Haunted (37 page)

Faintly, she heard the front door open and, she was pretty sure, voices. She glanced around quickly. The music was off, the door was open, and she was in serious danger of being found here if she didn't get out of the room in a hurry. Rapidly, she lifted the skirt of her flowered dress and stuffed the doll in the front of her Lady Queen panties. If she did get caught, at least she'd have the doll to sell, and if she didn't, well, things disappeared in this house all the time. He’ll blame it on the ghosts. Nobody with the morals of a man like David Masters deserved to own it anyway. She crossed to the hi-fi and stared hard at it. "Damn," she muttered as the voices drew closer. They might be close to this hall by now. She ran for the door and plowed straight into Eric Swenson. Behind him, David Masters stood glaring at her.

"I--I heard something," she sputtered. "I think it was a ghost or something. It was in here, it--"

"Minnie," the writer said with extreme calmness, "Write your hours down for the week and leave them on the kitchen table. I'll mail you your check."

"But--"

"Your services are no longer required." The fire blazing in his eyes belied the softness of his voice.

That's not fair, she was going to say, but something made her reconsider. In a hurt voice, she asked, "Don't you trust me?"

"No, I don't."

His voice was even quieter this time and she decided to get while the getting was good. She'd have her revenge later. With a sniff, she walked past them to write down her hours, plus a few more, to get her purse, and to leave. "Pervert bastard," she whispered under her breath. "Dirty pervert bastard."

August 14

Office of Keith Shayrock, M.D.: 10:45 A.M.

"Would you like a glass of water, Mr. Masters?" The receptionist, a pleasantly plump fortyish blonde, gave David  a sympathetic look. "You don't need to be nervous. Doctor's very nice."

"Oh, I'm not--" David stopped himself from saying more. If Shayrock hadn't told his nurse why he was here, then he shouldn't either. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Doctor will be ready for you in just a few minutes. He had an emergency ear infection he had to fit in."

David nodded sagely, picked up a dog-eared copy of People, and pretended to read. The office was located on the ground floor of a beautiful Stick Victorian, and it had a comfortable homey feel to it. But doctors' waiting rooms always made him nervous, even when he wasn't in one for health reasons, and true to form, his body was busy subjecting him to a typical anxiety attack. His hands and voice both trembled, ever so slightly, his mouth and throat were dry as dust, and he knew from experience that his complexion had most likely turned school paste white.

It was ludicrous. He'd been fine when he interviewed a warden in a state prison, a mortician in his parlor, a survivalist in his lair, even a serial killer in his cell. But give him a doctor in a medical office and he turned to putty.

Unless, of course, he was still reacting to the incident at the lighthouse. Yes, maybe that was it. Be honest, my boy. You can't blame more than a trace of this on yesterday. Face it, you're a hopeless neurotic. He smiled slightly. At least that was preferable to being a hopeless schizophrenic. Some day, when he got enough nerve to really research the project, he'd exorcise his fears with a book about evil doctors.

For now, though, he turned his thoughts back to yesterday's events. At the lighthouse, he'd seen something that he couldn't describe. It was both paranormal and metaphysical, part B-horror movie and part divine enlightenment. He turned the magazine page. What he had experienced was, he realized, beyond his comprehension.

The headless ghost, resplendently shocking, had stood in the open doorway, almost as if it was waiting for them. Eric had immediately gone to it, totally unafraid. David expected it to pass through the young man as Lizzie's wraith had done to him last month, but rather it embraced the young man, as if it were a real physical being. Then it let him go and when Eric stepped back, David saw that there was no blood on his clothing, though it oozed, wet and slick, on the phantom's shirt front.

Carefully, Eric had placed the doll's head in the entity's extended hand. The creature had stroked it with one finger, in a gesture very nearly tender, before closing its fist around the orb. David heard the sickening crunch of breaking china, saw blood drip from the ghost's fist onto the floor of the lighthouse, and watched the broken bits of glass pepper the red puddle on the floor.

It was then that the most amazing thing happened. As he and Eric stood by, a swirling darkness appeared above the creature's neck. In awe, David saw it form into a primitive face, a shadowy suggestion of mouth and eyes and nose, then slowly, resolve itself into a perfect replica of the doll's features, with the same bushy brows and thick brown beard, the same captain's hat. The eyes, bright blue, focused on him. David would have sworn that they not only saw him, but that they held sparks of keen intelligence.

He'd never seen anything like it. The sailor's face was friendly, but sorrowful in a way that nearly overwhelmed David with emotion. "Captain Wilder, I presume?" he asked softly.

In reply, the spirit doffed its hat with old-fashioned gallantry, then gestured for him to approach.

"Can't he come out of the lighthouse?" David whispered.

Eric shrugged. "He wants to talk to you. Go ahead."

David took a tentative step forward. The spirit waited. Finally he took another, then another, and then he was inside the bright and shadowy lighthouse. The phantom reached out and grasped his forearms, pulling him toward itself. Its touch was cool, but not unpleasantly so and, as David was drawn into its embrace, he was relieved to see that the uniform was now without blood.

He thought that the creature would ingest his energy, as Lizzie had done, but he was wrong. Instead, he saw pictures, fleeting images, sent from the captain's mind to his, images of a woman in green with flashing eyes and fiery hair, feelings of love, of sadness, sounds of laughter and tears; so much and so many that he thought he would faint within this whirlwind of emotion.

Then the phantom let go of him and the images drained away, but David retained the sights and sounds and he still felt the richness of the emotions of a man dead over three quarters of a century.

"Mr. Masters? Are you all right?"

David's brain snapped back into gear as he took in the speaker's white jacket. Stethoscope arms hung around his neck, the business end in his pocket, like a chameleon on a leash. "I'm fine," David said as he rose. "Just gathering wool."

"Keith Shayrock," the man said, extending his hand.

"David Masters," he replied, taking the hand.

"Sorry about the wait," Shayrock told him as they shook hands.

"No problem," David told him. Shayrock was a young man, tall and lanky, handsome in an unusual way with his strong jaw, piercing green eyes, and thick carroty hair that he'd tried, not altogether successfully, to imprison in hair spray. When the man smiled, dimples appeared, making him look about twelve years old.

"Let's talk in my office."

Down the hall and past the exam rooms, Shayrock's office proved to be a sprawling masculine throwback to Victorian times. A brass lamp with a green glass shade illuminated the massive walnut desk, and bookshelves lined the wall behind it. Several duck decoys peeked out from among the books.

Paintings of fishing boats and trawlers, simply and elegantly framed, ornamented the wall above a tufted leather couch on the left wall. The carpet was deep forest green and a humidor on the desk held half a dozen pipes. The room reeked of testosterone.

"Have a seat." Shayrock gestured at the leather chair in front of the desk as he moved to his own, behind it.

David sat. "Nice office."

"Thanks." Shayrock took a pipe and began filling it. "I'm fond of it." He lit the pipe and leaned back in his chair. "So what is it I can help you with?"

"I'm researching the Body House murders and Craig told me all the records, including your grandfather's, were destroyed."

"They were." Shayrock puffed his pipe. "So I probably can't help you much."

David nodded. "I was hoping to talk to you about the 1968 murders."

"Swenson would have the police reports, and the coroner's reports. That's more than I have."

"Yes. I was hoping for a more personal touch. I wanted your impressions, but..."

"I'm too young?" Shayrock stroked his chin. "My father was the doctor of record. He died five years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"But I saw the bodies," Shayrock added softly.

"You did?" David didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

"I did. I was in the fifth grade at the time, but I watched my dad do the autopsies."

David felt his jaw drop. "You were, what, twelve years old?"

"Ten."

What kind of a sadist would bring a child into an autopsy room? "If I'd seen something like that at that age, I'd have ended up in therapy for life," he said slowly.

The doctor chuckled. "You don't understand. I wanted to be there. The only thing I ever wanted to be was a doctor. At first I had to beg him. Then he began teaching me. He'd quiz me as he worked. Sometimes he even let me assist."

David shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry. I just can't imagine a child wanting to see a dead body."

"Frankly, I preferred watching surgical procedures." Shayrock smiled nostalgically. "Though he wouldn't let me assist, of course."

"That's... incredible."

"What's so incredible about it?"

"Bodies are..  disgusting. I'd lose it. All that blood. All those organs."

Shayrock twined his long fingers together on the desk blotter, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "The human body isn't disgusting. It's beautiful, inside and out. A work of art." He paused. "You know how you moved into that haunted house?"

"Yeah?"

"You couldn't get me to spend a night in that place for a million bucks. I'd end up in therapy for the rest of my life." He shrugged. "You know, different strokes."

"Point well made." David smiled. "So, what can you tell me about the bodies?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Craig mentioned that he was pretty sure the murders were very similar in style to the ones in 1915."

"Very likely, but I can't give you any solid facts. My father only knew what his father told him, and he was very young when Grandfather died. The 1915 murders and the 1968 killings were both done with, you might say, a certain Jack the Ripper ambiance."

"Does anything particularly stick out in your mind about the bodies you saw?"

"Yes. They were all killed within a one hour period. The most interesting, professionally speaking, was one that had been operated on with almost surgical precision. It was a heavyset male, found on the dining room table. He had been eviscerated with great skill." Shayrock paused, studying David. "The intestines were strung on the chairs all around the table, like a garland. The victim's tongue had been removed-- Dad found it in the victim's rectum. Is this too much for you?"

Obviously, Shayrock hadn't read any of his books. "No. It's right up my alley. So to speak. I'm only squeamish when it involves me personally. Please, go on."

"The scrotum had been opened and the testicles removed. The man's eyes were placed in the scrotal sack and the testicles were in the eye sockets. The penis, which showed signs of recent ejaculate, had been sliced in two, from tip to root."

David crossed his legs. "The victim was killed before he was mutilated, right?"

Shayrock, who had been staring at the ceiling as he recited the death report, looked at David in surprise. "Yes. How did you know?"

"It sounds crazy."

"I won't tell."

"Well, a friend of mine, a gifted psychic, has seen the apparition a number of times in the dining room. He usually describes it as crawling on its hands and knees along the table. It's a sloppy, fat male with brown hair and beard and baggy jeans that hang too low. He calls it "Buttcrack the Ghost" and it's evidently a pretty silly sight."

"You've described the man," the doctor said. "But how did you know he died before the injuries were inflicted?"

"If he had lived through the torture, chances are good that my friend would see something like you described. Something to kill the appetite. That trauma didn't happen, so it's not there to replay." David smiled crookedly. "Now you think I'm crazy."

"No." Shayrock chuckled. "I might, if you said you’d seen it, though. I doubt if that victim ever even knew he was in trouble. He had enough LSD in him to trip all of Red Cay and part of Pismo."

Nodding, David asked, "What about the body of the girl found in the downstairs bathroom? Was she tortured to death?"

"The psychic has seen her too, I take it?"

"Yes. Not a pretty sight."

"Of all the six people killed that day, she was the only one who died after torture instead of before. She was also the only female in the group. She was in the tub. Her body had been opened from the base of her neck to the pubic bone, and her heart had been torn--not cut--from her chest. Her fingers had been severed and one of her big toes." Shayrock grimaced. "Whoever did it had a black sense of humor because the toe had been stuck in the tub's faucet."