Werewolf Moon (The Pack Trilogy Book 1)

by Chanel Smith

  “That hardly qualifies as paranormal activity, Mr. Black,” I responded. “Perhaps some sort of magnetic field or alternate energy source is somehow interfering?”

  “We checked on all of those things as well,” he smiled. We were at least making a professional connection, even if I couldn’t seem to impress Rochester. “The opening and closing of the doors by itself is not what has everyone in a dither.” Again, he hesitated.

  “What else has occurred, Mr. Black?” Ellen spoke softly, almost like she was encouraging a child to eat their applesauce.

  “Some have said that they felt a cold wind or evil presence, heard voices and have seen images connected with the door openings. There were even reports of horrible screams. All sorts of investigations have taken place along the line between the two stations, but nothing out of the ordinary has been found.”

  Mr. Black seemed ashamed of himself because he had called in ‘ghost hunters’ to solve the problem he was facing. However, he also seemed desperate to come up with answers as well. “There is a sense of urgency to have the problem solved.”

  “There always is,” Ellen smiled. “Has anyone’s life been threatened or put at risk?”

  “Not that I know of; at least, not directly. We are very concerned about the opening doors. It wouldn’t do for one of the passengers to fall from the train. They are, of course, directed not to lean against the doors while the train is in motion, but you know how people are…”

  “Yes,” I smiled. “There always has to be one in every crowd.”

  “We can’t afford that one. We’ve taken enough heat for the amount of money that we’ve spent in the last several years upgrading and adding lines to help with the increased traffic load because of the Queen’s Jubilee and the Olympics. We don’t need any more critics, besides the other liabilities and possible deaths that could happen.”

  “I’d like to see the train line on a commuter’s map if possible,” Ellen said to the man across the desk.

  “Oh, certainly,” he responded, pushing his chair back a little from the desk and pulling out a blueprint drawer from just below the desk’s top. He removed a full color rendition of the various stations across London and the connecting rails. Mr. Black placed the map on the desk and turned it to face his two guests. “The line runs between Vauxhall Station… right here; and right along here the very next stop is Stockwell.”

  Ellen shivered involuntarily as she looked at the tiny piece of rail that was being discussed.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked instinctively.

  “It’s nothing, dear.” That was her code for ‘I’ll tell you later.’ “Can you tell me about anything that might be happening near the area that could have caused a disturbance?” Ellen asked.

  “Disturbance to what? What sort of thing are you talking about?”

  “Excavations, major renovations, which may have entailed demolitions and such?” she replied.

  “We are adding a new line that crosses under the existing one between Vauxhall and Stockwell. Is that the sort of thing that you mean?”

  “Have they dug up anything odd? I mean, like, archeological artifacts or anything like that?” Ellen asked.

  “The contractors haven’t reported anything to me. There is a great deal of interest and some controversy surrounding the excavation that is going on, mostly from archeological societies and whatnot. There would certainly be a big to do if anything was discovered. They would probably shut down the entire operation if a pinky finger was found.”

  “They have a way of swaying public opinion and hanging up progress, don’t they?” There I was again, going crosswise to the green, environmental thing. I simply couldn’t avoid the comment. It did seem like someone was always standing by to throw the kibbutz into new construction projects or any type of progress to protect either something that was long since dead and gone or some fuzzy little tree owl that was on the endangered list. I received a look for my comment and wondered why I hadn’t already learned to keep my mouth shut.

  “Mr. Black,” she quickly jumped back into the conversation. “Have you seen or heard anything or did the investigators see or hear anything? Has there been any paranormal activity in the new tunnel?”

  “I haven’t personally seen anything and neither have the investigators. Why?”

  “I was just hoping you might be able to give me a firsthand account,” she replied.

  “Would it be helpful if you had all of the firsthand accounts? I can have my administrative assistant make copies of the claims and complaints and provide those to you.”

  “That would be helpful, thank you.” She tapped her lips with a long, sexy finger several times as the wheels were spinning in her head. It wasn’t exactly a convenient time to have amorous thoughts about my wife, but whenever she did that, I could barely contain myself.

  Harold Black pressed the intercom button on his phone. For some reason, I hoped that he would ask for Miss Moneypenny. Apparently, not all of my silliness had left me. “Penelope? Could you make copies of the, um, uh, ghost files and bring them to me?” He was embarrassed that they actually had ghost files.

  “Mr. Black, would it be possible for us to ride the train between the two stations in question; just to see what turns up?” Ellen asked. The question drew me back to business.

  “Of course,” he said. “Actually, I have asked the TFL to provide badges for the two of you. It will allow you access to the facilities necessary; actually any place that you want to go on the Tube. We’ll need to snap a photo of each of you. Penelope will handle that before you leave.”

  “What about access into the new tunnel?” Ellen asked.

  “I can arrange that. Do you think it is connected to our problem?”

  I was on to where she was headed. “How long after the contractors started excavating the new tunnel, did the problems begin to take place?” I asked.

  “Two or three weeks maybe.” The expression on his face showed sudden recognition. “About the time they crossed under or came very near to the Vauxhall-Stockwell line. I will arrange access to the new tunnel for you immediately. In fact, I’ll arrange a meeting with the project manager… say tomorrow morning, ten-ish?”

  “That would be lovely,” Ellen replied.

  I threw her one of her own ‘behave’ glances and received a ‘what?’ look in return. Then she winked at me and smiled. So, I wasn’t the only one who was feeling a bit randy. Ditching the meeting and the whole ghost thing in order to go back to the hotel would have been just dandy with me.

  “Penelope, please phone Mr. Hayford and patch it through to my office, if you don’t mind,” he said into the intercom, then leaned back in his chair, had a sudden thought and pushed the button again. “Also, we need to upgrade those security badges to green, giving our new consultants the same authority as my own. Temporarily, of course,” he said as he leaned back into his chair and awaited the call. It was only a moment.

  “I have Mr. Hayford on the line.” Penelope’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Mr. Hayford. How are things going on the project this afternoon?” There was a pause while he listened to whatever the project manager was telling him. “Mr. Hayford, I hate to interrupt; we can talk about this in a little while. What I need to know is if you can meet with our…”

  “Investigators,” Ellen quickly provided the word. Saying ghost hunters often made people uncomfortable.

  “… investigators concerning the issues along the Vauxhall to Stockwell line. Listen, I was hoping to arrange a time when you could meet with them. Say tomorrow around ten?” He listened again and his expression changed. “Well, yes, those might be connected.” Another pause. “I’m afraid those are questions that you’ll have to ask them. Okay, so tomorrow at ten. Very well, and I will call you back about those other matters in about ten to fifteen minutes.”

  He set the phone back into its cradle and glanced from me to Ellen. “It seems that I misspoke before when I said that nothing had happened in the
excavation tunnel. There seem to have been some things occurring down there as well, but they had gone unreported until the recent hubbub stirred things up. I’m afraid that I don’t know which stories to believe any more.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Ellen reassured him.

  “That’s right, we’ll find an explanation for you,” I added.

  “Mr. Jackson Hayford will be meeting with you tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. I will send Rochester to get you at a quarter of 10. I do appreciate your time and your expertise. You’ve come highly recommended and I can already tell that you take a professional approach to the matter.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Ellen smiled.

  “Penelope should have those copies for you and she’ll snap the photos and get the badges prepared as well. I hope that you have an opportunity to take in some of the sites while you’re here. Also, anything you need, just let Rochester know and he will secure it for you or find someone who will.”

  “There is one thing,” I spoke up, suddenly remembering that our equipment was with our luggage. “Our luggage was hung up at the airport and all of our equipment is in it.” It was worth a shot; if he was in charge of transportation, perhaps he would be able to pull some strings and get our luggage to us.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll look into that for you posthaste.”

  He said the word with such aplomb that I was hoping I would have an opportunity to make use of it myself: posthaste. “That would be very helpful; thank you, sir.”

  “It was indeed a pleasure to meet you, Mister Black,” Ellen said, extending her hand gracefully.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he replied, moving from her hand to my own. “Penelope,” he called out. The sharp-looking redhead appeared in his doorway within seconds. “Please take very good care of our guests if you don’t mind.”

  “It will be a pleasure. Come along.”

  I felt like a schoolboy being escorted to his next class. In only a few moments, posthaste, we were outfitted with our badges and a file folder with what looked like several dozen sheets of ghost stories for our light, bedtime reading. When we left the building which housed the TFL offices, Rochester was standing by, ready to return us to the hotel… posthaste.

  Ghost Crypt

  is available at:

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Amazon AU

  About the Author:

  Chanel Smith lives in Arizona, with her husband, two cats and a ghost or two. You can find her on Facebook.