Help for the Haunted: A Novel

by John Searles

  “Ladies and gentleman, meet Caleb Lundrum. Caleb was one of the first, and certainly one of the most powerful, spirits my wife and I encountered when we began working together in the years after we were married.”

  People leaned forward in their chairs. My father began to explain how he and my mother became involved in the case when a man in the audience, about twenty rows from the stage, stood. From where I crouched in the back, I made out a bit of his profile, though mostly what I saw was from behind. His hair was dark and unkempt. His shoulders, round and beefy. His jeans, sagging. “Excuse me,” he said in a slurred voice.

  Earlier, when we turned into the parking lot of the conference center, my father commented to my mother that at least the weather had kept their detractors away. At the time, I didn’t know what he meant. Rose, of all people, informed me later that at certain of their events, religious groups waited outside, shouting at the people who walked through the doors, calling them devil worshippers and sinners. My mother always felt genuinely confused by their venom, since she considered herself to be a woman of faith and did her best to live by the Bible. When this man first disrupted their talk, I thought maybe he was someone who had it out for my parents.

  “You mentioned seeing ghosts in the movie theater when you were young,” he said, his tongue sloshing around his s’s. “But in the dark of a theater, there are all kinds of shadows and strange lights, especially if the projector’s still, you know, running. Isn’t it more likely that you saw something that looked like a ghost in the dark?”

  People craned their heads around to see who had cut off my father just when he was getting to the good stuff. Rose and I watched too. My father removed his glasses, rubbed them on his yellow button-down, then returned them to his face. “At the moment, we are discussing Caleb Lundrum, whose image is here on the screen, so I’d—”

  “Well, your friend Caleb looks to me like he might just be a problem with a camera flash. Or maybe you need to get your lens cleaned.”

  Lookshhhh to me . . . Jussshht be a problem . . . Lensshhhh cleaned . . .

  He acted so drunk it seemed put on. Still, his comment drew a laugh from the crowd nearly as big as the one my mother’s joke stirred earlier. My father kept calm and explained that the photo was taken with a special camera and that the image was most certainly not the result of a faulty flash or an unclean lens. As he spoke, Rose jabbed me in the side. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

  I stared at the man, seeing only his unkempt hair, those droopy jeans. “No.”

  “If ghosts are real,” the man said, cutting off my father again, “I mean, if they’re spirits who’ve been left in this world after their bodies have passed on, wouldn’t it be a huge epidemic? I mean, billions of lives have come and gone from this planet. So wouldn’t that mean there would be billions of ghosts wandering around taking up space?”

  “Spirits don’t occupy physical space in the way that you and I do.”

  “Oh, yeah? And how do you know? Do ghosts all go on a diet?”

  The audience let out their loudest laugh yet. Now that the man’s tone had tipped over into aggressive, I waited to see if my father would match it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” my father said, “before we go any further, I may as well use this opportunity to introduce you all to my brother, Howard.”

  The small crowd might not have actually gasped, but the news brought about yet another shift in the air of that auditorium. People twisted their necks around to see. As much as I wanted to get a better look too, I crouched lower for fear of being discovered. The last time I’d seen my uncle had been a few summers before when he rolled into the driveway on his motorcycle, making an unannounced visit and staying nearly a week. Nights, he spent watching M*A*S*H and Odd Couple reruns in the living room. Days, he passed out on the sofa. The clock that ticked not far from the cross on our wall made him jittery, and he insisted my parents stop it. “Feel like I’m living inside a time bomb,” I remembered him saying, though we were all so used to the sound it had no effect on us.

  The visit came to an end one evening at the dinner table. My uncle, his mouth full of food, said, “This pork piccata, or whatever you call it, is dry. That’s what happens when the cook tries getting too fancy. Me, I like things simpler.”

  “Well, if you like things simpler,” my father told him, not looking up from his plate, “get on your motorcycle and go find the sort of fleabag flophouse you’re used to.”

  “Come on, buddy,” my uncle said. “Relax.”

  “I’m not your ‘buddy.’ And don’t—do not, whatever you do—tell me to relax.” Still, my father kept from looking up. He cut a carrot, put it in his mouth. I thought he was done talking, but after chewing and swallowing, he continued, his gaze never leaving his plate, “Maybe I tolerated the way you and our parents treated me years ago. But I won’t tolerate it here in my own home. My wife worked hard to prepare this meal for my family to enjoy. So shut up and enjoy it too. Or, like I said, leave.”

  My uncle waited a moment before balling up his napkin and tossing it on the table. He stood and walked to the living room, where he gathered his clothes quick as a burglar. The front door opened and closed. Outside, his motorcycle roared, the sound rising then fading as he sped away.

  Only after Howie had left did my father stop eating. He, too, stood, then walked to the living room and locked the door before starting the clock. The house filled with that familiar ticking sound once more as he returned. Our cutlery clanked against our plates while we finished the meal without another mention of Howie or any conversation at all.

  Despite how many years it had been, I felt foolish for not realizing it was my uncle that night at the conference center. I whispered to Rose, “What’s he doing here?”

  “What does it look like? Busting Dad’s stones.”

  “The difficult thing about the business my wife and I are in is that many people don’t believe us. We accept that fact. Sometimes, however, those skeptics are family. That’s the case with my brother,” my father told the crowd before directly addressing my uncle. “But, Howie, these people paid to be here tonight. They came with open minds and a desire to hear what we have to say. So I’d appreciate it if you would take a seat and listen too. If not, I’d appreciate it if you would please exit the auditorium.”

  In the silence that followed, my uncle swayed slightly, as though blown back and forth by a breeze. When he did not sit but did not leave, either, a man in a security uniform approached him, taking him by the arm. My uncle jerked it away, nearly falling, before shoving past. Rather than walk down the steps to the main doors, he headed to the back of the auditorium, the guard trailing him. When he reached the wall behind the final row of seats, my uncle came to a halt. Up close, I saw that he looked different from the way I remembered. He had a belly and a beard now. His once close-cropped hair had grown bushy. His eyes were mapped with tiny red veins. Rose whispered hello, though I felt overcome by an unexpected shyness and managed only a slight smile. Howie reached out and patted our heads before winking and hustling away down the back aisle. When he arrived at the exit, the guard snatched his arm again, keeping a tight grip as he escorted my uncle out of the auditorium.

  After the door clanged shut, my father began the slow process of winning back the audience. “Forgive the interruption. Where were we? Oh, yes, Caleb Lundrum . . .”

  Rose hissed in my ear, “Let’s go find Uncle Howie.” She kept her back low and headed toward the door. I lingered, staring at that image on the screen. A trick of light or a howling demon? I couldn’t be sure. Finally, I gave up thinking about it and headed toward the door too.

  Outside, the rain had paused, though wind still gusted. The air felt hot and moist against my cheeks as I caught up with my sister in the half-empty parking lot, where the lamplights reflected in the deep puddles all around. “He’s gone,” Rose said. “It’s your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “Yeah, you were so slow we missed him.”

>   What good did it ever do me to argue? I kept my mouth shut and followed her back toward the building. That’s when we noticed the man with scratches on his face, on his arms and hands too. He glanced at us before turning to a row of bushes, wet leaves shimmering in the lamplight too. The man made a kitten call into the branches. “It’s okay. Come on out.”

  My sister must have found him as peculiar as I did, because both our paces slowed to watch. He kept calling, getting on his knees and reaching carefully into the dark of those bushes. When his hand was met by a sudden rustle and high-pitched snarl, he snapped it back. With his fingers in front of his face, we could see fresh blood glistening just like those puddles in the pavement. Rose and I might have stood there longer, waiting to see if he coaxed out what he wanted, but a horn honked behind us. We turned and saw my uncle at the wheel of a battered pickup, one side so buckled it didn’t look like the vehicle should be allowed on the road. Over the chugging engine, Howie called out, “By any chance, are you lovely ladies looking for me?”

  Rose jogged to the truck, rainwater splashing beneath her sneakers. By the time I caught up with her, she was leaning into the passenger window and they had launched into a conversation.

  “The ghostbusters won’t be done for a while,” Howie said to both of us. “What do you say we go have some fun?”

  I stepped up, poked my head inside the window. The air inside smelled of beer and smoke. The dashboard lights glowed orange and made the scruff of my uncle’s beard glow too. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips, bouncing when he spoke. “Hey there, kiddo. You’ve grown some, haven’t you?”

  My unexpected shyness returned. In the meekest of voices, I told him hello.

  “Damn if you don’t look like a carbon copy of your mother. I swear it’s like she had you all on her own. I don’t see my brother in you. Not one tiny bit.”

  Rose nudged me away in order to pull open the door and climb inside.

  “You want to come with your sister and me?” my uncle asked.

  “Where?”

  “Where? We’re going for a ride. Spin the wheels around this shit-box town for a bit. Who knows? Maybe we’ll hit an arcade if we’re lucky to find one. I’m guessing you like Ms. Pac-Man and Ping-Pong.”

  “You guessed wrong,” my sister told him. “The girl doesn’t like any of the normal things kids her age like.”

  Part of me wanted to climb into that truck simply to prove her wrong. I might have if Howie didn’t look right at me, cigarette bouncing, and say, “Come on, Rose. What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m Sylvie. She’s Rose,” I corrected him.

  The lighter popped out of the dashboard. Howie reached for it and lit his cigarette so it glowed like the rest of him. “I know that. It’s just, like I was saying, you look so much like your mother, a guy can get mixed up is all. Anyway, Sylvie, get in the truck.”

  His voice had changed, so it sounded more like an order than an invitation. Now I was the one who stood caught between two choices, while the wind blew and the palms made a frantic swooshing above and that man with the scratches called into the bushes, “It’s all right. Come on. It’s safe. I promise.”

  “Just forget her,” Rose said.

  My uncle leaned across the seat, his hairy, tattooed arm brushing Rose’s stomach as he pushed open the door. “Get in the truck,” he said again.

  And then came another voice, “Sylvie!”

  I whirled around to see the revolving door of the conference center still spinning even after it spit my mother from the building. She moved in my direction, one hand clutching her silver cross necklace. When she saw Rose sitting in my uncle’s truck, her face took on a stricken expression. Over the sound of the wind and the chugging engine and that man calling into the bushes, my mother raised her voice louder than I’d ever heard, “Get out of that truck! Get out of that truck now, Rose!”

  “You better step on it, Uncle,” my sister said.

  When my mother reached us, she must have realized that my sister had every intention of ignoring her. She looked at Howie and said, “Tell her to get out.”

  He laughed. “You want me to tell her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little messed up? I haven’t seen the girl in years and she’s going to listen to me. Sounds like you have trouble controlling your own kid.”

  My mother gave up reasoning with him. One last time, she tried with my sister. “Rose, I’m asking you to get out of that truck.”

  Rose’s only response was to pull the door shut. My mother tugged back, but Rose hammered down the lock and cranked up the window. I watched her say something to my uncle, but it was as though there were two worlds now: one inside the truck, which we could not hear, and another outside, where that man by the bushes was still calling into the bushes.

  My uncle pulled away from the curb. As their taillights disappeared out of the lot, my mother clutched her cross and asked if I knew where they were going.

  “For a ride. And maybe to an arcade if they find one.”

  Her eyes shut a moment, and I knew she was praying. When she opened them again, I asked how she knew that Rose and I were outside. I thought maybe she’d tell me she had one of her feelings, but instead she said that the security guard had checked the greenroom and reported back that it was empty. My mother had excused herself from the talk and left my father on the stage while she came to find us. “I can’t believe she’s gone off with him.”

  I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for not living up to the promise I made to my father, but someone else spoke first.

  “Excuse me,” the voice said.

  My mother and I turned to see the man with the scratches. We had been so preoccupied, staring out at the parking lot, that neither of us noticed him approach. Beneath the visor of his baseball cap, I saw a long nose with flared nostrils and skinny lips. He must have wiped his hand on his face, because blood smeared across one cheek.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

  “This is not a good time,” my mother told him, letting go of her cross and straightening her posture. It was never her way to be rude, but this moment called for an exception. “As I’m sure you just witnessed, we are having some family difficulties.”

  “I’m sorry.” The man stepped closer, and I could see that beneath the smudges of blood, his skin looked smooth and creaseless. “I really am sorry. But, please. I drove all the way here, hours and hours, to hear you and your husband speak.”

  “Well, my husband is still inside speaking. If you hurry, you can hear him.”

  “I know that. I was in the auditorium earlier. But I had to leave, because, well . . .”

  As his voice trailed off, my mother seemed to take him in for the first time. I watched her face soften in such a way that she appeared more like her usual, serene self. “What is it?”

  “It’s . . . well . . . I need your help.”

  He pointed to the bushes, and my mother walked toward them. I had the sense that she did not want me to follow, so I lingered behind. The man did too. From the curb, we watched as my mother gathered the hem of her dress and crouched to the ground. Rather than call into the darkness the way he had been doing, she began humming, the same song she hummed on the drive down to Florida to shut out Rose’s bad behavior. At last, when her humming stopped, my mother held her hand into the shadows. I cringed, expecting the rustle and high-pitched snarl.

  Except for the wind shaking the palm trees, things were quiet. I looked closer and saw, not far from my mother’s hand, a pair of eyes. Wet and shiny, they made me think of an animal blinking there in the dark. And then, slowly, she appeared. Not an animal. A girl. She was older than me, I could tell, though not by much. Thirteen, I guessed. Maybe fourteen. Her blond hair was matted. Her expression, empty and dazed. She placed her hand in my mother’s. Together, they stood. On the girl’s forehead, my mother made the sign of the cross over and over again, so many times it was not possible to count. When
that was done at last, she placed her palms on the girl’s cheeks. Eyes closed, my mother’s lips moved in prayer. “In the name of the Father,” she said finally, “the Son, the Holy Ghost.”

  The girl’s hand in hers now, she led her to where we stood by the curb in the spot my uncle’s truck had been only a few moments earlier. As rain began to fall once more, misting my cheeks and dampening my hair, I studied the girl more carefully. No shoes. One sock. Ratty shorts and T-shirt. Her cherub cheeks and arms scratched, same as the man’s. Her bright blue eyes stayed trained on my mother and no one else. She opened her mouth, actually moved it up and down in a vague, marionette sort of way, but no sound came.

  Still, my mother seemed to understand. “It’s okay,” she said, turning to the man. “Come take her.”

  With my mother’s blessing, he stepped toward the girl and held out his hand. When she took it, he spoke in an astonished voice to my mother, “It’s true what people say. You have a gift.”

  She gave a small nod, but that was her only response. After so many years, my mother still did not like to be made the center of attention. And more than likely, her mind was on her oldest daughter, out there on the dark roads with her drunken brother-in-law at the wheel.

  Before they turned to go, the man reached out his scratched hand and shook my mother’s. “Thank you, and God bless. My apologies for intruding on your difficulties.”

  “It’s okay,” she told him. “You needed help. And certain kinds of help are hard to come by in this world.”

  “Well, I’m grateful to you for understanding,” he said. “By the way, my name is Albert Lynch and this is my daughter, Abigail.”

  Chapter 9

  Little Things

  WITNESS SURFACES WHO MAY CLEAR SUSPECT IN KILLING OF FAMOUS MARYLAND COUPLE.