The Academy (Moving In Series Book 6) (21 page)

“We’re in front of my house,” Brian answered.

Charlie’s hands twitched and he whispered, “Who are you?”

Brian made a fist with his right hand, braced himself and said hoarsely, “I’m Brian Roy.”

Disbelief, fear, desperation, and pain flickered across Charlie’s face.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Charlie said, his voice barely audible.

“Over my right nipple,” Brian said, his voice cracking, “there’s a scar. You punched me with the house key when you were ten.”

Charlie shuddered and shook his head.

“And you,” Brian said hoarsely, “you have a scar on both sides of your left ear because I tried to pull it off with a pair of pliers when you were fourteen.”

“Shut up,” Charlie choked out.

Brian stayed silent.

Charlie closed his eyes, shook his head and asked, “What happened on Mom’s thirty-fifth birthday?”

“We set the couch on fire,” Brian answered. “We tried to smoke one of Dad’s cigars and dropped a match on the Sunday paper.”

Charlie opened his eyes. “I’m dead.”

Brian nodded.

“Phil killed me?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah,” Brian whispered. “Someone heard him apologize.”

Charlie nodded. “He told me it was an accident.”

Brian’s brother turned and looked at the house, at the land, and then back to Brian.

“You got a big house here,” Charlie said.

“Yeah,” Brian agreed.

“You live alone?” his brother asked.

Brian shook his head. “No, with my wife.”

Charlie’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “No way! I didn’t even think you liked girls.”

Brian laughed, the sound echoing off of the house.

The light in the bedroom burst into life. A minute later, the light on the porch came on and the door opened. Jenny stood in the doorway, her 9mm Glock in her hand and wearing a nightgown.

“Brian?” she asked. “Why the hell didn’t you say you were coming home early? And why in God’s name is there a teenager with you?”

Her voice trailed away as she stepped out onto the porch.

“Oh,” she said softly, clicking the pistol’s safety on. “He’s a ghost.”

“Jenny,” Brian said softly, “this is Charlie.”

Her eyes widened and she came to a stop. She blinked, straightened up, and said, “Charlie. You’re Brian’s brother?”

Charlie looked nervously from Brian to Jenny before he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“My name’s Jenny,” she said, smiling. “Have you come to live with us?”

Charlie hesitated and then said in a voice rough with emotion, “Oh, Christ, I hope so.”

“Come on in,” Jenny said. “And welcome home.”

Brian watched his brother follow Jenny into the house. As he went to pick up
The Maltese Falcon,
Brian’s eyes welled up with tears.

*  *  *

Bonus Scene Chapter 1: His Father’s Book, September, 1922

At forty-two years of age, Ernest Weiss was a tired and worn man. The fortune his father had amassed through literary works and sound investments had been squandered. Ernest had enjoyed the fruits of his father’s labors; he had cultivated a taste for fine food and women of questionable morals. What he had not done, however, was work. Foolishly, he had believed the wealth would have lasted his lifetime, and perhaps if he had died sooner, it would have. Yet, like his father, Ernest was cursed with a long life.

His body would not be quitting on him anytime soon. Nor would his creditors.

Ernest frowned, glanced at the stack of notices from a slew of individuals and companies who sought payment, and pushed himself up from his chair. He took the evening paper, with its grand announcement of the war’s end and the imminent return of the troops, and dropped it onto the floor.

He had gambled on the war in Europe lasting longer. He hadn’t believed the Kaiser would abdicate, nor had he thought the Germans would actually agree to a truce. He had placed a bet of nearly five hundred dollars at the Club, and he had lost. The last of his funds had gone with it.

He stuffed his hands angrily into his pockets and made his way from the study to the second floor. Vaguely, he looked at the few pieces of art which hung upon the walls and wondered how much he might get for them.

The sale will have to be quick
, he thought. Ernest knew he wouldn’t get the full market value of the pieces. Or even twenty percent. Whoever he brought them to would know he was in a bind. He had, after all, sold off most of his possessions over the years. The only difference, however, would be the money for Ernest to make a run for it.

I’ll go down to Mexico
, he thought distastefully. He despised the warmer climates, but everyone would expect him to run for Canada, or England if he had enough money for a place on a ship. Mexico would throw them off for a bit, perhaps even permanently.

And if need be,
he thought with a sigh,
I can always go further south.

Ernest paused in front of the door of his father’s office. He had only been in there once; right after he had buried the man. The room had yielded nothing of any value. The books on the shelves weren't even worth the price of kindling.

Yet as he stood in the hallway, Ernest reached out, grasped the crystal-cut doorknob, let himself in, and pushed the button for the wall sconces.

There’s no dust
, Ernest realized as light flooded the room. The curtain over the window had been closed for twenty years, and yet it looked as though it had been drawn only a few hours earlier. None of the books showed any hint of dust, and the wood of his father’s desk fairly glowed in the light.

The room was cold, almost bitterly so. In the distant basement of the home, Ernest heard the familiar, comforting rumble of the furnace. The large, cast iron radiator on the right wall sputtered and hissed, yet it could not fend off November’s chill.

No,
Ernest realized.
This is far too much for November. This is something worse.

He took another step into the room, letting his eyes roam along the pressed tin panels of the ceiling. When he had moved several feet in and stood upon the antique carpet, the door slammed closed, and the room was plunged into darkness as the lights snapped out of existence.

“Hello, Ernest.”

Ernest screamed. It was his father. His dead father.

Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Instructions from Father

Ernest knew he wasn’t drunk.

He had hardly had a single drop after dinner. Easy to do when you’re too poor to buy any proper brandy. Being drunk would have explained the auditory hallucination; his brain’s insistence that Ernest had heard his father speak. Fighting down panic, Ernest turned around to find the doorknob.

Damned bulbs,
he thought, fear causing him to sweat in spite of the terrible cold of the room.

“Where are you going, Ernest?” his father asked.

Ernest screamed and stumbled, falling against the wall.

“Well?” the stern tone in the old man’s voice sent a shiver along Ernest’s spine. It told him he was indeed hearing Nathaniel Weiss.

“How?” Ernest whispered.

“Never mind the how, Ernie,” his father snapped. “If you had paid any sort of attention as a young man, you would know.”

Ernest shivered, straightened up, adjusted his suit coat and said in a hoarse voice, “I was leaving your room, Father.”

“Humph,” the senior Weiss said.

Ernest heard the chair dragged away from the desk.

“I don’t want you to leave my room,” his father said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to return to it.”

“You’re dead,” Ernest said. He suddenly felt as though he was once again eight years old and in trouble for breaking the windows at the Catholic rectory. “There was no reason to.”

The old man chuckled. “Ever the consummate liar. I don’t know how you managed such a feat, Ernie. Your mother and I were ever so careful with you.”

Ernest bristled at his father’s pet name for him, and at the mention of his mother. She had always looked so terribly disappointed when he was caught in a lie. He felt his face flush with embarrassment.

“Well,” Ernest said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t think there was anything of value here.”

To his surprise, Ernest heard his father sigh happily.

“The truth,” Nathaniel Weiss said. “I am pleased to hear it from you. And you are quite correct, Ernie. There is nothing of easy worth here. Nothing you could pawn off on some merchant in Hartford. No, but there is something here.”

Ernest’s interest increased markedly. “Is it enough?”

“For what?” his father asked.

“I have debts,” Ernest said hesitantly. “They are significant.”

For several moments, Nathaniel Weiss made no reply, and Ernest wondered if he had not imagined it all when his father spoke.

“Yes,” the old man said. “There will be more than enough.”

Ernest felt his shoulders sink, the tension quickly gone from them. He smiled and said, “Well, father, what is it?”

Nathaniel laughed easily, cheerfully. “Let us a have a little
quid pro quo
, if you will, Ernie.”

“What then, Father?” Ernest asked.

“First, there are some items which I need you to gather for me,” his father said pleasantly. “You will bring them here, and for each of them, shall we agree upon a price of, say, two hundred?”

“Yes,” Ernest said eagerly. “Yes!”

“Excellent,” the old man said. “Excellent. Now listen close, Ernie. Here is what I need you to do.”

In the darkness, Ernest leaned forward, waiting for his instruction.

Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Gathering the First

Ernest felt ridiculous.

His father had always been a firm believer in the supernatural. Ernest could remember his parents discussing the afterlife and the spiritual world long into the evening when he was a boy and young man. And even with Nathaniel’s return from the dead, Ernest didn’t believe he could easily carry out the task his father had set before him. In order to collect the money that Nathaniel had spoken of, Ernest would have to bring a ghost to his father.

A ghost
, Ernest scoffed. His father had said it would be as easy as going to the grocer.

Ernest doubted it. He had lived for over four decades and, prior to speaking with Nathaniel the night before, he had never seen or heard a ghost. There had been stories, of course. Always stories.

But who believes the tellers of those tales?
Ernest asked himself. He walked down Broad Street towards the only haunted house he knew of.

The Wesleyan house.

Richard Wesleyan was a member of the Club, and he lived in the house in which he had been born. The same house where his older brother had committed suicide, after murdering both of their parents.

Richard was a drunk, and he spent most of his waking moments at the Club, living off some rather sound investments prior to the start of the war in Europe. The man’s wife had run off because of Richard’s dead brother, who continued to inhabit the house, in spite of being dead.

Ernest knew Richard lived alone. No servants would remain for more than a day or two. He also knew Richard would be at the Club.

When Ernest reached the man’s house, he walked up the narrow drive, slipped around the side of the building, and traveled to the back door. He had helped Richard get home once and learned that Richard kept the house key in the fountain near the kitchen. Ernest reached beneath a spitting cherub, pulled the key out, and let himself in the house. The hall he entered was silent. Ernest found a light switch and turned it on, a brass chandelier flickering into life. He stood still and recalled a conversation he once had with Richard.

The man had stated that he’d kept his brother’s pocket-watch. It remained on Richard’s dressing table, a reminder of happier days before his younger sibling had become murderous.

Some ghosts have bound themselves to objects,
Nathaniel Weiss had said.
It is those objects I want. Bring them to me, Ernest, and you shall be rewarded well for your efforts.

The thought of money with which to pay off his debts spurred Ernest down the hallway. He came to the center stairs, climbed them quickly and found Richard’s bedroom behind the second door.

With the light on, he made his way across the room to the dark wood dressing table. The pocket-watch was there. Ernest picked it up and held it in the air, admiring it. The case was of solid gold. He could hear its jeweled mechanism ticking away the seconds.

Suddenly, the watch stopped. The room grew cold, and the overhead light dimmed noticeably. Faintly, Ernest heard someone breathing, a ragged, frantic sound.

“I won’t let them,” the voice said. It was a young man’s, and Ernest realized it was probably Alfred, Richard’s dead brother.

“No,” Alfred hissed behind Ernest. “They can’t stop me. I
need
the water. They don’t understand it. No, they don’t. Not at all. They don’t drink water. They drink blood. I’ve seen them. Yes, in the back at the old well, drawing it up. Bucket after bucket after bucket. Nothing. But. Blood.”

Terror gripped the base of Ernest’s skull, and he fought the urge to run. A tightness formed in his stomach, and he carefully put the watch in his pocket.

“Where are they?” Alfred asked, his voice loud in Ernest’s ear. “Where are they? Where is my water?”

Ernest’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he swallowed convulsively. He turned out the light and left the room.

Alfred’s voice stayed with him.

“Do you know where my water is?” Alfred demanded.

“I’ve no idea,” Ernest replied, managing to keep the fear he felt out of his voice.

“I need it,” Alfred said, and Ernest knew if the man had been alive, he would have felt Alfred’s breath on his ear.

“I’m sure you do,” Ernest said. He hurried down the stairs and along the hall to the rear door. His hands shook, and he barely managed to grasp the key in his front pocket.