The Ghost Chronicles (3 page)

Q:
How much do you charge for an investigation?

RON:
I’ve heard this question numerous times so I’ve almost come to expect it. The simple answer is: we don’t charge.

Now you might be wondering how we get paid.

The truth is we don’t. It’s voluntary. Since I started the Ghost Project, I made the decision that we shouldn’t profit at the expense of someone in need. We all have day jobs: I’m an author and radio show host, Maureen is an author, radio host, and a technical instructor. My wife, Janet, and Stacy are both administrators, Ron Jr. is a manager, thermal Dan is an assistant fire chief, Jim and Clay both work with computers, and Janet Rucker is a librarian. However, we do run lectures, seminars, and classes throughout the year to help cover the cost of our websites, the Ghost Line, film, equipment, and so forth.

Q:
What do you consider a successful investigation?

RON:
When we go into an investigation, we never know what we’re going to encounter. The EVPs, photos, psychic impressions, video, and any other evidence collected during an investigation are reviewed, and we provide our clients with the results, whether there is paranormal activity or not.

Some cases may require special treatment, including spirit removal and/or exorcisms. At the NEGP, we want to help both the living and the dead, but it’s our belief that everyone has free will. Unless a spirit is crossing the “karmic line,” which we consider to be interfering with the living, we don’t force them to leave. But we do ask the spirits if they want to leave. Believe it or not, most times they don’t.

To be honest, we can never be 100 percent sure why spirits are here. Maureen can tell you what she’s feeling and what she’s picking up on. But it’s conjecture. What if a spirit is here to help another, living or dead? What if that spirit is part of a bigger master plan? We don’t want to interfere by forcing an entity to do anything. So while many people might consider eradicating the ghosts as a successful operation, that’s not what the NEGP sets out to do.

Q:
And you have a radio show?

RON:
As I mentioned before, part of the goal of the New England Ghost Project is to educate the public. To do this we always accept offers to appear on various radio and TV stations. One day after an appearance on WCCM radio in Lawrence, Massachusetts, the station asked me if I would be interested in having my own show. Never shy, I jumped at the chance and on Friday the thirteenth, 2004,
Ghost Chronicles
was born. For three years Maureen
and I entertained the rush hour traffic (our motto for the show was, “Rush hour just got scarier”). We were then approached by Ghostvillage (the largest paranormal site on the Internet) and TogiNet (an Internet radio station), and now I produce and host three shows:
Ghost Chronicles
, the podcast on Ghostvillage, iTunes, and Podcast Alley;
Ghost Chronicles Live
on TogiNet and Para-X Radio; and
Ghost Chronicles International
, which is UK– based, on TogiNet and Para-X Radio.

In addition to our studio shows we also take “road trips” and broadcast from haunted locations…which is what the seventeen episodes you’re about to read are all about.

Be prepared for the unexpected.

The contents of this book are for informational purposes only. Although these episodes are based on factual events, under no circumstances should they be interpreted as a recommendation for novice or inexperienced paranormal investigators. In no way will the New England Ghost Project or any of its entities be held liable for misinterpretation of this book or any companion websites.

The sign over the door of the Windham Restaurant reads “Food and Spirits,” and it may be truer than you think.

I
could scarcely breathe.

The beating grew louder and louder. I thought my heart might burst.

I gasped for breath.

Then I felt a hand on my chest. It was oddly familiar, and I realized it was my own. My breathing was heavy. Raspy.

I clung to the banter between Ron and the reporters from Boston.com, who were standing a few feet away from me, but the crisp, clear syllables of their words became nothing more than an echo in the distance. Even my fear of spiders in the dank cellar was slipping away. I could no longer focus. There was no turning back.

I had reached the “in between,” the place where heaven barely touches earth. I knew because I could feel it. The air was charged, sizzling with electricity. The way it always felt when “they” arrived. An ominous presence swirled around us, bringing with it a sense of foreboding. I had a feeling this night was a bad idea. It was Friday the thirteenth after all.

Playing a tug of war with my consciousness, I struggled to recapture Ron’s voice.

“You ready to communicate?” I barely heard his words over the electromagnetic field (EMF) meter, its continuous beeping an indicator of an energy shift in the room.

The immediacy in his voice anchored me. For the moment. “Yeah, sure,” I said.

I could tell by the look of concern on Ron’s face that my response sounded a little flippant. What could I say? I was getting punchy. It was nearing the midnight hour, and this was the second event of my evening. Just prior to coming to the Windham, I’d given a lecture for the Ghost Project at a fundraiser for the Dracut Republican Town Committee. The long hours working with the NEGP, coupled with my nine-tofive, could sometimes be a bit much.

My energy was waning. The last thing I felt like doing was attempting to communicate. Yet I could tell by the sudden onset of energy that this spirit was just as eager to converse with us as Ron was to talk with him. The energy surge was so full and heavy it felt as if the walls themselves were closing in on me.

Suddenly feeling claustrophobic, I took a step back and widened the space between the reporters and myself, with Ron closer to me. I bumped into a white restaurant-sized freezer, tucked away in the basement, the storage area of the Windham. I clutched a pendulum between my thumb and forefinger.

Then it happened.

The weighted crystal began to swing to and fro. My third eye tingled. Vibrated. A pinwheel of energy enveloped my face. The spirit wanted more. More than just to speak
to
us. He
wanted to speak
through
me. As someone who has channeled and spoken with the dead for much of my life, it was a difficult demand for me to ignore. Just then, my breath caught in my throat as my body struggled to adjust to the presence pouring through me. To compensate, my chest heaved up. Down. Once again, my breathing turned raspy. Heavy. Labored. The sound of Ron’s voice faded into the distance. It was like being given anesthesia, that final countdown as you prepare to go under into the abyss of unconsciousness. Ten, nine, eight…I breathed in and out, adjusting as best I could. No matter how many times I allow a spirit access to my body, I always take the prospect very seriously. Truth be told, dealing with the unknown is a risky business. I never know what I will come up against. Will it be a nice, benevolent spirit just wanting to communicate? A negative spirit intent on doing harm to others or myself? Or even worse, a demonic entity, attempting to steal my soul? It’s my belief, however, that for the greater good, it’s worth the risk.

I closed my eyes, and began to say a silent prayer. “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.” Gasping for breath, I continued. “Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God…rebuke…him, we…”

It was too late now. My consciousness vanished into the darkness. My body was no longer my own. Jacob was here.

* * *

Even though the red light of my EMF meter lit up Maureen, because she was bent at the waist, I couldn’t see her eyes, and that physical sign is crucial when she’s channeling. “Who am I speaking with?” I exclaimed urgently. “Is it Maureen or Jacob?”

Bent over in the corner of the cellar of the Windham Restaurant, Maureen attempts to make contact with a spirit named Jacob.

Her only response was a deep moan, followed by a succession of slow, arduous breaths.

I crouched low and looked up at her face. As if Jacob was reading my mind, Maureen brought her head up, slowly. Her stare burned. Her eyes were deep. Piercing. It was a look that would rip a hole through the soul of any man. I was looking into the sinister abyss. I had no doubts. It was Jacob.

“Ah, Jacob, how are you, sir?” I said in greeting.

As he spoke through Maureen, his guttural tone grated on my ears. “Why are you back?”

“Don’t you like us here?” I asked.

Through drawn eyebrows, Jacob glared at me. “No.” I shivered, as the chill in his voice mirrored the sudden drop in the room’s temperature.

“Why?” I prodded.

Maureen spoke, but it was Jacob’s voice. “Speak when you are spoken to!”

Any of my team will tell you I’m never one to back down during tense investigations—not even in the face of an irritated spirit like this one—and Jacob’s resistance only added fuel to my resolve. Undaunted, I challenged him. “Jacob, what is your last name?”

Ignoring my inquiry, Maureen continued to gasp for breath.

Still bent over to avoid the low-hanging pipes, she slowly turned her head and stared across the cobweb-laden beams to where Vess cowered behind rusty shelves.

“Why do they hide?” A sneer crossed Maureen’s lips. “They’ve seen me before.”

Vess’s eyes grew wide. Realizing he was the focus of Jacob’s wrath, he staggered backward, swiping at a rack of wait staff uniforms obstructing his path. He made a hasty retreat, stumbling up the stairs to the safety of the restaurant’s bar. Or so he thought.

Maureen slammed the side of the cooler with her fist. “I have papers buried here.”

“Where?” I asked, grateful that we were finally getting somewhere.

“In this basement.”

Still crouching on the floor, I looked up once again at Maureen, seeing the intensity in her eyes. Her raspy breathing abruptly turned to painful moans. Concerned for her wellbeing, I hesitated for a moment. You see, Maureen and I have had numerous discussions regarding her safety, about how far
is too far, and when it’s time to end communication in order to protect her—both spiritually and physically. Almost always, she tells me that I break her channeling line too soon, so despite the increasing tension of this particular situation with Jacob, I decided to take the risk and forged ahead, despite her apparent discomfort.

Wait.
Buried in the basement
? My excitement fizzled as I looked at the concrete floor. There would be no digging through that. “Do you want us to find them?” I asked, realizing the absurdity of my question.