The Shem Bay Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 3) Read online

  The room is too warm, the air too thick. I press my back to the wall and whisper, “I sense there is someone in this home who needs my help. Please come forth and make your presence known.”

  Mojo is beside me sniffing the potion. “Your presence is requested, please know that I am here to assist you in moving to the light. Give me a sign of your presence.”

  A clock is ticking, one that I don’t think is in the house. I listen to each tick, let it lull me into trance. “I’m here to help you; I welcome you. Please let me know that you are here.”

  The candle flickers in front of my closed eyes. The pseudo-ticks of the clock have turned into gentle waves. I reach for the potion jar and dip my finger in its cold liquid. Then I bring my finger to my lips without meaning to and taste the bitter sweetness and sharp burn of the chili pepper.

  “Speak and I will hear you. Tell me what you need to crossover. Tell me what holds you to these walls. You do not need to assume another’s form. I can help you. Make yourself known and speak your truth.”

  I hear Mojo’s low growl and open my eyes. Douglas Pratt is sitting at the end of his bed watching me, or rather a much older version of the man. At first I’m startled. When my eyes adjust, I realize I can see the wall behind him, right through him. When I start to speak, the spirit dissolves into a transparent shadow, a fluid and imperfect human form that goes through the closed door.

  Mojo is waiting in ghost pose. He follows me to the stairs where I watch the figure float down. Tell me who you are and why you’re here. Let me know what you need to let go, I say, in my mind.

  The shadow of a young boy turns back to look up at me. His voice comes from all directions. “Catch me if you can.”

  Chapter Twenty

  §

  It’s after three in the morning when I make my way back to the guest house. No effort on my part enticed the Pratt imposter, the boy, to reappear. I spent time downstairs and more in Pratt’s bedroom. The smell of sage will last for days; I’m sure much to Pratt’s displeasure.

  My brain will not give me a break. The spirit of a child? Obviously the entity isn’t Pratt, but who is this playful spirit… who tried to kill Pratt? Between the lidérc and the doppelganger, I foolishly dismissed the brief energy of a child that I encountered then questioned that first day in the house.

  When children die unexpectedly or when they’re not told that death is near, they become lost and confused in spirit. They keep looking for their parents and other loved ones. Death isn’t a concept they can understand, let alone accept.

  If this is one of the children in the news article on Jean Landy, Pratt will receive my fury for not telling me– or for having reason not to tell me. If indeed a child, I suspect he takes on Pratt’s form because he’s connected to the man somehow. I also fear that his death had something to do with the beach. I regret running away that night– not from a doppelganger, but a child.

  Internal chatter and searching for anything about a child who may have lived in the house or drowned at the beach had me up for hours after leaving the main house. I’m in a deep sleep when a call from the doctor wakes me the next day. He wants to remind me of his mandated three o’clock meeting. Lucky for me I have something to report. I suspect though that his luck has run out.

  I left a note for him last night to shut off the surveillance camera as soon as he got home. If he didn’t, the footage of the child will already be gone. That is if, unlike my photos of the man on the beach, the camera actually captured the spirit in the first place. Either way, I doubt Pratt complied with my request.

  Before my designated arrival time, I make coffee and get myself somewhat presentable. Mackenzie answers the door when I knock.

  “Did you find the phantasm last night?” she says, with a devilish grin and dancing fingers.

  I laugh at her. “Phantasm?”

  “Yes. A term derived from the early thirteen century French word, fantome, meaning apparition, ghost, phantom. Of course the Greek hijacked the term, and as they were known to do, dropped the f in favor of the dreadful ph.”

  “Interesting. I always thought it meant an illusory likeness.”

  Mackenzie raises her eyebrows and starts to deliver what I expect will be an amusing comeback when Pratt appears and orders her to her room. She giggles and waves her fingers at me as she goes upstairs.

  Pratt nods his head at me and gestures with his hand to his study.

  “Can I get you anything? Perhaps a riesling or brandy to relax you?” Pratt has a glass of what looks like soda on his desk.

  I raise my coffee mug and smile. The house, especially Pratt’s study, has a cheery artificial lemon scent that’s doing a poor job of masking the lingering sage.

  “Were you able to stop the surveillance camera? If so, we should start by looking at it. There was activity in the house last night.”

  Pratt’s twirling ice cubes in his drink. “No, I’m sorry. I just noticed your note this afternoon. Anything from last night has been overwritten.”

  He’s nervous and I’m angry– a little because the footage is gone, a lot because he’s lying. Not only was the note in plain view on his nightstand, his aura is a nasty, rusty red.

  “That’s unfortunate. If you had read the note, we might have had the opportunity to see the… phantasm sitting on your bed… wearing a rather weary version of your face.”

  Pratt’s holding his glass in the air, staring past me. “You saw… it?”

  “Yes. The surveillance camera also might have captured the young boy at the bottom of the stairs who I suspect is the actual apparition.”

  Pratt takes a long drink and goes to the bar for a refill. I can’t tell if he’s adding alcohol to the soda, but I don’t doubt so.

  “I don’t understand,” he says.

  “Obviously the spirit isn’t yours, so I have to consider the possibility that a young boy died in the house or perhaps the nearby beach. Do you have any knowledge of a child who died here?”

  Pratt shakes his head.

  I go on to explain how confused children are when death comes without warning as well as how they tend to latch onto the nearest adult.

  “So you think it’s a… boy?” The word sticks in Pratt’s throat and he takes a long drink.

  “Yes. Perhaps there was a child with some attachment to you elsewhere. A neighbor or relative?”

  The doctor wasn’t looking at me before, but now he is with those hostile eyes that I’ve seen a few times. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t stop staring.

  I shift in my seat. “Joe Collins denies he and his wife experienced any problems in the home. I believe him. He also told me he has two daughters and three healthy grandchildren. He denied that anything tragic happened when he and his wife lived here.”

  “Nothing tragic has happen in the time I’ve been here either.” Pratt slams his glass on the desk. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, I believe you’ve attracted this spirit. That it’s one who identifies with or is attached to you somehow. I’ve already explained how trauma and loss, coupled with anger, depression, and alcohol can open a portal to the spirit world.”

  I lower my voice and lean forward. “Doctor, do you know who this boy could be?”

  He starts to speak then purses his lips. I try to listen to his mind but only sense anger.

  “Father, are you ready for me now?”

  Pratt and I both jump. The door to the study was closed. Mackenzie is standing inside the room. I get a chill when I look at her and pull back without meaning to.

  “Yes, please sit down,” Pratt tells her. “Mackenzie and I have already discussed the matter. She’ll recite what we went over then you can ask questions. Please be respectful that she’s a child and keep your questions age appropriate.”

  Mackenzie’s on the sofa with her hands folded in her lap. Her dark blue velvet dress hangs below her knees; her navy shoes look uncomfortable. She recites nothing more than what Pratt’s already told me.

 
The shadow, which had neither a face nor solid form, appeared to be an older adult male based upon stature. In the three months they’ve been in the house, he’s watched her a few times from the hall when she was in her playroom and bedroom. The sightings were always at night and lasted no more than a few seconds. Since I’ve been here, she’s not seen him.

  “Does he frighten you?” I ask.

  “Not in the typical sense. He’s more a curiosity.” She says this without hesitation.

  I ask if there’s been any changes in his size. Pratt tells me not to get into what he and I just discussed. Mackenzie ignores him. She claims the shadow is there and gone, and she isn’t aware of any metamorphosing. This she says with a grin.

  She tells me she’s not made any attempts to communicate with the shadow man and wants to know if she should. Pratt tells her she should not.

  “Do you recall your mood or events in the house at the time you saw him?”

  “That’s enough questions for now,” Pratt says. “Please go upstairs, Mackenzie.”

  The child smiles at me, wiggles her fingers, and ignores Pratt other than to promptly leave the room.

  “Your last question wasn’t appropriate for a child. I assume you don’t have children yourself.”

  I glare at Pratt. “You assume correctly, Doctor. I assume Mackenzie is your only child.”

  Pratt jerks his head ever so slightly. If I wasn’t staring, I would have missed it. The foolish liar nods his head. “Thank you for the status report, Ms. Raven. What is the next step in resolving this matter?”

  “I need to see if I can find out something about this child. He’s frightened, alone, dead. I need to treat him as gently as I would my own child, if I had one.”

  Pratt lowers his eyes. His glass is empty again.

  “You didn’t have an opportunity to answer my question. Do you have any idea who this boy might be?”

  “No.” Pratt’s reply is too quick and too sharp. He’s already at the bar.

  “Then I need to get to work finding out exactly who he is. Do let me know if you recall him. Have a good evening, Doctor.”

  Here’s my dilemma: I can spend hours, even days trying to find out who the kid is, or I can ask Mackenzie if she knows. I pray to the Great Spirit to help me decide, and if the answer is the latter, how I can do it in a way that doesn’t cause Mackenzie any mental anguish or get back to Pratt.

  I let Mojo out of the guest house and we walk to the cliff. If I did have children, I would at least put a railing here.

  “How did you die? Was it an accident or did someone kill you?”

  I turn back to the house and see Mackenzie watching me from her bedroom window. Why did Pratt put an intelligent and sane little girl in a psych ward? “What are your secrets, Doctor? And do I dare learn them?”

  I look back to the turbulent ocean below and don’t get a single answer.

  Chapter Twenty One

  §

  When a few rain drops turn into a downpour, we go back to the guest house. A note is on the counter. I’m instantly irritated at myself for not locking the door and at the note writer, until I see it’s from Mackenzie.

  Have the information you need. See you at 11:00.

  Oh, wonderful. Watch what you ask for from the Great Spirit. Those are Maybelle’s words, ones I’m not good at heeding. Of course, I can play Pratt’s game and claim I never saw the note. I have some time to decide. Eleven’s too late for the kid to be up anyway. Maybe she’ll sleep through our clandestine meeting.

  I make dinner and return to my search on the boy. Birth records aren’t in the public domain so I stick to old news reports. I find nothing on Shem Bay drownings. There are a number of recorded drownings in Oregon involving adults and children; too many to sort through and I’m only getting confused.

  I’m wasting time searching online when I could be searching the beach. The rain hid the sunset and except for the artificial lighting, it’s blacker than coal outside. I change my clothes, Mojo watches me adding layers.

  “Time to get to work,” I tell him. He buries his head under a pillow. The wolfdog is not a fan of the rain, and I fear he’s had his fill of this place.

  When I drive by the main house, all the lights are off, at least in the front of the house. The rain has stopped once again, but the dark clouds are thick and not even the moon is peeking through. I park close to the beach’s entrance and say a serious prayer. He’s just a child, I remind myself– assuming he is.

  With my flashlight in hand, I brace myself for the winds that are even toying with the jeep. Mojo pauses when I open the back door. “You can stay,” I say.

  He leans out and sniffs the air, sighs like he’s doing me a favor, and jumps out like a prissy poodle. “I’ll buy you a raincoat and boots,” I tell him, but he’s already gone.

  If it wasn’t so cold, this would be a wonderful adventure. Despite the winds, the waves are calm, but not quiet. The tide is out and the water sparkles as if lit up from deep below. As I walk, I talk to the spirit in my mind since not even I can hear my voice.

  I’m about half way to where I made my mad dash the other day when I see headlights on the road above me. They’re coming from the development. If it’s Pratt, he must be out of sherry.

  I turn to watch the tail lights follow the road that goes to the highway. They do for a few seconds then I see the brake lights followed by backup lights. I can’t tell how far the driver’s gone, but estimate it’s in the parking area where my jeep is fully visible. I can’t imagine that Pratt would join me on the beach.

  I’m getting a queasy feeling so I start walking back to see who’s there. Mojo has found a stick the size of a small log and is trying to get me to take it, while I try not to get knocked over by it. “We’re working,” I tell him.

  When we get close to the parking area, I move to the side of the hill that’s below the road. A car is next to the jeep with its parking lights on. I can’t tell if it’s Pratt’s car or one of the other residents’, and I really don’t want to spend time spying on them.

  Mojo has abandoned his stick to chase the waves, or so I think. He wanders past me and the parking area and circles around to lie in the tall grass and watch the car from the darkest point.

  The parking lights go out and the door opens. The interior light reveals Martin Beck as he steps out, bundled up tight in his trench coat.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I whisper to myself. The wolfdog’s amber eyes are following the man. I crouch down.

  Martin comes around the corner. He’s walking close to the water and goes right by me. He walks a good fifty feet, stops, looks around, then continues down the beach.

  I don’t hesitate in jumping up and hurrying to the jeep. Mojo is doing the same. I drive back to the guest house with the lights off until I’m almost there.

  ∞

  At ten o’clock, a tiny knock at the door has me cringing. I’ve been back from the beach for over an hour, but Martin is still a concern. The man makes my skin crawl.

  I look out the peephole and see no one. “Who’s there?” I ask.

  “It’s Mackenzie, Ms. Raven.”

  I open the door and start to speak, but she beats me to it.

  “Sorry for being early. Father went to bed so I didn’t have to wait longer.”

  “You can’t come in,” I say. “I can’t be a party to anything your father wouldn’t approve of. Please go back to the house.”

  “This is important. We must speak. Hi, Mojo.”

  She slips under my arm that’s holding the door open and heads to the living room. This is not a good idea.

  “Okay, what is it that you need to talk to me about? I’ll give you five minutes then I’m walking you back to the house.”

  “Fifteen minutes and I’ll go willingly though I doubt you’ll want me to go a second sooner.”

  I motion to the sofa and sit in the chair across from her. “Go ahead.”

  “I heard you talking to Father about the boy�
�

  “How? Through the door?”

  “That’s not relevant. My father will never tell you this but I will. The boy he doesn’t want you to know about was his son, Blake Pratt. My brother, of course.” Mackenzie cocks her head and smirks. “Care to know more?”

  “I’m not sure. First tell me why your father doesn’t want me to know about him.”

  “Please understand that my father is a very private person. He’s absolutely absorbed in his career or rather his reputation in the community. I fear nothing is more important to him. He clings to something so impermanent even at the risk of causing much greater revelations to germinate to fruition.”

  “I see.” I’m fighting a grin. “That’s his choice, don’t you think?”

  “I have rights too,” she says, without hesitation. “It was my idea that you come here. I’m the one who found your website, researched your reputation, and convinced my father to retain your services after he wasted time talking to those spurious paranormal groups.”

  “How’d you like my website?”

  “It could use some work.”

  “Tell me the condensed version of what happened to your brother. Give me only the bare facts, and please don’t relay too much in the way of personal matters.”

  “Blake hanged himself in his bedroom after school one day. The year was 2010.” Mackenzie pauses. She’s staring at me, studying me. “He was thirteen. I was four, too young– well almost– to know of any personal matters. Mrs. Jankovic found him.”

  The house is quiet until the furnace comes on. I’m jolted, Mackenzie doesn’t flinch. “That’s very unfortunate. I’m sure it was more difficult for your father than you can ever imagine.”

  “I’m aware of the trauma it would have caused… but then that’s a personal matter. Ms. Raven, if anyone would have asked me a few months ago about my position on ghosts, I would have quoted Luigi Galvani or Albert Einstein. In my investigation of this phenomenon, I’ve eliminated a number of hypotheses such as schizophrenia, infrasound, carbon monoxide, radon gas, even the highly controversial experiments done by Stuart Hameroff and Roger Penrose.”