“Don’t you see? Number Four was packed with confused, fearful spirits that had died all over the base, in different times. But they were all at Number Four.”
I leaned back in my chair. Finally the picture was coming together. “Why? Why there?”
She shook her head, “Something brought them there. I’m sure of it. Something that wanted all of them there.”
A camp revival meeting for the dispossessed. Wonderful.
I wanted to ask what, what could have done that. But just in that moment a woman arrived with our sandwiches. The questions would keep and maybe for a few moments we could forget.
Chapter Thirteen
We were going back to Number Four. Heck, I hadn’t really expected to be able to talk Ellen out of returning. And myself, well there were mixed feelings. I was irritated on a number of levels. The fact that we were on a vacation didn’t even come into play anymore. It had been entirely eclipsed by what was happening here on the base, the turmoil, the tragedy, and, yes, the tantalizing mystery at its heart.
I looked over at Ellen beside me in the car. Her eyes fixed forward, steeliness in her expression. I’d met a lot of people in my time on this earth but no one who had ever crossed my path could match the determination of my wife once she set her mind to something.
She hadn’t even batted an eye when the soldiers at the front gate seemed more arrogant and obnoxious than the first time we checked in. Whatever is going on in that house better brace itself and be concerned for what was coming for them.
I pulled the car onto the side driveway of the house. “Okay?” I asked Ellen.
She turned to me, blue eyes cool and direct. “Be ready for anything,” she said.
Oh, that made me feel all warm and fuzzy. “Yeah, can’t wait.” I muttered stepping out of the car.
I followed Ellen to the front entrance and an actual chill crept across my shoulders. It must have been the anticipation, all the build-up. But then I remembered something that Ellen had said to me once. “Don’t ever dismiss your feelings as irrelevant. That is a big mistake many people make. Sometimes they are the only things keeping us from disaster.”
I took out the key to open the front door but Ellen’s hand shot out and grabbed mine. “Wait,” she said sharply.
I came up to the side of her so that I could see her face. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was heavy. “What?” I asked.
“We can’t go in here,” she said opening her eyes. “I can feel something there, waiting.”
I swallowed with a dry throat. “Something?”
She nodded, “That’s all I can feel. It’s like ice, blocking everything.”
I glanced around, my eyes lighting on the long wooden staircase leading to the upstairs gallery. All I felt was dread. Any ice was what was lodged in my gut. “Let’s try up there,” I said, heading towards the stairs.
“How will we get in?” she asked, following behind me.
“One step at a time.” Sometimes flying by the seat of my pants was the only way to get things done. The stairs at least felt stable, if not a bit creaky, but that was manageable. We ended up on the long upper porch stretching across the front of the house.
How great a house this would be if it weren’t so plagued by paranormal horror. Definitely a deal breaker.
Ellen moved to a set of French doors at the west end of the gallery. “How’s it feel in there?”
She was still for a moment. “Not nearly as bad as downstairs right now.”
Okay, I guessed “not nearly as bad.” was the best I would get right now.
I wriggled the door knob. Locked. Then tried Tom’s key. No luck. Reaching for my wallet, I pulled out a long peculiar piece of metal that had actually benefitted me greatly in my old PI days.
“I didn’t know you still had that,” Ellen murmured.
I shrugged. True enough, an old-fashioned skeleton key wasn’t something that I needed in our particular line of work. And it wouldn’t work on most modern locks that it predated. But why throw out something that just might come in handy at an unexpected moment like this one?
Plus, who didn’t have a few skeletons in the closet?
As I gingerly put it in the lock, I felt a gentle snap that told me the old thing had definitely earned its keep. “We’re in,” I said slowly pushing the door inward.
Ellen took a step forward but I put my hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t you let me go first? I’ve got a lot less soul left to lose.”
Chapter Fourteen
The room smelled of pine, or maybe there was a coating of pine oil on its long stretch of wooden floor. As I stepped inside I was at once struck by its expansiveness—a tall ceiling stretching upwards, large picture window on the outside wall, and echoing stillness.
Ellen had stepped in quietly behind me; her eyes also clearly taking in what mine had, and probably more. There was nothing here but emptiness. The Blanchards had left it clean—white, bare, stripped down.
“It’s so quiet in here,” Ellen said.
And then it struck me that “quiet” to her might be something entirely different than my interpretation. “Quiet exactly how?” I asked.
Best to be clear. It was only our lives at stake. And maybe even beyond that.
She wandered into the center of the room and closed her eyes. There was definitely a chill here but it seemed evenly distributed. I thought about our equipment still downstairs but then figured, why bother? We seemed beyond the point now of collating and collecting data. Her eyes opened, looking at mine with a measure of concern. “I don’t feel a trace of anyone else in this room. It’s empty, Monty.”
I stared at her with some confusion. “I thought you said this house was full, full of spirits from all over the base.”
She nodded. “I did, but for some reason not in here.”
Slowly she sank down to the floor, onto her knees and then to a sitting position with her legs crossed. “Taking a break?” I asked.
She held out her hand to me. “Come sit next to me.”
I did as she had, albeit with a bit more difficulty. I didn’t have the benefit of Ellen’s years of yoga and my middle-aged bones weren’t appreciative of being connected with a hard wooden floor. And those chocolate-chip pancakes and po’boys were beginning to add up. “What are we doing?” I asked.
“I need you to anchor me, honey.”
“You can hook your chain to me anytime, babe. But where are you going?”
She sighed. “I’m going to find Captain Beale.”
“You’re what?”
“I have to get a handle on what is going on here.”
“And why do you think this guy who blew his brains out will be of any help?”
“Calm down, honey.”
“I’m calm.” The words were in contrast to the surge of panic I was feeling at the idea of Ellen wandering off astrally somewhere in this house of horrors. I didn’t know what kind of anchor I would be if some sort of psychic tsunami came along, or the Mighty Mississipp’ overflowed its banks.
She smiled, trying to be comforting but not quite hitting the mark. “Captain Beale is the only spirit I know of that actually died here at Number Four. He’s the key to all of this. And as long as you’re here to ground me, there will be no problem.”
“Let me go,” I said. After all, I had done this before. I don’t really like to reflect on the experience too much but I preferred it to the option of sending my wife.
If worse came to worse, I knew how to throw a right cross. But that only worked if whatever waiting on the other side actually had a face to punch.
She shook her head. “Not this time. It will be all right.”
I didn’t like it. In fact, I hated it. But, damn it, either we were going to do this thing, or … not.
“Not long,” I said, desperately trying to manufacture some boundaries.
She nodded, “Agreed. Now close your eyes and focus on anchoring my spirit.”
I did as she asked, holding down the fort. I clear
ed my head the way she had taught me, focusing on my breathing. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that seemed to have taken up residence right around my heart.
Chapter Fifteen
Ellen could feel things around her shift—colors, visual details, densities. She battled to focus. There were so many different layers of energy here, like a photo overlaid with a seemingly endless progression of filters altering its substance.
But she focused on one thought—the soldier, Captain Beale. An image of him had begun slowly forming in her mind once Mathilda mentioned his name at the museum. It had been subtle, seemingly resistant to actually taking mental form. It was clear even now that someone or something didn’t want her connecting with Captain Beale.
She concentrated on his life force and things around her began to take shape. The room they were in was filled with massive dark furniture—mahogany, she guessed. Heavy, oversize pieces. A large bed with great black posts and a matching mirror on the long, heavy dresser. It was an impressive set and the room was set aside for some special purpose.
In the hallway she heard voices filtering in, and the vague impression of Monty’s form that had begun to become more translucent as she sunk herself into this time frame completely disappeared. She was alone.
“Where’s the Colonel?”
“Downstairs getting drunk with us commoners.”
“Think he’d mind if we rooted around his room for a bit?”
“Don’t be an imbecile. He’d skin your hide if he found you in there.”
Then laughter and the voices retreated. Ellen tried to move toward the hallway but there seemed to be an impediment. It didn’t make sense. In her astral state she should be able to go wherever she wanted.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The voice was as soft as a whisper and she turned around to be greeted by the long-suffering vision of Loretta Archer. Her face was just the same, just the same as Ellen had seen on the staircase. Same 1950’s style dress, hair long and lanky, and wrists steadily dripping blood from where she’d cut herself.
“What do you mean, Loretta?” she asked. She shouldn’t be here now. Ellen had focused on Captain Beale’s timeframe, which she had pinpointed to be somewhere around 1918 to 1919.
The huge dark eyes were terrified, not of Ellen but definitely of something. “This has nothing to do with you,” she said shakily, voice more of a watery impression than actual tonal vibration.
“What are you so afraid of?”
Her long pale hand gripped the place on her wrist where the blood was eeking out. Ellen felt a surge of compassion for the pathetic creature. How horrible to spend so much time chained to your most horrific act. When even suicide failed to offer an escape, what hope was there for the hopeless?
“They sent me to tell you to leave now,” Loretta Archer said.
“Who are they?” she asked slowly.
Ellen saw a shiver pass through the woman’s gaunt form. “I . . . the others sent me. They said you can leave. If you go back now, they’ll allow you to leave.”
“I’m not used to being told what I am allowed and not allowed to do in the supernatural realm.” A light fluttering of dread passed through Ellen. That definitely sounded like a threat. “ I believe I can help you and the others. Help you leave here.”
Loretta’s eyes widened, if that was at all possible. “No, you have to go now.”
Ellen could feel it. This was a distraction to prevent her from doing what she’d come for. She mustered her energies and focused again, focused on the time frame of Captain Beale. She could hear music wafting up from downstairs. There was a piano down there, someone was playing a piano.
Her eyes fixed on the doorway. Footsteps headed up the stairs. When she looked back, Loretta Archer had disappeared.
Just as well. She’s not a real part of this.
And then he was standing in the doorway. Just as she’d imagined him, dark-haired with piercing green eyes. And as he stared back, she knew he was looking right through her. She was as much a ghost as he was.
But she had found him, finally. Captain Beale.
Chapter Sixteen
“Captain,” she said.
But the tall lean man in the very outdated military uniform walked right past her. She steadied herself. It was more than clear she had tapped into his timeframe, his plane before he’d died. He moved to the French doors that were now covered by a light cottony drape and he pushed the material aside, staring out into the pitch-black night.
It was pointless for her to try to speak to him but Ellen opened herself to get an impression of his mindset. The emotion was powerful, rampant, divergent. She felt anxiety, panic but then a cold fury that chilled her. There were flashes all around her, smoke and darkness.
She could feel him out somewhere on the battlefield, pain shooting up from his leg. And confusion, so much confusion all around him. There was fear, too much fear surrounding him and in him, a raw, pulsing energy like a wound in the fabric of the universe.
She pulled back. It was overwhelming; so painful, but more than that for him. Beale moved away from the doors and sat on the edge of the bed, his head bowed a bit. It was actually a terrible thing. Beale was too much like her, a sensitive. One who had no idea what he was.
It wasn’t his own pain and fear that crowded in on him but that of others, so many others, feeling their anger, their confusion—the battlefield such an unnatural place to be. And then his mind, she stepped back further as she understood, just shattered.
She knew what was next. It had happened already and this was no more than a replay. She had felt it in Beale’s mind. He wouldn’t go on, couldn’t go on with what he felt. And then the anger, cold, directed anger. This was his Colonel’s private quarters. The Colonel, such an unfeeling man, only concerned with accomplishing a goal, not with the men, not with the toll on them. So he’d decided to wait until tonight, New Year’s Eve, wait so they could find him up here. His final act of defiance, refusal to be discounted. But more than that, he simply wanted it to stop, the pain, the memory, everything to stop.
Ending the war and taking no prisoners.
Ellen turned away. She heard Beale take the gun out of its holster and heard the click as he armed it. She felt Monty waiting for her and his strength of love, loyalty, and commitment. The gunshot boomed.
There was no other sound, no sound of Beale hitting the floor. Slowly she turned around and felt cold fear clutch at her heart.
Beale was still sitting on the bed now staring straight at her with no expression. Blood and other matter were dripping down one side of his face where he’d been shot and his skull had opened.
“Well, Mrs. Drew, is this what you wanted to see?” he said coldly. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”
Chapter Seventeen
She stared at him in shock. Steady, Ellen, keep control, she told herself. You can’t let him shake you loose of your anchor.
He stood up, the fresh blood still dripping down his cheek. “Afraid of letting me get the upper hand?” he asked as calmly if he’d just asked her for a cup of tea.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
He gave a slow, creepy smile. He was trying to scare her away. “Is it working?” he asked. “That’s the thing about travelling without your body. The usual barriers aren’t there. Just as easily as you can tap into my thoughts, I can tap into yours. As you noted yourself, I have my own gifts. And I have the extra advantage of being dead.”
He moved a few steps closer to Ellen and instinctively she moved back. She couldn’t help it. Other than the fresh hole in his head, there was something fundamentally repellent about Beale. The energy surrounding him was dark and mucky. “Then you must know that Monty and I are here to help.”
He stopped. “Monty must be worried about you right now. Tremendously worried, in fact. I wonder that you’d want to leave him alone for so long.”
Again he was intent on frightening her. She steeled herself. “Why are there so many
lost spirits in this house?”
“You mean ‘ghosts’? Isn’t that the popular terminology?”
He was educated, nearly eloquent—definitely an intelligent man, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You know, Mrs. Drew, you’re rather demanding for a female.”
She stopped short, “What?”
“You heard me. Why didn’t you send your husband? I’d be more apt to discuss things with a man, not some woman that doesn’t know her place.”
She glanced around for a moment. “You’re serious?”
“It’s an insult, your being here like this.”
She waited for the punch line. Good God, he was serious. This crazy suicidal captain was a chauvinist on top of everything. Perhaps not surprising, given his career choice and his era. But her own supernatural talent should have earned a little respect.
Maybe she could use his attitude to her advantage. It never hurt to be underestimated.
She had to humor him. Damn it, he was probably still reading her thoughts. “Well, Captain Beale. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling me why all these ghosts are collecting here at Number Four?”
She expected some wry answer or perhaps an insult. But a curious expression seemed to cross his face. “They feel safe here, Ellen Drew. As I remember, that’s not such a terrible thing.”
Ellen hesitated. “No, no, it’s not Captain Beale. If it’s true, Loretta didn’t seem to feel too safe here.”
“She’s confused,” he murmured.
“And the rest, even the children, are they confused as well?”
His face became cold again. Whatever window had opened momentarily had closed again. “They’re being taken care of.”
“By who, you? None of you need to go on suffering. You can move on to a different kind of existence.”
“I didn’t know you had been appointed the task of playing God, Mrs. Drew.” He moved closer to her again, his face and voice filled with resignation. “We’ll take care of them all, and soon none of us will suffer anymore.”
Ghost Soldier Page 4
