A Girl, a Guy, and a Ghost

by Patricia Mason

  The attacker took advantage of her vulnerable position, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her. The attacker forced her down, down, down. Her face hit the water in the toilet bowl and a crack sounded as her skull struck the porcelain.

  Impact sparks ignited in her brain.

  Struggling against the iron grip of her attacker to no avail, Giselle’s face was pushed deeper into the toilet. Her face submerged, she tried not to breathe in.

  Giselle continued to flail with her hands, but in this position she made no impact on the figure behind her. However, she did manage to hit the toilet’s handle. The water flushed around her, swirling, then rushing down the pipe.

  The bowl was empty for precious seconds. At least she could breathe now. But then the water came rushing back up.

  Giselle held her breath again. She couldn’t believe her life was literally going down the toilet. The newspaper headlines would read, Death by Swirly.

  She found the floor with her hands and tried to push up against her attacker. Nothing. Gripping the toilet seat, she pushed back. No impact. The figure continued relentlessly pressing her face into the water. Thrashing from side to side, Giselle began to lose consciousness. She couldn’t hold her breath much longer.

  Giselle’s panic increased and her hands continued to fumble about blindly. Her questing fingers encountered an object with a long handle to the side of the bowl. She grabbed it and felt along its length until she found a bristly end. A toilet brush.

  Giselle clutched the handle and thrust the brush up and over her head at the attacker as hard as she could. It moved like a dagger. A slimy, germ-ridden dagger. The impact jarred her arm. The attacker grunted and the gripping hands dropped away from the back of her head and neck.

  Jerking her head out of the toilet bowl, Giselle came up gasping and coughing. Maddened, she stood and turned in one motion. Giselle punched, kicked and scratched at the dark, shadowy figure in front of her. She felt the attacker backing away as she advanced.

  The attacker, continuing to retreat, tried to fend off Giselle’s furious but expert martial arts technique. Really. Okay—not. But the attacker retreated. Giselle continued swinging. She and the attacker tumbled out of the stall. The figure struck a blow to her left shoulder that knocked Giselle to the side and into the bank of sinks.

  Giselle righted herself and fumbled around with her hands in front of her. She found the wall and felt along it until she discovered the light switch. She clicked it on. The room was empty except for the demented-looking, wet raccoon reflected by the mirror. Glancing this way and that, Giselle saw nothing there. No raccoon was in the room with her. Giselle was the demented raccoon.

  Her hair dripped icky toilet water. A ring of black encircled her eyes, disproving the advertising that touted the waterproof quality of her mascara. Her white peasant blouse now clung to her like a second skin.

  Torn between the humiliation of returning to the table with a strong resemblance to crazed vermin and the fear of the attacker’s return, Giselle chose fear and exited without attempting to fix her appearance.

  Restaurant patrons turned to stare as she passed them, and not in the head-turning way a girl enjoys. The walk seemed to take forever. Finally, she saw Ry in the distance. A beacon, a haven.

  “Did you fall in?” he asked.

  A jerk.

  She stared at him, unspeaking. Shock, no doubt.

  Understanding dawned and he jumped out of his chair and took her into his arms. She buried her face in his shirt and cried.

  “Are you okay, sugar? What happened?” he crooned.

  “Ermmmmm.” His shirtfront muffled her voice. He gripped her arms and pushed her away to look at her face.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone tried to flush my head down the toilet.” She choked it out.

  “While it was still attached?”

  Giselle looked up at him wide-eyed, sniffed a couple of times and then full-fledged sobs broke out.

  “Oh sugar,” Ry said. “I thought you were joking, I’m sorry. I was trying to be funny too. I thought it would make you feel better.”

  “Well, it didn’t,” she cried.

  “I see that now. I’m sorry.”

  Giselle snuffled a bit, no longer sobbing.

  “I was totally wrong.”

  Giselle sniffed once. The tears stopped.

  “I grovel at your feet with my wrongness.”

  A wan smile from Giselle. “As long as you’re groveling, I’ll forgive you.”

  His touch protective and comforting soothed her. One hand was on her neck. The thumb of his other hand caressed her cheekbone. If she didn’t feel so horrible from crying she could be enjoying this.

  “I better go see if there’s any sign of the person who attacked you.” Ry started to move away, but Giselle clung to him, her nails digging into his back.

  “No, don’t go. They’re already gone.” Giselle felt him relax against her. “Now can I have your shirt?”

  “What? No. You’re all wet with toilet water.”

  “The toilet water was clean. Besides, look at me.” Giselle pulled back.

  “I am. That style is very fetching. You should go with it. You don’t need my shirt.”

  Giselle looked down, pointedly down at her translucent wet blouse and then back at him.

  At her glare, he grumbled, “Oh all right. Don’t ever say I wouldn’t give you the shirt off my back.”

  * * * * *

  Forty-five minutes later Giselle emerged from the bathroom of her hotel room. She had showered and quickly blown her hair dry. She’d dressed in black v-neck tee with black Capri pants. Casual. But the black said Ghosthunter. Okay, perhaps it just said “depression”. Fresh makeup had been a must, including a reapplication of the offending mascara. Nevertheless, Giselle swore to write a letter to the company about their false claims at her earliest opportunity. Perhaps she should have taken a photograph as evidence. Too late now.

  On entering the bedroom, she saw Ry lying across the room’s bed, still shirtless. This might be what a heart attack felt like. This man was dangerous to her health. His chest, toned and tanned, monopolized her vision. His pecs perfectly muscular, not muscle-bound, had a light sprinkling of blond hair. Scrumptious. And his abs? Yummy. Perfect. Just as she’d suspected in the janitor’s closet at the restaurant.

  Why did she suddenly long for fuzzy pink handcuffs and a riding crop?

  Giselle closed her gaping mouth. She hoped there was no drool. Quick check. No. Thank God. She’d experienced enough humiliation for one night. Correction, one year.

  “Here’s your shirt.” She held up the garment in her hand, trying to look away but not succeeding. “I don’t want you to get cold.” Please put it back on before I do something embarrassing.

  “No thanks. You keep it,” he replied with a lazy drawl as he continued to lounge against the white bedspread, being treacherously sexy.

  “I told you the water was clean,” Giselle responded.

  “So you say.”

  She couldn’t ignore how glorious he looked lying across her bed. “I know why you don’t want it back. You just want me to admire your chest,” she tried to joke.

  “I don’t want you to miss my fabulous back.” He said with a laugh as he got off the bed. He stretched his arms out wide and made a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think you’re,” magnificent, beautiful, superb, “insufferable.”

  Ry chuckled and returned to a reclining position on the bed.

  Ooh, dangerous territory.

  “While you were in the bathroom I made a few calls,” Ry said.

  Busy ogling him, she almost didn’t register his words. She blinked. “Oh right.”

  Giselle had described the entire altercation to Ry as they walked from the restaurant to her hotel. At his prompting, she had given every detail she could remember. She felt intensely frustrated that she wasn’t able to give any kind of physical description of
the attacker. She could only say he or she was tall, very strong, and now covered with icky toilet brush gunk.

  Ry had assured her he would contact a friend on the police force and make arrangements for her to make a statement about the two attempts on her life so law enforcement could begin an investigation.

  Drawing her down to sit beside him on the bed, he put an arm around her. “I talked to my friend on the force. I spoke to another friend who is going to be doing some computer research to determine if anyone has been pulling information on you, trying to trace you. For example, credit card statements to find out where you’re staying. Stuff like that.”

  Ry stroked her back. “We will get this guy.”

  She nodded. She wouldn’t be afraid. Well, she was, but she wasn’t going to let it show. “Ry, there is confidentiality between private detective and client, isn’t there?” Giselle asked hesitantly.

  “Yeah, sugar, tell me anything.” His green eyes darkened with concern as they stared into hers.

  “No. I mean you’re not going to tell anyone the details about tonight’s incident.”

  “What? Death by swirly?”

  The jerk.

  “Never mind. I suppose it’s just too good to resist. Could you at least not use the word ‘swirly’ when you describe it?”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” Ry said with a quirk to his edible lips. “I made another call I think you’ll like. I’ve arranged for us to talk to the foremost authority on the paranormal happenings in the city.” His tone was serious.

  Then he got a silly look on his face and spoke with a bad French accent. “Or we could ave zee sex.” He patted the bed and leered suggestively. “Zee sex, it get my vote.”

  Giselle giggled. “Oooh you smooth talker. You make it so tempting, but no. I vote for ghosts.”

  “Okay. Let’s go talk to Ghost Guy.”

  It was 10:24 p.m.

  * * * * *

  They arrived as scheduled to meet the ghost guy at the entrance to the Colonial Park Cemetery. The cemetery, laid out in a long rectangular shape, had its entrance at the northwest corner. It was surrounded by six-foot-high walls made of old Savannah gray brick. A large, statuary rendering of an eagle about to take flight sat perched in a marble archway atop the wrought iron gate that served as the entry door.

  The creepily foggy night shrouded much of the cemetery from view behind the locked gate. However, pale white tombstones interspersed with brick pyramid-shaped, above-ground structures could be seen in the light of a nearby streetlamp close to the entrance. Giselle assumed that the indistinct silhouettes beyond the reach of the streetlights represented more of the same.

  Giselle didn’t see Ghost Guy approach them from either the sidewalk along the Oglethorpe Street side of the cemetery or the Abercorn Street side. He just seemed to suddenly appear out of the darkness, dressed in an ensemble that was topped with a black cape. Ghost Guy had long fangs. Blood dripped from the teeth onto his chin and coated his mouth.

  At Giselle’s look of horror, Ghost Guy reached up, pulled the fangs from his mouth and wiped at the blood. “Sorry about that. I’m not really a vampire. I just play one in a movie. We were just wrapping up filming for the day when Ry called. I didn’t have time to get out of makeup.” He took a few swipes at his cheeks and the white pancake wiped off, leaving a more natural complexion to the skin illuminated by the overhead streetlight.

  “That’s a relief. I’ve had enough of vampires today, I’m afraid.” Giselle smiled wanly.

  “They can get on your nerves.” Ghost Guy put the fake fangs in his pocket. “Two just moved to town and they are especially irritating. All they seem to want to talk about is the discrimination they are subjected to by the government. They want to rally the paranormal community into some kind of protest. But no one seems very interested.”

  “Yeah, I think we know the two you’re talking about,” Ry commented.

  The best word to describe Ghost Guy was “intense”. Although medium height with medium-length brown hair, his unblinking eyes pinned Giselle with penetrating power. “You have had two attempts on your life today. The second one was particularly shocking.”

  “That’s amazing,” Giselle said. Was he psychic? “Did you see the attacks in a vision, or did you see them in my mind?”

  Ghost Guy grinned. “Neither, Ry told me about them on the phone. Death by swirly. That’s really cruel. You almost met the Limoges Lord in the sky.”

  Ry piped in, “Yeah, she almost flushed the big one. Although I really think she just fell in and doesn’t want to admit it.”

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Giselle said with disgust. “I’m so glad my near death is such a source of mirth for all, but can we please get on topic? I believe the subject of this meeting is a ghost. We don’t need to discuss the incident anymore.”

  “You mean the terror by toilet bowl?” Ry twisted the figurative knife.

  “Shush it.” Giselle turned to Ghost Guy. “Ry says you’re the one to talk to in Savannah about all things paranormal. What about this supposed ghost who answers the door of an abandoned mansion? Is there any truth to that story?”

  Giselle saw Ghost Guy glance at a scowling Ry.

  “I have heard that story,” he said after a few moments’ hesitation.

  “Is it true that the ghost answers the door if there is a knock at midnight?”

  Ghost Guy seemed to respond very carefully. “I’m told that if the summoner is a strong psychic medium, it doesn’t have to be midnight.”

  “That whole story is completely preposterous,” Ry interrupted in a testy tone.

  “Well? Is the story true?” Giselle asked, facing Ghost Guy.

  She watched for a glance from him in Ry’s direction but he remained stoic, his vivid blue eyes never straying from hers.

  “I’d listen to Ry on this one,” he finally said. “Why don’t you go on one of the ghost tours?”

  “Done that and definitely didn’t buy the t-shirt. The tour guide was some kind of floozy who just told one whopper after another.”

  “Oh yeah, the cheerleader.” Ghost Guy nodded. “She’s something.” Ghost Guy went silent for a moment then continued. “I do have a lead for you. I’ve heard that there’s going to be a séance conducted later tonight by Armand Kopeleski. Kopeleski claims to be a wizard and master of the occult.”

  “Is he?” Giselle asked.

  “I don’t know. But he’s odd. I’m told the séance will take place at his house where the participants hope to summon the spirit of a Revolutionary War hero who’s buried in this cemetery. It’s said that on occasion this spirit tends to wander around Savannah and can be seen returning to his grave here before dawn. Kopeleski reportedly plans to summon the spirit and then follow it to the cemetery to document the story as true.”

  Ghost Guy turned to Ry and clapped him on the shoulder. “Kopeleski lives just three doors to the east of you.”

  Ry nodded.

  “Perhaps if you go there he might be persuaded to allow you to participate.”

  “That sounds fantastic,” Giselle said with excitement. “Revolutionary War hero, séance and cemetery. I could write a fabulous article with those elements. And I bet I could get some fantastic photos of the cemetery to go with the article.”

  She had a brief fantasy vision of Willie giving her a raise.

  “Whoa,” Ry interjected, popping her fantasy bubble. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We still have to approach this Kopeleski to see if he’ll allow us to participate,” Ry said. “Even if he does, I don’t think it’s a sure thing that he will be able to summon this war hero. And follow him here? Seems more than farfetched to me.”

  Giselle stuck out her tongue in Ry’s pooh-poohing direction.

  “I have a warning for you,” Ghost Guy said in an ominously serious monotone. “Don’t look into his windows as you approach the house.”

  “Why? Does he have some sort of spell operating on the house that turns a person into a pillar of salt if the
y look inside?” Giselle asked.

  “Close,” Ghost Guy said with a laugh. “Kopeleski’s an author on the occult. He likes to write his books at a table that sits near his front window with the curtains wide open.”

  Ry and Giselle stared quizzically at Ghost Guy in confused silence.

  “He always writes in the nude. I mean totally buck-naked nude. And it’s not a pretty sight. I mean really. Not!” Ghost Guy’s cheeks expanded and he brought one finger to puckered lips as if stifling nausea.

  “I get what you mean.” Ry thrust out his arm and the two men clasped hands in a hearty handshake. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Anytime. Don’t be such a stranger, Ry.”

  Ghost Guy turned to Giselle and winked. “And you. Don’t stick your head in any more toilets.”

  “Yeah, thanks for the tip.”

  * * * * *

  The wizard Armand Kopeleski’s brick row house was located three doors from Ry’s home, just as Ghost Guy had said. Not much architectural detail on the three-story structure was visible in the darkness as she and Ry approached.

  Giselle did notice that the windows of the parlor level, one floor up from the street, were without curtains and brightly lit. Trying to heed Ghost Guy’s warning, she jerked her gaze away and looked at Ry instead. She was still queasy from the toilet water. She didn’t need any more stomach-turning sights tonight.

  Ry and Giselle reached the bottom of the stairs that led up to Kopeleski’s front door. They hesitated. Something in Giselle warned her not to go up there. It seemed Ry had the same instinct. An odd edginess filled the air.

  “We could just go back to your hotel and have zee sex,” Ry joked in an unsuccessful attempt to break the strange tension.

  Giselle gave it serious consideration. And not just for the usual reason—Ry was hot, after all—but she wouldn’t give up on her mission. Not yet anyway.