The Ghost Chronicles (8 page)

Taking a deep breath, she asked, “Is there someone here with us now?” The brass bobber spun counterclockwise, indicating a yes.

“Oh yeah,” she said smugly, as the members of the Ghost Project, along with the wait staff, reporters, and news crews, began to drift into what the staff referred to as Room #1. It was the third installment of the WNDS series on haunted places in New England, and we’d called Tortilla Flats to see if we could check the place out, as it had a reputation for being haunted.

A fireplace and stained glass window in Room #1 at Tortilla Flats.

A quick flash of light temporarily blinded us. My eyes regained focus to see Bruce Preston, photographer for the
Salem Observer
, kneeling in front of the old brick fireplace, camera in hand, shutter aimed at us. Other media people were tagging along this time as well. Trying not to get distracted by the evergrowing clamor in the room, we continued our query of the unknown entity.

Maureen took another deep breath, this time expelling it much more slowly. “Did someone commit suicide in this room? I think someone hung themselves in here.”

Once again the spinning chain and brass bobber confirmed her question.

“Was it a man?” she asked.

“Yes,” she answered quickly, visibly trembling. Her answer seemed to come with a price.

“Is there more than one of you?” I asked, pushing my quest for the facts.

Maureen echoed my question and quickly said yes as my meter screamed in a never-ending series of beeps.

She paused briefly for a moment and looked up at me, as if searching for my approval. “Zechariah.” Shaking her head, listening for an undistinguishable voice, she repeated the name once again, “Zechariah.” Suddenly she winced in pain, placing her right hand on her chest. She breathed deeply and exhaled more quickly.

“Do you want to tell us something?” I asked Zechariah, pushing my concern for Maureen’s well-being to the side.

Gritting her teeth, she replied, “Yes.”

I took a step closer, our forearms nearly touching. A quick jolt of what felt like static electricity charged up my arm, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand. I shuddered. “Maureen, did you feel that? It was like I stuck my finger in a light socket!”

“You stepped into the energy I was picking up on.” Maureen looked at me and grinned. “I think you just felt Zechariah.”

All eyes on us, I decided to turn my attention back to the questioning.

“Are you unhappy?” I asked.

More pain evident in Maureen’s face, another yes.

I reached out and placed my hand on her arm in a halfhearted attempt at comfort. “Do you want us to leave?” I asked.

A long pause, and just for an instant, a small smile slid across Maureen’s lips. She raised her head and slowly moved it from side to side. “No.” Her smile faded away, replaced with a look of agony.

“Will you appear for us?” By the tormented look on her face, I could only assume my questions were becoming more and more irritating to our unseen visitor. Overlooking her discomfort, my quest for knowledge so great, I pushed for answers.

Again, a long pause, as Maureen swayed to and fro, unsteady on her feet. “Yes.”

I thought for a moment and asked, “Do you want us to go into the basement?” A deadly silence fell over the room.

In response, the bobber pulled straight down as if some invisible force was yanking it.

“He’s leaving now,” Maureen said, breathing a sigh of relief. The pain had lessened.

I grabbed her arm, and like a bride and groom on their wedding day we walked down the corridor and out the front door into the cold crisp October night air.

We were safe—for the moment. Free from Zechariah’s reach. It appeared this spirit was a grounded spirit, unable to leave the house.

“Are you okay?” I asked, my concern for her now pushed to the forefront.

“Yes.” Her words were a mere whisper between the heavy breaths. “Do you have your St. Michael card?” She looked up at me with pleading eyes.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” I replied, using my humor to soothe my concern.

I pulled the worn laminated card from my back pocket. She placed one hand on it, our voices resonating as we began together, “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection…”

* * *

After I had gathered my composure, Ron and I returned to the restaurant. Almost as soon as I walked through the door, I could feel the presence. “What’s next, Ron?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“We’ve got to go into the basement,” he replied in an almost apologetic tone.

The tranquility I’d felt just moments ago on the porch of the restaurant was now replaced with a sense of apprehension. This was only my third investigation with the Ghost Project, and since this was the second angry spirit we’d encountered in such a short span of time, I was beginning to wonder if I had made the right choice by teaming up with them.

When I’d been invited to accompany them to the Windham Restaurant, I’d been overjoyed. It finally felt as if I’d found a place where I fit in: a team of paranormal investigators who shared similar interests, and who didn’t think I was crazy for doing what came naturally.

But now I was torn. I’d joined so that I could put my abilities to good use, assisting spirits in need. Unfortunately, there were times like today, when a spirit didn’t play nice. The physical pain and drain on my energy made the investigation difficult to endure. I’d suddenly been reminded why all those years ago I’d taken a break in communicating with the dead. Now, I was back. What the hell had I been thinking? A dull ache weighed heavily on my chest, a lingering effect of my encounter with Zechariah. Gritting my teeth, I followed Ron into the left-hand side of the restaurant, to base camp, in the room referred to by the staff as Room #3.

Eric Baxter, a reporter for the
Salem Observer
, approached me. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, not revealing that I was still a little shaken.

“By the way, thanks for letting us tag along.”

“No problem. How did you find out about us, anyway?”

“I saw the piece on WNDS News and thought it would be a good story. Typically, I try to remain objective, but—you’re not going to believe this,” Eric mumbled, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. “Earlier, when you were in contact with Zechariah, Brian and I were standing over there near the door.” He ran a hand through his thick chestnut curls, and then pointed to a spot just inside the doorway to Room #1. “Well, just as you said, ‘He’s leaving,’ both Brian and I felt a cold breeze brush between us.” He paused. “Then, for no reason, the battery on my camera drained all at once.” Looking a little befuddled, he said, “I just charged it. I, uh, there’s no way…”

Our conversation was cut short when Ron piped in, “Does anybody know anything about the basement?”

“I do,” said Amy, the dining room manager, a tall blonde with shoulder-length hair.

“Do you want to tell us about it?” Ron continued.

“Sure,” she replied as she took up a position in front of the stained-glass window next to the fireplace in Room #1. Illuminated by the lights of the cameras, she seemed a little stunned, uncomfortable in the spotlight.

In a quiet tone she began, “Well, I have heard lots of stories. There’s a hidden room off the back that was rumored to be part of the Underground Railroad, where slaves used to hide. I have also heard that when children lived here, they played in the cellar.” She hesitated for a moment as if to get her thoughts in order. “When people from the restaurant have gone down there,
they hear voices. From where, I’m not sure. I have heard lots of stories about things moving on their own, and when people stay in the basement for any extended period of time, we tend to have more ghostly activity over the next couple of weeks in the regular part of the restaurant.”

“So that seems to stir things up,” Ron interrupted.

“It seems so.”

As she spoke I couldn’t help but notice the expressions of terror on the faces of the other waitresses who were huddled together in the corner of the room, like children in fear of the bogeyman.

“Anything else you want to tell us?” Ron asked.

“No. Would you like to go to the basement?”

“Without a doubt. Let’s rock,” Ron replied.

Gathering our equipment, we followed her into the hall and through the swinging doors of the kitchen. Ron and I were directly behind her, with the rest of the group trailing us in what seemed to be an endless conga line.

We passed through the kitchen, then through another door and down a set of well-worn stairs into the basement. As we entered, the irritating hum of coolers, refrigerators, and fluorescent lights filled the room, triggering Ron’s EMF meter. His meter picked up the electrical activity, while I felt a different kind of activity— spirit energy. It was following our every move. This presence, it seemed, was almost as anxious for us to get to the hidden room as we were. Following Amy to the very rear of the basement, we came upon a narrow tunnel. She pointed into the darkness. “Hey, where’s the light for the tunnel?” she cried.

Jenny, a short waitress with dirty blonde hair, answered her. “The light’s on, but the bulb’s not lit. That’s not right, it was fine earlier. I guess it’s a mystery.”

Coincidence? I think not
. I had only been with Ron for a short time, and I was already beginning to think like him.
Now that’s scary
, I thought to myself.

Amy turned to me and, with a look of apprehension and a quiver in her voice, said, “Do you want to go first?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m not in any hurry,” I replied, even though I could sense that the spirits were in a hurry for us to join them.

“I’ll go first,” Ron spoke up, never shy to throw himself into the limelight.

The cement floor soon turned to dirt as we made our way through the narrow passageway. As we reached the end, we turned right, and I nearly gagged when I caught a whiff of the dampness. The stone foundation was cluttered with wires, old hewn beams, and, of course, spiderwebs. I hate spiders. As I entered the hidden room that Amy was referring to, my attention was drawn from the cobwebs to the energy that was now swirling strongly around me.

I took up a position in the center of the room away from the hanging webs. Though light was coming in from the outside room, when I looked at Ron he was nearly in darkness. He was crouched over, scanning the area with his meter. As he swung the meter around to me, it lit up like a Christmas tree. They were here; I knew it, and Ron’s meter confirmed it. Moving my pendulum in front of me, I began to make contact.

“Ron, I feel a difference in the energy here. It’s somebody else.” Taking a deep breath, I asked, “Are you a woman?”

Once again the pendulum confirmed what I was already feeling: yes. It was a much more pleasant energy than the one I had faced earlier. I turned my head to the right, half expecting to see her standing there. Her energy was so thick, it was as if I could reach out and touch her.

“Who’s got an infrared? Who’s got an infrared? Take some shots,” Ron commanded, playing off my feelings.

Almost immediately, the group responded with a barrage of flashes.

I became a bit self-conscious in the assault of camera flashes. It felt like my every move was under scrutiny. Ron seemed oblivious to it as he continued his questioning of our newfound friend; all the while his EMF meter continued its incessant beeping.

“Did you die here?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied with an inner knowing, not fully waiting for the pendulum to answer.

“Did you live here?”

His question went unanswered, as I felt the familiar sinister force from earlier in the evening beginning to slither in.

“There is something else here now,” I cried. I clutched my chest, gritting my teeth in reaction to the pain coursing through me. The same, contentious energy that had plagued me in the upstairs dining room was pushing away the weaker spirit. With total disregard for my well-being, it stepped in once again. My chest still raw, sore, from our previous encounter, I mentally pushed back at the uninvited energy; I was not willing to be accosted by this particular spirit. Nearing my breaking point, I bent over and dug my fingers into the flesh of my lower thigh, something I do to ground myself in the present. A little of my own pain, at least for me, brings me back to reality.

“Are you okay?” Ron asked.

I nodded quickly and blurted out, “Yes.” I lied.

Once again a dead silence fell over the room. This was becoming a theme. I wanted to end contact with this angry spirit as soon as possible, so I asked, “Does anybody have a question?”

Katie, another waitress, spoke out, “Does it bother you when we come down here?”

I repeated her question, and audibly heard the spirit’s whisper of defiance. “No.”

Brian chimed in, “Will you appear for us?”

I grabbed my chest and winced in pain, feeling the spirit’s anger growing. “Maybe.”

“It’s the suicide one, the hanged man, isn’t it?” Ron asked, somehow tapping into my brain.

Still wincing in pain, I nodded my head. Again I slowly turned to look over my shoulder. If I hadn’t known any better, like the woman before him, I’d have sworn he was standing right beside me.