an elephant. Two stools and a chair sat around the table. An apron hung on the wall. Other hooks waited, ready for hats and coats.

  A small pantry held half a dozen cans of tomatoes, beans, and fruit, a bag of coffee beans, and a sack of flour. He expected a thick layer of dust on everything, but someone had apparently been here to clean. The face in the window?

  Somehow, Burke doubted that.

  The upstairs consisted of two bedrooms. No closets except for old wardrobes that stood against the wall. Saggy mattresses on rusty, iron-framed bedsteads bore scrambled piles of blankets and sheets so gray from going unwashed, Burke cringed to think of sleeping on them.

  Whoever had peered at him from the window was gone.

  Or never existed.

  He glanced at Spook, who busied himself happily sniffing everything. No "pointing" at ghosts.

  Finished with his survey of the house, he went outside and took a slow turn around the grounds. The only sign of anyone having been there—other than the fire in the hearth—was the stench of the outhouse. Spook kept close, quiet and calm. To one side of the house lay a vegetable garden with plants bearing ripe tomatoes, squash, and pumpkins. Plants that had to have been planted in the spring. A possible attempt by the Historical Society to give the place a lived-in look?

  Why, then, did they leave the house so disheveled?

  With the land deforested, except for a plentiful amount of saplings, he could see a good distance in spots. He walked a short way down the road and saw no van approaching. Heard no engine.

  Where the devil was Gabe?

  He checked his phone again—still no service—and tried texting Gabe. The message appeared to go through, but it was difficult to tell.

  Back at the house, he wandered around taking in all the details he could pack into his head. A small newspaper dated September 1881 lay beside the chair in the front room. Same month as now. He wondered why the paper wasn’t yellowed with age. It appeared new. Probably a reproduction to add a feel of authenticity to the house.

  An ashtray full of cold ashes sat on a small side table. Everything he saw hinted that someone had been living there. He and Gabe would have to get permission from the Historical Society to set up equipment and run tests.

  With nothing left to do, Burke headed back out to look for Gabe. If the van had broken down again, Gabe would have no idea what to do.

  Burke debated whether to leave the fire going in the fireplace. Whoever built it might come back and be pissed to find the house cold. Well, tough. He wouldn’t feel right leaving it going. It would be a fire hazard. He extinguished the candle too.

  With Spook at his side, Burke began walking. He yearned for a hot shower, food, and a warm bed. Coffee. Maybe something stronger. Only place to find that was Eagle Gulch.

  They'd set up the equipment tomorrow. When he reached town, or someplace with cell service, he’d report to Tremayne, his boss at Psychic Specters Investigations.

  He believed the tests would show positive results. This afternoon confirmed what he’d known since he was fifteen—Halstead House had a ghost.

  Gabe—good old Gabe, forever practical and efficient—would help restore Burke’s calm, rational approach to his job and stop him from letting his imagination run away with him. After all, weird as it might seem to Burke for the land to have been timbered, there must be a reason.

  He found no Gabe, no van, not even tire tracks on the muddy road left wet by yesterday’s rain. Before long, he knew he’d been kidding himself. Something was not right.

  The trees he had enjoyed smelling on the way in were gone. How could a whole forest vanish in the space of forty-five minutes? The bad feeling he been struck with when the van died returned in full force.

  When he reached the highway, or what he took for the highway, he stood a long time and stared up and down the road, frustrated, exhausted, and worried. No cars. No pavement. Just rutted dirt road. It had been paved when he and Gabe traveled over it to reach Halstead House.

  No sign to direct tourists to Historic Halstead House. Had he stepped into an alternate world? He chuckled at that idea, the sound raw and unconvincing. He whistled for Spook and aimed his boots toward town. He'd find answers there.

  The sun hung midway from high noon to sunset, and the air had begun to cool. The stink of horse droppings replaced the aroma of spruces and firs. Hell. Burke had been walking in them. Road apples, everywhere. Ruining his Tony Lamas. Someone must have opened a riding stable and designated the side of the highway as a riding lane.

  The P.S.I. apps on his watch read "Normal." Forty degrees, rain due tomorrow, direction due east. Nothing more. Still no answer from Gabe. He glanced at the sky. Dark clouds hinted that rain was imminent. With his Stetson pulled down tighter, and the top button fastened on his lamb's wool coat, he walked into a cold fall wind.

  A border collie ran out from some underbrush and halted at the sight of Spook. A house stood fifty yards back. While the dogs checked each other out, moving in circles as they each tried to sniff the other’s rear end, Burke debated going up to the door to ask a few questions. Seeing no car anywhere, he decided no one was home.

  Or maybe he simply feared he’d find something even stranger than all he’d already encountered.

  Thunder sounded somewhere behind him. Instead of trailing away, the sound grew. The clatter of hooves joined in. Burke turned to see what approached.

  A stagecoach rolled into view. He blinked to clear his vision.

  No, his eyes hadn't gone bad. A genuine, Gawdamighty Wild West stagecoach continued toward him.

  Burke gaped at the swaying horse-drawn conveyance, certain he'd lost his mind. This couldn't be happening. It had to be an hallucination. He didn’t like this, not one bit. Someone had to be playing a joke on him. They’d gone to a huge amount of trouble.

  "Whoa!" the driver yelled, and the four-horse team skidded to a halt, covering Burke in dust.

  "You wanting a ride?" The man's thick mustache curled up at the ends and waggled as he spoke.

  Before Burke could answer, a man wearing a derby leaned out the window. "What's the holdup, driver?"

  "Picking up a passenger is all," the driver called back.

  Shocked to the soles of his boots, Burke said nothing. At his side, Spook whined and made the little half-barking sounds Burke interpreted as concern. The dog stepped in front of him and barked at the strange conveyance. Protective of his master, as always. Burke laid a calming hand on the dog's head.

  Burke opened his mouth to answer the driver, but nothing came out. His pulse had gone bonkers, and his legs trembled. He yearned to wake up an
d find himself somewhere logical. Believable.

  "What's it to be, stranger?" the driver prompted. "You coming or not? You can ride shotgun up here with me."

  Did he have a choice? Burke had no idea who might be running this show. Whatever he'd gotten himself into—alternate world, time travel, movie set, or elaborate prank—he had no idea what to do. "You going into Eagle Gulch?" he asked.

  "Only town on the road ahead."

  The wagon box sat a good distance off the ground. Burke patted it with his hand and told Spook, "Up." Vizslas were known to jump high.

  Spook made it with no problem. Burke stepped on a wagon wheel spoke and swung himself up next to the dog.

  "Sonuvabitch!" the driver spat. "Never seed a dog jump so high. What kind is he?"

  "Vizsla, a bird dog. Originated in Hungary centuries ago."

  "Huh! Skinny whelp, ain't he?" A flick of the wrist started the horses moving again. "I'm called Slick. My shotgun didn't show up today, so you're it if you're willing. Rifle's on the floor at your feet."

  Burke picked up the gun, but his dazed brain wasn't sure what to do with it. "You expecting robbers?"

  "Never know. What's yer name?"

  "Burke."

  "Well, Burke, robbers or no, I'm plumb glad fer yer comp'ny. You do know how to shoot that thing, don’t you?"

  "Won a bunch of trophies in shooting contests when I was younger. Been a while since I handled a rifle, though."

  "It’ll come back to ya."

  * * *

  Burke had been joking about the robbers.

  Not Slick.

  Two hundred yards in front of them, four mounted men burst out from behind a building riding fast. Their cowboy hats were pulled low, and kerchiefs covered their mouths and noses. One waved a gun in the air and fired off a warning shot and called for them to stop the stage.

  Spook whined and looked to Burke, who blinked to make sure he saw right.

  "Now’s the time to recall how to fire that Winchester." Slick cracked a whip above the horses' heads, and they burst into a full out race to town.

  Burke's mind spun. Should he shoot at the robbers? Or pray? Hell, he didn't want to kill anybody.