A Gust of Ghosts

by Suzanne Harper

  That evening, the Malones filled their car with their investigation equipment and headed out to the cemetery. Not only had it been prominently mentioned in Hill Country Hauntings (at least five different hauntings and the glowing gravestone had been reported), but it was just a short drive from their house.

  After taking several wrong turns, pulling off the road to check the map, getting stuck in the mud, and losing the map out the window in a sudden gust of wind, the Malones had finally stumbled on the cemetery purely by chance. They wearily got out of the car and waded through knee-high weeds to the rusty gate and a metal sign that read, “Shady Rest Cemetery.”

  The sun was just setting as they arrived, casting a mellow light over two dozen headstones, half hidden in high grass and wildflowers.

  Will opened the gate. He had to push it several times. When it finally gave way, it let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a creak.

  “Nice touch,” he commented. “Very spooky.”

  Rolly tried swinging on the gate. It moved two rusty inches, then creaked to a stop. He stepped off the gate and gave it a little kick.

  “I thought this was supposed to be fun,” he said accusingly.

  “Fun? What nonsense,” Mr. Malone said briskly. “We are here to work. First things first—let’s walk around, find the best spots to set up our equipment, and get a feel for our surroundings.”

  “And, of course, let the spirits get a feel for us,” added Mrs. Malone. “Some of them are too shy to appear until they know what kind of reception they’re going to get.”

  The Malones walked through the gate, then stood still, staring in silence at the headstones. Some humble markers had sunk into the earth and almost disappeared. Even the grander monuments, including a granite tomb and a marble column, looked weathered and worn.

  There were gravel paths that meandered between the graves and a stone bench in the shade of a spreading oak tree. But much of the gravel had washed away, the bench seat was covered with moss, and broken tree branches blocked several of the paths. There was even an uprooted tree lying across the path just inside the gate, its dirt-covered roots sticking up into the air.

  “This place looks abandoned,” said Franny. “Like no one cares about it anymore.”

  A wind seemed to rise from nowhere, sweeping through the trees and causing the grass and wildflowers to flatten to the earth. Poppy had been staring at a marble column, which had sunk into the ground and now listed to one side. She was trying to calculate the exact angle of the tilt by studying the shadow it cast in the light of the setting sun. As the branches of an oak tree tossed wildly in the air, she could have sworn that she saw the column’s shadow slip along the ground in her direction....

  And then the wind died down and everything was still once more. Poppy blinked, then stared hard at the shadow, but it lay dark and motionless.

  She gave herself a little shake. The cemetery was rather creepy, of course—all cemeteries were—but she mustn’t let her imagination run away with her. After all, she was a scientist. She had to observe everything closely and ask penetrating questions about what she saw … such as why a well-visited cemetery, famous for its hauntings, would look so run down.

  “I thought lots of people came out here,” Poppy said. “I thought it was like a tourist attraction, with people driving by at midnight to see the famous glowing headstone.”

  “I don’t think that happens much these days,” said Mrs. Malone, panting slightly as she hauled a cooler filled with sandwiches through the gate. “At least, not since that highway bypass was put in twenty or thirty years ago. Not many people have a reason to drive down this road anymore.”

  “Which is excellent news for us,” said Mr. Malone heartily. “No visitors means no interruptions, no inane questions, and no silly jokes about Ghostbusters. So!” He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s start by finding the Glowing Angel. That’s obviously the center of all the paranormal activity in the cemetery.”

  Mrs. Malone pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. She had photocopied a map of the cemetery from Hill Country Hauntings. An arrow helpfully pointed out the location of the Glowing Angel statue.

  “Hmm, let’s see....” Mrs. Malone raised her head and squinted into the middle distance. “The book said the statue was on a small hill toward the east....” She walked a few feet along a path that soon disappeared into a thicket of bushes. Mrs. Malone referred to the map again, then pointed. “It should be back there, I think, just beyond all this undergrowth.”

  She pushed her glasses up more firmly on her nose and stared at the bushes. “Goodness, what a tangle! I’m not sure how we’ll get close enough to the angel statue to set up our equipment.”

  “Not a problem,” said Mr. Malone. “We’ll simply bushwhack our way through. All it takes is grit, a good sense of direction, and a sharp machete.” He dropped his backpack to the ground, rummaged through it for a moment, then pulled out a short metal sword. “Fortunately, I always carry a machete with me, ever since my near-death encounter with the Moth Man in 1975. Did I ever tell you—”

  “Yes,” said Franny, who was staring at what looked like a wall of spiky branches. “You don’t mean we’re going to try to get through those bushes, do you?”

  “The ones that are five feet tall?” asked Poppy.

  “And covered with thorns?” asked Will.

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Malone, looking from one appalled face to the next. “Paranormal investigations are not for the faint of heart! But I will be right behind you, cheering you on.”

  He held out the machete. “So,” he said, “who wants to go first?”

  Chapter THREE

  Despite Mr. Malone’s cheering them on (which mainly consisted of shouting things like, “Keep going, keep going, no one ever died from a scratch!”), bushwhacking turned out to be just as hard as it sounded. By the time they pushed their way through to the small clearing where the Glowing Angel stood, Poppy had scratches on her arms, nettle stings on her legs, and a prickly feeling of certainty that she would wake up the next day with a case of poison ivy.

  It would have been worth it if the famous Glowing Angel statue had been the slightest bit impressive. The angel itself was quite small—more of a cherub, really. It perched on top of a squat column that looked as if the sculptor had run out of stone before it reached its full height. It was almost hidden from visitors in the shade of a cottonwood tree.

  And it was definitely not glowing.

  Poppy crossed her arms and looked at it with a familiar feeling. Somehow, this unimposing little statue seemed to stand for every paranormal investigation her family had ever gone on. It always started with the hope of something thrilling—say, a magnificent marble angel, wings outspread, glowing in the night like moonlight on freshly fallen snow. And it always ended like this, with a small, fat angel sitting amid thorny bushes, looking completely ordinary.

  Mr. Malone held up a magnetometer in front of the statue and tried to read the gauge in the gathering dusk.

  “Look at these fluctuations, Lucille,” he said, his voice tense with excitement. “I don’t think I’ve seen this much activity since we tested that witch’s grave in Salem.”

  “Alleged witch, dear,” said Mrs. Malone, peering at the dial. “Unjustly accused, poor thing; no wonder she couldn’t settle down after she died.... Oh yes, those numbers look very encouraging!” She wrote them in a small notebook. “Did you take a temperature reading when we arrived? I think it’s starting to feel cooler.”

  Poppy brushed damp hair off her forehead and wondered if she should point out that the temperature always fell after sunset.

  “You’re right,” said Mr. Malone, squinting at a thermometer. “It looks as if the temperature has dropped—let’s see—three degrees since we got here!”

  Will took the thermometer from his father. “You’re right. It’s down to ninety-five,” he said. “Brr. Get out the sweaters.”

  “That’s not quite the deep, bone-c
hilling cold that indicates that a spirit is present,” admitted Mrs. Malone. “But still! The night is young!”

  A mournful, eerie sound floated through the air.

  “Shh.” Mr. Malone held up a hand. “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Malone whispered. “It sounded like a sad and lonely spirit, longing to find rest.”

  “It sounded like an owl,” said Poppy flatly.

  “Nonsense,” said Mr. Malone. “What are we more likely to find in a graveyard? Ghosts? Or owls?”

  A dark form launched itself from the top of a nearby tree and flew silently above their heads, its wings outstretched against the darkening sky.

  “Owls,” said Poppy, trying not to sound triumphant.

  “Don’t get too smug,” said Mr. Malone, pointing the thermometer at her. “Remember, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth—’”

  “Than are dreamt of in my philosophy. I know, I know.” Poppy said. Her parents were fond of reciting this quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, especially when she tried to offer a natural explanation for any strange occurrence. “But that was just an owl.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Malone. “Remember, some cultures believe that owls are guardians of the afterlife and that they help souls transition from this plane of existence to the next. I think that seeing that owl is a very good sign. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “You’re always feeling things in your bones,” muttered Franny as she made sure the lens cap was off the video camera. “Remember when your bones told you I’d make the cheerleading squad? Or that I would get an A on my history test? Or that Garrett McCoy would ask me to the homecoming dance? I think maybe we should stop listening to your bones.”

  Mrs. Malone ignored this. “And you know that graveyards have always been lucky for us, Emerson,” she said, giving Mr. Malone a misty smile.

  Mr. Malone stopped twiddling with the knobs on the camera tripod long enough to smile at her. “That’s true. Remember the time we staked out that druid burial ground in Kansas?”

  Her eyes got a dreamy, faraway look. “How could I forget? That was the night you proposed!”

  Poppy knew what was coming next. Quickly, she said, “Um, I think we might need a couple more motion sensors at the base of the angel statue. Dad, can you tell me where you put the extras—”

  But it was too late.

  Mr. Malone bounded across two graves and vaulted over a headstone in order to plant a kiss on Mrs. Malone’s nose. “That was an unforgettable night,” he said gallantly.

  “Ick!” Franny covered her eyes in horror. “Stop it!”

  “First you said yes,” Mr. Malone continued, “and then later that night we managed to record the ghostly chant of an ancient druid ritual.”

  “I’m not listening to this,” Will called out, putting his fingers in his ears and then humming loudly for good measure.

  “Why don’t we play that tape tonight when we go home?” Mrs. Malone murmured, gazing into Mr. Malone’s eyes. “It’s been so long since we’ve listened to Our Song.”

  Poppy winced. “Please,” she said. “Don’t.”

  When her parents were in this kind of mood, they did more than listen to the tape of the druids (whose tuneless chant made them sound vaguely depressed). They put stereo speakers in the windows, played the tape at full volume, and performed a dance on the front lawn (preferably under a full moon), which involved slowly circling each other and waving their arms mysteriously in the air.

  “I’m not sure our new neighbors are ready for the druids,” Poppy added. “Or for the druid dance.”

  “It will haunt their dreams,” said Will. “I still wake up screaming at least once a month.”

  “Well, if you children don’t want to hear more about our courtship, I suggest you start lending a hand,” Mrs. Malone said crisply. “Franny, get the extra batteries out of the camera case. You know how spirit activity causes them to run down.”

  Mrs. Malone handed Poppy a voice-activated tape recorder. “I’m going to put you in charge of taking notes,” she said. “We’ll need a record of everything that happens as evidence. If we see or hear anything unusual—a floating light, a sudden mist, an unusual noise—”

  “I know, I know,” Poppy interrupted. “I say the date, the time, and what we saw or heard.”

  “Is your watch accurate?” asked Mr. Malone.

  “I synchronize it to Greenwich Mean Time every morning,” Poppy said, offended. “Of course it’s accurate.”

  “Good. Franny, come here and hold this camera while I tighten the tripod,” Mr. Malone said.

  Sighing deeply, Franny stood up and slouched over to her father. “And to think I could be at home watching my favorite TV show,” she said bitterly. “Or any TV show, for that matter. Even the nightly news would be more interesting than this.”

  Mr. Malone started to hand her the camera, then stopped, frowning. “Just look at yourself,” he said accusingly. “What have you done with your hair?”

  For the first time since they had arrived at the cemetery, Franny smiled. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, “Well, first I used that new conditioner and then I used my curling iron to make loose ringlets—”

  “Tie it back. Now.” Mr. Malone reached in his pocket. “Here’s a rubber band.”

  “But I spent an hour getting it to look perfect,” Franny protested.

  “You know the rules,” Mr. Malone said impatiently. “If any skeptics see a photo of you looking like that, they’ll claim that any anomalies we happen to film were just your hair flying around in front of the camera lens.”

  “Fine.” Sulkily, she pulled her hair into a ponytail.

  “Good. And wear this, just to be on the safe side.” He handed her a shapeless cotton hat.

  She closed her eyes as if in pain, but put it on. “Of course, I’ll have horrible hat hair tomorrow, but I suppose you don’t care about that,” she said gloomily.

  “You’re right, I don’t,” said Mr. Malone, turning back to the camera. Then he stopped and sniffed the air. “What is that obnoxious odor?” He sniffed again, then glared at her. “Are you wearing perfume?”

  Franny crossed her arms and stared at him defiantly. “Yes! And it’s not obnoxious! It’s called Evening Dreams. I read about it in a magazine. It’s the favorite perfume of all the movie stars in Hollywood—”

  “I don’t care if it’s the favorite perfume of the maharajah himself!” Mr. Malone roared. “Get a bottle of water and a paper towel and scrub it off!”

  Franny scowled. “If I can’t look nice, I should at least be able to smell nice.”

  “Now, dear, be reasonable,” said Mrs. Malone. “You know that ghosts often get our attention through our olfactory sense. Remember when we all smelled lilacs in the dining room at the old Oakwood mansion? Think how you would feel if we missed making contact with a ghost simply because you wanted to wear perfume!”

  Poppy slumped down, her back to a particularly worn headstone, and closed her eyes. Yawning, she waited for the inevitable argument to come to its inevitable end.

  Fifteen minutes later, Franny was sulkily double-checking the cameras, after having scrubbed off her perfume with a paper towel and a bottle of seltzer water.

  “Will, why don’t you put the EVP recorder on that nice flat tomb,” Mrs. Malone said. “We don’t want to miss a chance to capture the sound of any disembodied voices that happen to show up.”

  By the time the equipment was set up, night was officially falling. The Malones took their stations. They were scattered among the gravestones, close enough to see and talk to one another, but far enough apart so that they could each observe a different part of the cemetery.

  “Now remember, ghosts respond to our vibrational frequency,” said Mrs. Malone. “I suggest that we all meditate for a few moments. That will open a portal so that the spirits can more easily contact us. Rolly, stop throwing pebbles at that marble plinth, dear. Come sit beside me.”

  S
he closed her eyes and began making a low humming noise. For several moments, that was the only sound.

  Then her eyes opened and she glared around at her family. “I cannot do this alone, you know,” she said severely. “I need everyone’s help.”

  “I hate meditating,” Franny said. “My mind always goes blank. I never have a single thought in my head.”

  Will’s and Poppy’s eyes met.

  Poppy gave him a warning look. He winked in response.

  “Too easy,” he whispered.

  “Just send out warm and loving feelings to the Universe,” said Mrs. Malone. “That’s enough to make a ghost feel welcome.”

  Sighing, Poppy closed her eyes and tried to summon up warm and loving feelings. It turned out to be quite difficult. She kept getting sidetracked by little annoyances, like a bead of sweat rolling down her face or the whine of a mosquito next to her ear.

  She shifted to a more comfortable position and tried to concentrate. She had recently read a fascinating article about studies that had been done with Tibetan Buddhist monks who had spent decades learning the inner mysteries of meditation. Many were so skilled at focusing on their inner world that they could completely block out the discomforts of the outer world.

  Just pay attention to the sounds around you, she told herself. Forget about the heat, the bugs, and that sharp pebble under your left leg....

  She breathed slowly and listened.

  She heard her parents humming nasally, like contented, out-of-tune bees.

  She heard the squeak of a bat as it flew overhead.

  She heard a mysterious rustling in the grass behind her and tried not to imagine what it might be.

  And she heard the owl hoot again, a sound that seemed even more eerie with her eyes closed.

  Her thoughts wandered to what her mother had said. Some cultures believe that owls are guardians of the afterlife … they help souls transition from this plane of existence to the next....

  Poppy shivered slightly. She knew, of course, that the owl was simply letting other owls know that they shouldn’t think of hunting in his territory. But now, sitting in a dark graveyard, it was easy to imagine that it was calling out to the spirits it was charged with helping, guiding them on their path home.