The Ghost Chronicles (17 page)

I began asking questions with no reply. “Damn, looks like the protection is too good.”

“Fine.” Maureen called out as if to remedy the situation, “Okay, we will allow whoever is here to join us, as long as you mean us no harm.”

Words we would later regret.

Anxious to continue, I began my questioning again. “Are there any spirits who would like to talk?”

Maureen slowly raised her head. Through a voice not her own, she replied, “Yes, why are you here?”

My heart began to thud wildly in my chest. I stared into her vacant eyes for the space of a heartbeat. “Who are you?”

“It—it—it’s Mary,” Maureen said through ragged breath, in that same strange voice.

A collective gasp filled the room. Raising my head; I looked up into the wide-eyed stare of the group. Ignoring the fear in their faces, I continued, “Is this your house? Did you die here?”

Maureen shook her head from side to side, then began rocking back and forth in her chair, her voice barely above a whisper, “Where’s my John?”

Was she referring to John Widder? Curiosity piqued, I gazed at Maureen. Her face mere inches away, I looked into the abyss that once was her eyes. Repulsed by her look, I couldn’t help but turn away momentarily. I had never seen her like this before. I said, “Did you and John have a thing going on?”

My meter immediately went dead.

The coldness that we had been feeling at our feet now filled the room.

Nick began fidgeting in his chair, all the blood drained from his face.

The silent veil was shattered.

Maureen bellowed, “GET OUT!”

Nick, as if unable to contain himself any longer, yanked his hands free and jumped to his feet. “My ass!” he screamed, running for the pocket doors.

I stood there in shock as everyone, with the exception of Maureen, ran for the door and out of the mansion. She closed her eyes, as if working things over in her mind, and sighed heavily before exiting the room.

Squelching my concerns, I remained behind. Still fascinated with what had just transpired, I took my EMF meter and scanned the area. Hmmm, little to no readings. When I placed it back on the table in front of where Maureen had been sitting, it went off the scale. With my hand I felt a cold spot, but the thermometer sitting only a few inches away was reading normal (68–70 degrees). Using a handheld laser hanging from a lanyard around my neck, I began taking temperature readings
from different angles. They revealed that the temperature by my EMF meter was considerably different (52–54 degrees) from the temperature near the thermometer sitting on the table. Had we opened up a portal? Or was there a spirit still here? Without a moment to spare I began taking infrared shots and continued with the measurements of the area.

After a while the group began to drift back into the room, excited about what had just happened. Over the buzz of chatter, I decided to review the tapes. To our dismay, we discovered that the camcorder had shut itself off shortly after we had made contact.

Nick asked, “Does this happen a lot?”

“Not that often, but it never fails to impress me when it does. Sometimes the spirits don’t want to be recorded.”

We were all enthralled as we reviewed the infrared video, anxious to see what it had captured, when our concentration was broken by a blood-curdling scream. We jumped to our feet only to see Sarah running down the corridor and out the side door, hands flailing wildly in the air.

Above the sound of her screaming, we heard the high-pitched, shrill sound of the motion detector we had placed on the cellar door being set off.

While Greg went to check on his wife, Maureen and I could barely control our laughter at the sight of Sarah running down the hall, like a scene out of an old B movie.

Rushing to the cellar door, we found the motion detector flashing wildly in the dim light. Something or someone had set it off. Moments later, Sarah returned arm-in-arm with Greg, her face shining with embarrassment from her scare. “I was on my way to the bathroom when that thing—went off.” She pointed to the motion detector. “I swear. I never touched it…”

In an attempt to recreate the scene, we reset the device and tried various methods to set it off, to no avail. With our fatigue getting the better of us, we decided to chalk it up as another unexplained event and call it a night.

R
unning to the phone, I tripped over the hunting pack Stephen had left on the floor. “Damn,” I said, reaching for the receiver before the last ring.

Barely audible, a voice echoed through the receiver. “Hello, Maureen.”

“Hey, what’s up?” I said to Ron.

“Are you doing anything right now?”

“Why?”

“I, uh—I got a call from this guy in Reading who needs our help.”

“Now? Ron, it’s the middle of the day, it’s my day off, and I’ve got stuff to do.” I couldn’t explain it, but I was suddenly feeling a little apprehensive.

“I know, but he sounds pretty desperate. It won’t take us too long, I promise.” He continued, “I can pick you up in a half hour and we can be home before supper.”

Not thrilled with the idea, but hearing the concern in Ron’s voice, I said, “I’ll be ready.”

Within a matter of minutes Ron pulled up in front of my house. I opened the passenger door of his car and peered in to see his nervous grin.
Hmmm, what was he up to
? After our conversation on the phone, I couldn’t help but feel there was something Ron wasn’t telling me. He’d mentioned that the client’s girlfriend had referred us, after attending one of our ghost-hunting 101 lectures, so that wasn’t it. But I couldn’t put my finger on it. Just
because I’m sensitive, people make assumptions that I know it all. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works. However, I wished this was one of the times it did work that way.

I slid into the passenger seat, closed the door, then said, “Ron, what’s this all about? You seem a little secretive.”

“I’d rather not say.”

Moments later we pulled up in front of a ’50s white ranch and parked behind a dual-wheel Ford with a gun rack hanging in the rear window. Standing next to the truck was a short stocky man, his black leather vest and white T-shirt highlighting the massive tattoos running the length of his muscular arms. Beside him stood a taller man smoking a cigarette, with his worn leather boot resting on the bumper. Feeling like we just pulled up in front of a biker bar and hesitant to step out of the car, I asked Ron, “Are you sure this is the right address?”

Ron pulled out a piece of white lined paper, took one look at the scribbling, then said, “Yup. This is it.”

Stepping out of the car, leery at the sight of the two looming figures in front of us, I let Ron take the lead as we cautiously made our way up the driveway. Ron reached out his hand to greet them. “Hi, I’m Ron from the New England Ghost Project. You must be Rusty, we spoke on the phone.”

He ignored Ron’s greeting, looking past him, and gave me an icy stare. “Is that Maureen?”

Ron answered slowly. “Yeahhh.”

He closed the distance between us, eyeing me like a pole dancer in a strip joint. “You the psychic?”

“Yeah. Hi, I’m Maureen.”

“Here’s the deal,” he said boldly. “My house is trashed. I clean it up at night, and when I get up in the morning, it’s trashed
again.” He looked at the guy with the cigarette. “Just ask my buddy Moose. He’s seen it too. Come on, I’ll show you what I mean.” He led us up the brick walkway.

The minute I opened the door and took in the devastation, my gut twisted into a knot. Ron and I walked into the living room first, stepping over shards of broken glass and broken picture frames. “Wow, this room looks like it’s been ransacked.”

“Are you telling me a ghost did this?” Ron asked, in disbelief.

Rusty, the homeowner, growled, “Hell, yeah. I think it’s a little girl.” He thumbed his hand in the other man’s direction. “Like I said, just ask Moose, he stayed over the other night to see what would happen. He’s my witness.”

A little girl?
He had to be kidding.
What little girl would do this type of destruction?

As if reading my thoughts, he said, “I think it’s because she wants my attention.”

Yeah, that’s what they all say. What kind of fantasy world is he living in? Scratch that last thought, I don’t think I want to go there
.

Turning my attention to the task at hand, I asked, “Can we take a look at the rest of the house?”

“You’ve got to see the bathroom,” he said, walking briskly into the small room on the left. “See this mirror? It has to weigh over one hundred pounds, and it was bolted to the wall. Look at it now.”

An infrared shot of the mirror shattered in the bathroom. Was this the result of the little girl spirit? I think not!

As we stared at the shards of mirror blanketing the tiled floor I thought,
A little girl did this? Yeah sure.
One look at Rusty and I knew, this was a man who didn’t like being wrong. Fearing that speaking my thoughts would send Rusty into a rage, I held my tongue.

“Wow, this is amazing,” Ron said, as he stepped closer, glass crunching beneath his feet. He raised his 35mm camera and took some photos of what was left of the mirror.

Something told me Ron wasn’t buying this either.

Ron glanced at me over his shoulder, “You want to see if we can make contact?”

“I suppose.” Feeling a little awkward, I followed Ron into the living room. We stopped in front of the fireplace and cleared away bits of debris and broken sconces that lay shattered on the floor. I reached into my pocket, fumbling to remove my rose quartz pendulum from the front of my jeans. “Are we ready?”

I felt the burn of their stares as both men shuffled forward to get a better look. Usually I’m self-conscious, but now, standing here, pendulum at the ready, I felt nothing but sheer terror.

Ron stepped between us, almost as if he were taking a protective stance. Giving me a knowing look, he said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

Anxious to leave as soon as possible, I agreed. “Are there any spirits with us now?”

The pendulum swung counterclockwise: yes. Waves of energy began prickling my skin, indicating that the spirit was close by. I was surprised that the spirit was communicating so quickly.

Rusty spoke up. “I want to ask a question.” Without waiting for me to respond, he asked, “Are you a little girl?”

Although the pendulum began to swing counterclockwise, indicating a yes, I felt the darkness behind its lie coming through. “This is no little girl.”

“No way. You’re wrong!” Rusty snapped.

Ron interceded. “You have to be careful. Spirits can lie.” He waited a moment, as if waiting for a reaction to his words. “Sometimes they’ll appear as little girls, so that you’ll welcome them in, when they’re not really little girls at all, but something more menacing that’s trying to gain your confidence.”

Rusty’s face turned red with rage. “No, you’re wrong. This is a little girl. She told me so.”

In an attempt to appease him, I said, “Rusty, I can’t say for sure if your spirit is a little girl. I can only tell you what I’m feeling.” I paused. “Let’s ask a few more questions, and see if I can sense her.”

Moose spoke up in a smoker’s voice. “Is she the one who took my wallet? If so, I want it back.”

“Why? What happened to your wallet?” Ron asked, happy to change the subject.

“Well, the other night I stayed over here. I put my wallet on the kitchen counter, and in the morning it was gone.” He continued, “That bitch took it.”

As I listened to Moose, I couldn’t help but notice that Rusty had his wallet chained to the belt loop of his dirty jeans. Evidently,
he
wasn’t taking any chances.

“Okay.” I began again. “Are you the spirit who took Moose’s wallet?”

The response was a yes. In my mind’s eye, although it appeared to be a little girl, I looked deeper. Behind the mask of a child, there was something else there. Dark. Angry. Filled with hate. Reading my thoughts, the entity grew in strength. It had been discovered, and it didn’t want its plan unearthed.