The Ghosts and Hauntings Collection

by Cat Knight

“What happened when the woman came back?” Julia asked.

  “That’s just it. The woman never came back. Of course, neither did her husband. That complicated things, so the property stood vacant for several years after the war ended. It was finally auctioned off for taxes to a man named Fillmore. He tried to sell it, but it wasn’t a go. In his bankruptcy, the property was purchased by a builder, Lonny Piler. Lonny managed to get the house framed before it burned to the ground. Not having deep pockets, Lonny disappeared to America, people supposed. In any case, the land went on the auction block a second time. It sold to Miles Portner who owned the house next door. Miles never tried to build. He used the property as a garden.” Fred sipped tea and turned a few more pages in his file.

  Julia’s tea tasted faintly of mint, not an unpleasant taste.

  “Here,” Fred said. “Miles died in nineteen eighty-five. His children wanted nothing to do with either the house or the garden. They sold the properties separately. The garden passed to Watson and Penelope Montrose, an older couple. It was Watson who recognized the old basement walls and dug out half. I suppose he stopped at half because that was all he needed or could afford. In any case, you have no doubt noted that the basement does not extend under the entire house.”

  “I have,” Julia said. “I thought it was always like that.”

  “No, the original basement ran the length of the house, but it’s no matter. I managed to chase down a carpenter who was involved in building the Montrose house, and he said it was the oddest job he had ever worked. He said that every morning he had to re-measure and re-plumb the frame as his chalk lines had moved during the night.

  He blamed the local hooligans, and he was probably right, but the chalk lines are one more odd occurrence.”

  The bell above the door rang, and Fred excused himself.

  While he waited on a customer, Julia wandered to the kitchen and brewed more tea. From what she had heard so far, she was not yet convinced of the haunting, but Fred’s tale certainly didn’t kill off that notion.

  By the time she returned to the table, Fred was seeing his customer out the door.

  “Where were we?” Fred asked.

  “You were telling me about the Watson house.”

  “Yes, well, Watson and Penelope moved into their new house in ninety-three, and from the start, it wasn’t a particularly happy home. Within a year, Watson had moved out for health reasons. He moved to Southampton for the salt air, which apparently wasn’t all that healthful. He died shortly after moving. Penelope stayed in the house for a time. Then, in two thousand, she had a series of strokes. The strokes put her in hospital where she always seemed to recover enough to move back to the house, only to suffer the next stroke. By two thousand seven, she was permanently in hospital. The poor soul had declined quite a lot, could barely remember her name, and she needed assistance with everything. I met her daughter when I was looking for a place. According to the daughter, her mother constantly said ‘get out’ and ‘leave now’. I thought that odd until I moved into the house. I’m sure you understand.”

  Julia nodded. She knew exactly how Penelope felt.

  “The daughter sold the house to me, and to her credit, she did say something about her mother hearing voices. But why would that be strange for a woman having strokes? I mean, not so odd, right?

  “My partner Celia and I bought the house in ‘10. We got a good deal. We were happy for a time in that house. Celia’s a painter. The basement was her work space. When she complained about her paints being moved, I nodded. When she accused me of adding dabs of paint to her ‘masterpieces’, I laughed. When she started wearing earplugs in order not to hear voices, I shook my head and told her she was crazy. Then she walked out after telling me she couldn’t work in such conditions. I stayed on at the house for a while by-myself. Celia and I see each other now and again… Celia was very angry at me you see.”

  Julia nodded in sympathy, inwardly thinking Fred probably earned some of that anger.

  “I guess that since I worked long hours, I didn’t hear the voices as often as she did. But once she was gone, the voices were loud and clear. A woman and a man, and I have to admit they scared me to death. I didn’t wait to be driven to a stroke. I moved out and put the house on the market. You came along, and well, my agent advised me…”

  Julia nodded. “A question. Did you put up the speakers in the basement?”

  “I did. I thought it would help her you know, music, Beeb, things that would drown out the voices.”

  “Why did you leave them?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair and tried a wan smile. “I didn’t want to go back down there. I… I got scared.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Rattler hopped from foot to foot, but not because he was cold. He knew what was happening. His body was starting the withdrawal process. He had gone through it more than once, and it always began the same way. He got the antsies. He couldn’t stand still. He shook like jelly on an ocean cruiser during a hurricane. If he didn’t get relief soon, the pain would come, and it wouldn’t be a good pain. It would be agonizing, a pain that penetrated every bone and muscle in his body. Rattler wanted to avoid that at all costs. So he shifted from foot to foot as he waited for Ears to come to the door. When the door opened, Rattler tried for his biggest grin—he didn’t make it.

  “Ears, my mate, how you doin’?”

  Ears frowned. Rattler had never known why Ears wore the plaid and black, but it seemed the outfit was for home use also.

  Rattler sneaked a peek over Ears’ shoulder, but he saw nothing that seemed too wild.

  “Rattler, what are you doing here?”

  Rattler had practiced this part of his spiel, and he fought the urge to go quicker.

  “Hey, well, I need to get into Julia’s studio. You see, I left my kit in there, and I need it for my next gig. She’s not there, and she’s not answering her phone, so I thought maybe I could borrow your key.”

  “I don’t see how I can do that,” Ears said.

  “Then, come with me. Unlock the door, let me get my kit, and lock up. You got time, don’t you?”

  “In fact, I don’t. There’s a commercial I have to sync up, and the work is on the other side of the city.”

  Rattler knew about Ears’ engagement, which was why Rattler had waited till now to talk to Ears.

  “That’s great,” Rattler said. “That’s really great, but I’m over the barrel here. I don’t work, and I don’t eat, savvy? I promise to bring the key right back.”

  Ears didn’t appear to heed Rattler’s plea.

  “OK,” Rattler said. “Let’s do this. On your way to your gig, you unlock the door for me. When I’m done, I’ll lock up. No need to give me your key. What do you say?”

  “I don’t have time,” Ears replied.

  “I’ll leave the key on the mixing board. You’ll find it the next time you go in.”

  “I hate this,” Ears said.

  For a moment, Rattler considered just bashing Ears on the head and taking the key.

  If the smaller man didn’t hand it over in the next minute, Rattler might well take matters into his own hands. Why didn’t Ears see the need?

  “I’m going to be honest with you,” Rattler said. “I’m strung out. My drugs are in the studio. If I don’t get the goods, I’m going to do something crazy. You don’t want me to do something crazy.”

  Ears backed up a step. “You wouldn’t.”

  “You read about it every day in the Guardian and hear on the Beeb. Users do whatever they have to.”

  Ears reached into his pocket, pulled out a keyring, and niftily took off a key which he offered to Rattler.

  “Leave it on the mixer. And make sure you lock up. Oh god, I shouldn’t do this.”

  Rattler snatched the key from Ears’ hand and backed away. “Thanks, mate, thanks. I’ll lock up. Trust me.”

  Rattler turned and fairly ran. He had to get away before Ears determined that trusting a junkie was insane.r />
  The first thing Rattler did after he let himself into the studio was to put Ears’ key on the mixer. Rattler didn’t trust himself to remember once he had the painkiller running through is veins. Hands shaking, he raced toward the basement stairs.

  “LEAVE!”

  In another universe where Rattler might not have been strung out, he would have heeded the advice. Today, in his present condition, it would take two stout men and a stun gun to stop him.

  Rattler fairly fell down the steps, saving himself by clutching the railing. At the bottom, he turned for the wall of boxes, and he smiled. He was a good as fixed.

  He found his box immediately and pulled it loose. He opened it and grabbed a bottle. Dropping the box, he uncapped the bottle and shook it into his palm.

  Nothing came out.

  Rattler shook the bottle harder.

  Nothing came out.

  As in some comedy, Rattler looked into the bottle to confirm there were no pills. Then he tossed aside the bottle and grabbed a second one from the box. He shook it without taking off the lid.

  Empty.

  He tossed the bottle and grabbed the box. His bag of white powder was gone too.

  What the bloody hell!

  Rattler threw the box across the room and spun around. What had happened to his stash? Before he could answer the question, the first deep pang doubled him over in pain. Oh god, it was beginning in earnest. He had to do something. He knew that the pangs would deepen and come faster. It was like being in labour.

  The wrong box.

  The idea popped up inside his head. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He thought he had placed only one stash, but that couldn’t be true.

  He had to have placed at least two and maybe more. He just couldn’t remember correctly. Yes, that had to be the case.

  He jerked out a second box of equal size and opened it.

  Empty.

  He tossed the box and pulled out a third.

  Empty.

  He removed half a dozen boxes from the box wall before he heard the voice.

  “You won’t find them, Rattler”

  Rattler turned around but found no one.

  “You know you won’t find them,” the voice said.

  Rattler knew the smooth female voice spoke the truth. He hadn’t hidden more than one stash. One, and only one.

  He doubled over again.

  “That stash is gone,” the voice continued. “But there’s something you forgot.”

  “What?” Rattler said out loud. “What have I forgot?”

  “If I help, will you leave forever?”

  “Yes, yes, and never come back.”

  Rattler knew he was lying, but he no longer cared. He had to have something.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave in Dallas.”

  “Rattler?”

  “Baltimore, I mean Baltimore.”

  “Under the stairs. Your backup.”

  “What?” Rattler waited, but the voice didn’t answer.

  Half bent over, he shuffled to the stairs, panting from a pain that intensified with every beat of his heart.

  “Where?” Rattler asked.

  Again, he received no answer as tears formed in his eyes. Wiping them away, he searched the underside of the steps. But he didn’t see anything. It would be like him to hide something extra, but what?

  “Lower,” the voice advised.

  He sank to his knees and looked under the riser.

  And there they were.

  Taped to a step were a syringe and a small vial.

  For a moment, Rattler didn’t believe his eyes. He had had episodes where hallucinations were common. Was this one? He reached out tentatively and ran a finger over the vial, the syringe. It felt real, very real, not like a hallucination at all. He recognized what it was. It was his emergency stash.

  He fought the urge to jerk it off the step. If he dropped it… He didn’t finish the thought. He couldn’t drop it. He didn’t dare. He unfastened the package and cradled it as he looked about the room. Even as he looked, a small tremor rippled through him—construction—and he fell off balance, striking his cheek against the steps. Pain shot through his face.

  But he hadn’t dropped the goods.

  He didn’t have time to go upstairs. He didn’t trust his body to get him there. Instead, he limped across the room to the far wall.

  There, he slowly lowered himself until he was sitting against it. He placed the vial and syringe in his lap and rolled up his sleeve.

  “Do it,” the voice urged. “You’ll feel good enough to leave. And Rattler… if you come back– I’ll make sure you never leave.”

  He uncapped the vial and the syringe. His hands shook so badly that he wondered if he could complete the act. Closing one eye, he placed the needle in the vial and drew it full.

  He placed the vial on his leg and studied his arm. He knew where to insert the needle. His forearm featured the tattoo of a rattlesnake. The eye was his preferred site. Tattoos hid bruises.

  “Not too much,” the voice said. “Just enough to ease the pain.”

  Rattler frowned, his thinking foggy. Did he need it all? It was more than…

  “Stop now.”

  But he needed it all.

  He placed his left arm on his thigh, and the vial rolled off. He didn’t care. Slowly, carefully, he put the tip of the needle on the snake’s eye. With a deep breath, he shoved it into the vein he knew waited. He pushed down the plunger. He felt the juice rush into his system. Not bothering to remove the syringe, he closed his eyes.

  “Have it your own way then,” he heard the voice say. Rattler floated in a euphoric haze.

  Somewhere around him he heard it again. “You took it all. Greedy Rattler. I told you stop. You’ll be leaving soon. It’s probably for the best really.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Julia opened the door and marched down the steps trying to put on a stiff upper lip, but that didn’t seem so doable. Once she reached the bottom of the steps she came to a complete stop. The ‘presence’ hadn’t tossed about a few more boxes. No, it had managed to replace every single box exactly where it was supposed to be, as neat as your Aunt Mary’s bureau. It was as if they had never been disturbed. Incredible.

  But it was not the neat wall that made Julia scream.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Rattler sat on the floor, his back to the far wall. His cowboy hat had fallen to one side, his head rolled to his shoulder. His blue face told Julia all she needed to know, and the needle stuck in the eye of his rattlesnake tattoo confirmed the cause.

  Rattler was as dead as he looked. At least, she thought so. She fought the urge to run up the stairs and call emergency services. After all, if she called, they would want to know how she knew he was dead, and if she said ‘well, he looks dead’, they would insist she find out.

  So, she tiptoed across the basement — as if she was going to wake him — and she felt his wrist for a pulse. His skin was decidedly cool. No pulse, no life. That was pretty much it.

  She considered him for a moment. It seemed appropriate that the needle was stuck in the eye of a rattlesnake tattoo. Irony? Then, she noticed the small vial lying by his leg. She reached for the vial but stopped herself. No, that might be evidence, and evidence was not to be handled. An hour of watching the Beeb educated the viewer as to that. She backed away from the body and turned.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  “I don’t get it,” Alden said. “How did Rattler get in?”

  Julia gripped the pint glass with both hands because she was afraid that if she didn’t, they would shake. It was all she could do to summon up the grim smile that froze her face in a less

  than full-panic grimace. She had never known such fear, such a cold freezing within her stomach causing her skin to pimple like a goose.

  “Ears’ key,” Julia said. “Rattler persuaded Ears to hand over his key.”

  “And the drugs?”

  “The police se
arched, and they found a bit of tape on the steps, underneath. They surmised that Rattler had taped the vial there some time ago.

  Probably the syringe too. Either he remembered what he had done or found it while searching. Doesn’t matter. It was lethal.”

  “Yes, and that’s another conundrum. I supposed he was expert at measuring doses. How could he make such a mistake?”

  Julia shrugged. “He was desperate, and desperate people commit errors. Or it could be that he hadn’t used that drug in some time, and he simply couldn’t handle the dose. In any case, he’s… dead.”

  Alden reached across the table and took one of her hands, and she was more than a little bit thankful for that. Now, if she could keep her teeth from chattering…

  “Why don’t you take a few days off. Go to the shore or something. Get this bloody business behind you.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because all the time I spend away, I’ll be thinking the same thing. What the bloody hell is wrong with my studio? That’s not going to just disappear like a puff of smoke. It’s like a toothache. You can take some drugs and dull the pain, but until you go to the dentist and get it fixed, it’s always going to be there.”

  “Perhaps if you’re away, it will be easier to think of a solution.”

  She frowned and fought the urge to call him an idiot. “Thank you for the suggestion, but it just won’t work”.

  “Julia, come-on. I’ll take a couple of days and we’ll go together.”

  Julia glared and shook her head. “There’s something there, and I have to figure out what it is. I can’t do that from under an umbrella on the sand.”

  “OK,” he said. “I get it. But promise me this. Until you figure it out, and I’m sure you will, promise me you won’t do anything bonkers unless I’m with you.”

  “You’re giving me permission to be bonkers as long as you’re there?”

  “You know what I mean. Take no risks unless I’m there. Fair?”

  She smiled. “Fair.”

  He squeezed her hand, and she knew she would never live up to the agreement. If she was going to walk into danger, she wasn’t taking him with her. That would put both of them in jeopardy.