The Curious Case of the Cursed Spectacles

by Constance Barker

  Kenneth looked from me to Clarence and back to me again. "You two are serious, aren't you?"

  "Definitely," I said.

  "Clearly," Clarence said.

  "The guy, this prophet was scared."

  "He should be," Clarence said.

  "I didn't put it in the story... well, I did but it got cut, but he said that he only sees bad things coming. He thought he could stop them but that once he sees them... well, he learned there's nothing he can do to keep it from happening."

  "He's tried?"

  "Several times. It seems that if he does anything at all, the results seem to ensure the tragic future he saw. No matter what he's tried the bad stuff always happens just as he saw it. It's a no-win proposition."

  "See, that's because it isn't a gift, but a curse. He can see the evil, but he is powerless to stop it."

  Kenneth shook his head. "Look, I'm not sure that I want anything to do with this whole cursed vision thing."

  "Ken," Clarence said, "this is going to end badly, and not just for him, if we don't get to him soon. We need your help. He could be hurt badly."

  "That's his problem, isn't it? Why should I care?"

  Suddenly I was sure I knew why. "Because once the object is done with this guy, and it will use him up to get what it wants, then it will fall into someone else's hands. And for all we know, it might have its sights set on you next. After all, you know about it. It might have your scent."

  Suddenly Kenneth looked nervous. "That's just stupid."

  "Maybe. I can't say the entire idea of cursed objects sounds brilliant, but do you want to take the chance?"

  Obviously rattled, Kenneth, looked around. "Here is the deal... if I tell you what I know, you have to promise to keep my name out of it from here on. You can't even let anyone know that you tracked him by reading my story."

  "That's fair," I said. Having wanted to be a journalist I understood that his reputation might be important, but he had reported accurately. "But wouldn't getting credit for cracking the story be good for your credibility at the tabloid?"

  "I've applied for a job at the New York Times," he said. "I really don't want to be known for this sort of thing."

  "Okay."

  He picked up the notebook sitting next to his plate and scribbled on it. "Don't even tell Tim where you got his name. Tim is the guy's name."

  "We won't." I glanced at Clarence, who nodded.

  "Of course not."

  He handed me the paper with a name on it.

  "Do you happen to have an address?" Clarence asked.

  Kenneth shot him a look. "You're lucky I asked his name."

  "Thanks, Kenneth. We appreciate you sharing the information."

  He hesitated. "And you say there were a lot of these... cursed objects?"

  "Unfortunately, there are a number of them."

  "What do the others do?"

  I held my hands out, palms up. "That's part of what we are trying to find out. So anything that ordinary people do that stands out as abnormal might give us a lead." I wrote my number on the bottom of the paper he'd handed me and pushed it toward him. "It would help if you called whenever you ran across any other strange stories like this one—of people doing things that seem incredible."

  He took it. "I won't verify them for you first. I can't spend all my time chasing that kind of story."

  "That's fine. Give me the particulars and we'll follow the leads and see where they go."

  "One condition. If you find anything newsworthy, you need to give me an exclusive."

  "Like a man seeing the future?"

  "Something more solid than that. I've done that one."

  I gave him my best thank-you smile. "Okay. I'll get the check."

  After Kenneth left, Clarence snorted. "It was foolish to give him your cell number."

  "Why?"

  "We don't know if we can trust him."

  "What's he going to do? Call me in the middle of the night?"

  "It's a bad idea, giving out your number like that. To guys like that."

  "He is looking into crazy stuff fairly regularly... we can use an extra pair of eyes and ears looking for signs that someone is using the objects."

  "Okay, but I don't trust him."

  I wondered if it was a matter of trust, or was there a flicker of jealousy. I dismissed the idea as flattering myself. "I have a question for you, Clarence. How do you know all that stuff about how the objects work?"

  He flashed a sly grin. "What about them?"

  "That they use people up and then move on to another victim."

  He smiled. "I don't but I've been watching Twilight Zone reruns a lot lately. So you can call it an educated guess. But mostly I figured your pal Ken needed a reason to tell us the name."

  I held up the paper. "Well, it worked. And now we have a lead to an object we need to reclaim, and possibly someone's life to save."

  "And Ken has your phone number."

  "And that seems to bother you a great deal."

  He shrugged. "The wider the circle gets, the harder it will be to keep things under wraps. And you can't go giving him the details of our searches. When we start reacquiring the objects we don't want people to know that we have them or where we are keeping them."

  "Wherever that is," I said. "Right now all I can deal with is getting started on tracking them down. I haven't even begun to think about what we'll do with them once we get them."

  "I think we need to keep as low a profile as possible. Let's talk about it, you and I, before we tell anyone else the story, okay?"

  "And with me," Edgar said.

  "Ummm, we don't have a choice with you Edgar," I said.

  I thought that Clarence's concerns seemed all out of proportion to the situation, but I had to admit this wasn't something I understood. We seemed to be working without the benefit of either a rulebook or user's manual. I couldn't be sure who it was safe to tell things to, or who to listen to. I didn't even know what the heck we were really doing or why. Clarence was enthusiastic, but I felt as if circumstances had roped me into this entire enterprise.

  "I rather like him," Edgar said. "Kenneth of the nice teeth, I mean."

  "Of course you do," Clarence said.

  Chapter Ten

  "What now?" Clarence asked.

  I was driving slowly through town. "We need to find this guy and talk to him."

  "Any ideas how we can do that?" Clarence asked. He looked at the paper. "Where would Timothy Welker be?" Then he smiled and stared at me, waiting for an answer.

  "He's a local. I suppose we could check the phone book."

  Clarence laughed. "Really? That's pretty lame. You know most people don't have landlines any more, Cecelia. There isn't much chance he'll be listed."

  He was right. "It's a place to start." He had me feeling defensive. "It won't take long and if that's a fail then maybe we can check with the county and see if they have a record of him. If he owns property..."

  "That's another long shot," Clarence said. That's when I realized he had an idea and wanted me to ask his opinion.

  "How would you suggest we find him then?"

  I'd brought along the newspaper with the article about Timothy and Clarence picked it up. "There's little useful in Kenneth's story, other than the notion that this Timothy is a local."

  "But Kenneth said there was more in his original story—that part about Timothy being upset because even though he could see the tragedies, he couldn't prevent them. The way he said that suggests that this wasn't the first one he saw coming."

  "But that's just Kenneth's version of what he said," Clarence said. "We just have his word for that."

  His dislike for Kenneth was clouding his judgment. "Clarence, you could be right, but if we go down that road, we could also say that he might've made up the entire story. For now, let's just assume that Kenneth is accurate."

  "Why?"

  "Because if it's all a lie, we don't have anything at all. If he's tossing out fake bread crumbs we mi
ght as well go back to our clippings. And assuming that his story is true doesn't cost us anything but time."

  Clarence thought about that. "Okay, that's reasonable. We can chase this for a time unless a better lead comes along."

  "Thank you. Before we got sidetracked, you sounded like you had an idea."

  Clarence flipped through the pages. "I do. Assuming Kenneth isn't a liar... think about this from Timothy Welker's point of view. Kenneth says he said he was seeing bad things and trying to stop them."

  "And failing. Everything he did to prevent them seemed to ensure they happened."

  "Making him feel like a jinx, more than a prophet. But the point is, if he was running around trying to prevent disasters, he would've been on the scene at other recent tragedies. There could be a news report that mentions him as a witness. Sometimes those reports tell you that this person was a neighbor or a resident of some area. It's not an address but it narrows the search."

  "That's brilliant. And we'd only need to research the local media for events that occurred since the break-in," I said. "If he was doing it before that then his ability has nothing to do with our missing objects."

  "I imagine the local news is available online. We can go back and search the news stories for events in this county that fit, see if his name comes up."

  "So where can we do that."

  "Right there," Clarence said, pointing at a coffee shop. "They have wi-fi, according to the sign." He reached into the pocket of his blazer and took out a small tablet computer. "And I have this."

  So we went in the empty coffee shop, ordered coffee and got their password. I splurged on a biscotti while Clarence took a seat and began typing on his computer. When the barista brought our order to the table I took a bite of my biscotti and looked over Clarence's shoulder.

  "I wish I could taste," Edgar said.

  "Of course," I said. "Without being able to touch, you can't taste or smell either."

  He nodded. "Seeing you eat that made me remember that I could taste things once."

  "Are you, were you, a fan of biscotti?"

  "I have no idea," he said. "If I could, I'd try one though."

  “You were drinking tea before at Uncle Mason's.”

  “Yes, I rather enjoy holding the tea cup and the motion of drinking.”

  I guessed that made sense.

  "How are you doing?" I asked Clarence. Edgar sounded depressed and I didn't like the idea of my ghost being down. Good grief...I was becoming attached.

  "The internet is a little slow, but this will work. I'm running a quick search on his name and that of Koin," he said. He sounded unsure and I realized he wasn't a geek.

  "That sounds good. I'm glad you have some idea how to do that. I'm hopeless with computers."

  After a few minutes, he smiled. "This looks promising. Tragic, but promising. A fire in a neighborhood at the outskirts of Koin. He was there."

  I read over his shoulder. "A house fire?"

  "Yes. Three people died. Very sad. Early indications were that it was caused by an electrical fault. A local, named Timothy Welker, was one of the first on the scene. He was quoted about feeling helpless as he watched the flames go up."

  "The timeline is right too," I pointed out. "It happened two days after the... artifacts were stolen." Clarence gave me an odd look. "I'm tired of calling them cursed objects and then looking over my shoulder to see if anyone overheard," I told him, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone overheard.

  "Artifacts is a good word," he said. "Anyway, if this report is correct, our guy lives close by, right in the area of the fire, somewhere in a neighborhood called Clint."

  "I wonder where that is? I guess we can ask around."

  Clarence grinned. "There's no need to resort to such drastic measures. We have a map."

  "We do?"

  He held up a threefold brochure. "I got it from the counter. A realtor left them there." He unfolded it. "And Clint seems to be a few blocks from here."

  "Give the man in the plaid bowtie extra points for thinking ahead," I said. He smiled.

  "It's an elegant tie," Edgar said.

  "And now we have a good place to start asking around."

  We finished our coffee and went out to the car and headed toward Clint. As small as Koin was, Clint wasn't hard to find. It was a residential section of houses on large, wooded lots. "Very nice area," Clarence said. "Old style."

  I could see that Edgar, who insisted in sitting between us in the front seat, was uneasy. He looked from side to side and shifted as if he was sitting on something sharp. "You are fidgeting, Edgar. Is something bothering you?" I asked. "Do you know something?"

  He looked at me. "I don't know... it isn't anything specific, but yes, something is bothering me. Something feels wrong... no, it's more like I keep expecting to see a familiar face but it never happens. I'm on the edge of... wait! Stop the carriage."

  I pulled over. "Are you okay?"

  Edgar went out through the front of the car, which was more than slightly unnerving, even knowing he was a ghost. I mean knowing someone is a ghost and seeing them doing ghostly, aka nonhuman things are quite different.

  "That house," he said, pointing to a smallish clapboard house.

  "What about it?" I asked.

  "There is something inside it that we want to see."

  "What?" Clarence asked.

  "How would I know from here?" Edgar said. "I'm a ghost, not a clairvoyant. We have to go inside and find it."

  Clarence wasn't convinced. "He doesn't even know what is bothering him."

  "We brought him along to help," I pointed out. "We are all working on instinct here, including Edgar. We're in the right neighborhood and he has a feeling. The least we can do is check it out."

  Clarence gave me a startled look. "You know, that actually makes sense." He grinned. "Let's do it."

  So we got out, Clarence and I using the doors, and walked to the front door. Clarence knocked and a middle-aged man opened the door looking distraught. "No! I knew you would be coming," he said. "I didn't think it would be so soon though."

  "We didn't know we'd be coming," Clarence said.

  "Are you Tim... "

  "I've seen it already,” Tim shouted. “For your own sake, you'd better go right away, before something terrible happens."

  "It's okay," I said, trying to reassure him. "We came to help you."

  Timothy opened the door the rest of the way and waved a gun at us. "Your motives don't matter. What matters is what happens."

  "That's a 9mm Taurus automatic," Clarence said, being a lot more detailed than I thought necessary.

  "I'll settle for dealing with the fact that it is a gun," I said. We all moved back, including Edgar, and I assumed that was a reflex from the time when he wasn't a ghost.

  Timothy Welker pointed the gun at Clarence and I in turn, back and forth, then slowly backed into the house. We waited to see what he'd say. But he stared at us, more like glared defiantly and said nothing.

  "Timothy, we need to talk to you about those visions you have..."

  As soon as I said it, he turned and fled, disappearing into the house.

  Without thinking about what I was doing I ran headlong after him. Behind me, I could hear Clarence shouting. "Cecelia, get back here. Are you out of your mind? The guy has a gun. The man is out of his mind and dangerous." Ironically, Clarence was shouting his warning while chasing after me.

  I followed Timothy down a hallway that led straight through the house and into a kitchen. I caught sight of him going out of the back door and onto a porch. He was fast, and as I came down the back steps I saw him vault the fence that encircled the yard. He was making a dash toward some woods.

  I got to the fence breathing hard and I knew I was losing him. "Please stop, Mr. Welker. We want to help."

  He stopped, but only to turn and fire in my direction. He raised his gun and fired. Without thinking I threw myself to the ground. He missed me and I lay there panting. I heard a sharp cr
ack from above me. It was the sound of something breaking. I looked up and saw the large branch of a tree above me beginning to fall. He must've hit the tree. It was coming down on me and all I could do was watch—I was paralyzed. My brain was screaming for me to roll out of the way, but my body wouldn't respond.

  I felt a hard thump that knocked me over and rolled me across the grass. The branch crashed down beside me and smaller parts of it scratched me.

  I turned my head and saw Edgar standing there looking dazed.

  "You! You pushed me out of the way. You saved my life."

  "Apparently I can be partly solid for a period time," he said, looking pleased with himself. "It's a bit stressful but exhilarating."

  Clarence came running up and helped me to my feet, fussing over me. "Edgar pushed you," he said, amazed. "I saw him. He looked almost completely solid for a moment and then he slammed into you. Great job, Edgar."

  Suddenly Edgar's pleased expression changed. He looked distraught. "Oh my," he said, tipping his head oddly. "Oh, my. That was tiring."

  We watched him fading away before our eyes. He grew indistinct and it became hard to see him. "You're all wispy," I said.

  "I feel rather insubstantial," he said. "And... oh, my." He was barely there and then he wasn't there at all.

  "Edgar," I called. "Where are you? You saved my life, you wonderful and irritating ghost!"

  "How did he do that?" Clarence asked.

  "I don't think he knows," I said. "It seemed to surprise him that he was able to. It was something he did in the heat of the moment, but now he's gone."

  "You can't see him either?"

  "No. He faded away as if the effort of pushing me out from under the branch took everything he had."

  "When you watch horror stories you always have ghosts that know they are ghosts and understand their capabilities. Isn't it just like real life that when you meet a ghost, he isn't even sure what it is to be one?"

  "A novice ghost."

  "Or untrained. I suppose that by, 'oh my,' he meant that he'd just realized that he'd over exerted himself."