The Roxbury Haunting (Jack Raven Ghost Mystery Book 1) Page 9

  Why didn’t I realize this was a crypt and those boxes were little coffins when I’d already been thinking the children could be down here?

  Calm down, I tell myself. It’s not like you haven’t seen worse. It was just so unexpectedly obvious. Blame it on greed; I’d been too busy counting the gold coins I thought I’d find or… Alexander is playing tricks with my mind– leading me to his macabre handiwork or showing me why he won’t leave his home.

  I return to get the flashlight and put the lid back on the box. The light has dimmed considerably even though the batteries are new. I shine it around the room; three children, three boxes. I’m feeling dizzy again.

  Bruised hip or not I rush through the arches and make it as far as the last one before slipping in the mud and landing on my rear. My flashlight goes flying and the light goes out.

  I’m up patting my hands in the mud to find it, and praying I don’t find furry disease carriers instead. Then I hear footsteps overhead.

  Are you kidding me? Someone is in the house again. I hope it’s Hayley, even Tucker or Etta Jane, but the steps are uneven: silent then reverberating.

  Where’s the flashlight?

  I don’t know whether to run or hide. Where’s the frickin’ flashlight?

  While I turn in crazed circles to find it, I hear a voice. Garbled sentences rapidly run together without pause. I step and feel the flashlight under my boot, grab it, and hurry with its pale gray light leading the way to the staircase.

  Whoever it is, is in the pantry now. The basement door opens and I turn out my light. A candlelit glow falls down the stairs from the pantry. Heavy footsteps pound the stairs like soldiers, but there’s no light coming with them. No one would come down here without a flashlight.

  I’m hiding beside the brick wall next to the staircase. My visitor’s breathing is strained, the steps are slow, a labored grunt sounds male. I press against the wall and all but hold my own breath.

  Where’s Mojo and why isn’t he barking, growling, howling? A little help would be appreciated, fierce wolfdog.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  §

  My visitor reaches the last step and stops. I position the flashlight to use as a weapon. He grunts and the smell of burnt wood and sickeningly sweet caramel fills the air.

  I cover my nose and wait until I hear steps moving away from me, then I move a few inches forward. There’s no one down here at all, not living anyway; just a tall, murky, but very solid shadow.

  I watch it until it disappears under the arches then rush up the stairs and shut the basement door. I shouldn’t be afraid, but I am. Wrong, I’ve disturbed the sacred tomb of Alexander’s children, and he’s gone to check on them. I should be very afraid.

  I shut the door to the pantry and move a chair to block it or rather, amuse my jittery mind. Mojo is lying under the kitchen window. He wags his tail and gets up with exaggerated stretching.

  “Didn’t you see him?” I whisper. “Some ghost tracker you are.” He yawns and lays back down. I feel the same way. Alexander is draining both our energies and getting stronger while doing so. This is the second time his spirit’s taken a dense form.

  I need a break and a shower and clean clothes. Then I’ve got to call Acker and tell him there’s at least one body downstairs, and probably three.

  On the one hand, telling him now will ensure he’ll be too busy with his police work to stay for the séance. On the other hand, removing the coffins will ensure the séance will be more dangerous. Nothing ticks off a hostile ghost like hauling away the loved ones it’s been tending to. Since I’ll be banned from the house by another investigation, I have no choice but to keep my mouth shut until I’m done here.

  I go upstairs, toss my muddy clothes in a plastic bag, and step into the shower. This entire job has been nothing but constant disruptions and distractions. I’ve dropped the ball and overlooked the obvious while significantly misunderstanding Alexander’s burden. And still I don’t know if he’s determined never to leave his children or determined that they be found before he goes.

  At least I’m certain now that his actions have nothing to do with the talk about moving Dorothy to a nursing home or the construction behind her house. My gut instinct though tells me Alexander’s grief and anger go beyond his children’s death, even Carmela’s.

  I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that it isn’t until I’m back in the bedroom dressing that I realize the sun has already set. Impossible. It was barely noon when I went to the basement. I wasn’t even down there a full hour.

  I’m on my way downstairs to check my phone when I hear knocking at the front door. Dorothy’s grandfather clock is still frozen at twelve o’clock. I’ve lost more time than it has.

  After a louder knock at the door, I’m looking out the peep hole at a very put together detective with a wide grin and an arm load of bags. “Give me a break,” I whisper to the gods. I’m never going to get home at this rate.

  “You’re early,” I say, when I open the door.

  “Hello to you too. I’m right on time. Can I come in?”

  “It’s six o’clock already?” I step away from the door. I’ve lost five hours, likely by stepping into the portal of one ornery hombre.

  Mojo runs from the kitchen and straight out the front door. He seems as clueless as me.

  “Hungry?” Acker is already walking to the kitchen.

  “I should be. I haven’t eaten in hours.”

  “How’s the ghost busting going?”

  I grimace and follow. “Complicated,” I say. I still don’t know how I’m going to tell him about the crypt downstairs. It’s not really a police matter, but they’re the ones who will likely deal with it. I’m just not sure how withholding the information will go over with Acker’s law enforcement mentality.

  For now, he’s made himself right at home heating up the entrées. “A Texan fried turkey dinner with all the trimmings including tamales and pecan pie,” he says. He tells me he drove all the way to El Paso to pick it up. I haven’t even done last night’s dishes.

  Acker mixes a pitcher of mock margaritas and tells me we’ll save the wine for after the séance. “I’m really looking forward to this.” He looks like he really is.

  “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. Turn down the oven. I need help with some research before you get this party rolling.” I lead him to the library, and he follows like a kid going to the zoo.

  “There’s a chance that the former owners left behind letters, maybe even a diary or two,” I say. “Let’s rip into things and see what we can find.”

  During our hunt, I tell Acker about my meeting with Alexander last night. I expect him to laugh, ask me what I’d been drinking or smoking. Instead, he nods like he’s heard it before.

  “You know, I’ve been asking everyone how it is that Alexander Jenningsworth lived in this house from 1912 to 1959, and nobody in town knows anything about the man. Why do you think that is?”

  “Guess you’ve been asking the wrong people.”

  “You knew Jenningsworth?”

  “Well, no since I wasn’t even born when he died.” Acker laughs. “But I know more than most about these parts.” There’s that sassy attitude and blood warming grin again. “Actually, my grandmother knew of him.”

  My mouth is hanging open and he taps my chin. “Don’t get too excited. She knew of him. She’d heard that after his wife died, he became a recluse. Folks back then said he locked himself in this house and went a little crazy. Rumor was that he died long before his body was found. Kind of sad and disturbing actually. That would make me want to haunt the place.”

  A possibility, I think, but don’t say. I know his torment began long before his self-imposed exile. “And Carmela? What do you know about her?”

  “Only that she died young and he never recovered from the loss. Man wanted his privacy and the town gave it to him.”

  “And the children?”

  “No relatives that I know of in town. Never
heard a word about him having kids.”

  Until tonight, I start to say. “Do you know how Carmela died?”

  “No. My grandmother never spoke of her. Folks were more respectful of others’ personal business back then. They left the man alone to grieve his own way, and hopefully, to die in peace.”

  “I don’t think he lived or died in peace, and I know he still hasn’t found it. As for Carmela, I read news articles at the town library that said she died on December 20, 1916. One hundred years to the day that Dorothy died. Carmela was found at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck.”

  Acker’s eyes get big. “Whoa. That’s definitely not something I ever heard about. Sounds like more than a coincidence. I’m just not sure how to follow up on any leads.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  §

  It’s after nine when I go upstairs to prepare myself for the séance. I’d invited Acker to join me in the living room for meditation, but he elected to do the dishes instead.

  A man who brings a gourmet dinner to the house and cleans up afterwards is definitely someone to bring home for Christmas. Short of kidnapping him, that isn’t going to happen.

  In our search, we didn’t find a single scrap of paper on the Jenningsworth family. Nothing was hidden in or behind the books and not in any secret passageways, which we didn’t find, or false panels in the antique furniture, which weren’t there either.

  Acker said any police records on Carmela’s death would be difficult if not impossible to find after all these years. He doubted there was more than two men on the police force back then and record keeping wasn’t a priority.

  It’s too late anyway. It’s time for Alexander to fess up to what happened in this house.

  When I ask about Dorothy’s case, Acker says it’s still an active investigation, but he hopes not for much longer. Tucker was released and the prosecutor’s office is mulling over filing charges.

  With a grin, he said the ghost didn’t do it. His eyes said otherwise, and I knew he’d been doing the math on the two women’s falls. I ask him if coming to the séance was part of his investigation, but he wouldn’t admit a thing.

  After thinking about the arguing downstairs last night, I got a strong sense that it was the replaying of the day that Carmela died. But what’s the significance of the hundred year anniversary? Why not fifty years or ninety nine?

  While true that residual energy can’t interact with the living, just tell someone who has encountered it that it can do no harm, and see where that gets you.

  Still, I doubt that Dorothy was the type who would be scared down the stairs either by residual energy or the ghost of Alexander. She’d been more concerned about him disturbing her holiday guests than a woman who was living in fear. Alexander’s anger seems reserved just for me.

  At ten o’clock, I go downstairs and find Acker watching television and eating a second piece of pecan pie. “We need to clear the energy,” I say, and Acker springs into action. “This isn’t your first séance, is it?”

  “Like I said, my grandmother was a healer. Sometimes she used the spirits to help her out. You know, cheap labor.”

  I cringe at his joke and pull out the sage. He’s going to need an extra dose of smudging. I light sandalwood incense and three white candles then place my pendulum and Ouija board on an antique coffee table. Mojo takes his place beside me. He knows the drill.

  “Whoa, you were serious about this,” Acker says, when he returns from the kitchen and sees my set up. “Sorry, it’s been a while since I was around this kind of stuff. Just don’t take any photos to send to the sheriff or anyone else in this town.”

  “I’ll consider that if you settle down. Even though Alexander’s not my favorite ghost, I want you to act respectful.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You know since you’re already set up here, why don’t we ask Dorothy if she knows how she fell down those stairs?”

  “Honestly? You bought me dinner with an ulterior motive in mind and wouldn’t admit to it when I asked?”

  “Don’t forget the Merlot in the refrigerator. The night is still young for ulterior motives.”

  “Clear your mind, cowboy. I’ll call on Dorothy first, but I sense she’s happily relocated. Just focus on your breathing and we’ll see what we get.”

  Acker has indeed spent time with believers. It doesn’t take him long to relax into a peaceful state. I’m almost impressed. I ask the Great Spirit for strength, wisdom, and protection for both of us then begin.

  “We call forth Dorothy Matthews and ask that you honor us with your presence in joining our circle and speaking what truth you have left unsaid. Dorothy Matthews, please make your presence known.”

  My pendulum hangs above the Ouija board as limp as a dead fish. I give her a few moments and send her positive and welcoming energy. “Dorothy Matthews, wife of Harold Matthews, mother of Hayley Sanders, mother of Tucker Matthews, we respectfully request that you come forth and join our circle.”

  The pendulum doesn’t move, the air is warm and still. I wait another five minutes and the pendulum drops from my fingers without warning.

  “Guess not tonight,” Acker says, with a smile.

  “Maybe later. I’m sensing that someone else wants to join us and is blocking other energy. Ready?”

  Acker nods.

  “We call forth Alexander Horace Jenningsworth and ask that you honor us with your presence by joining our circle and speaking what truth you have left unsaid. Alexander Horace Jenningsworth, please make your presence known.”

  There’s a loud thump in the other room, and I try not to jump. I can feel Acker checking things out, probably with just one eye open.

  “Thank you, Alexander. Your presence is acknowledged and we welcome you. We have asked that you join us so we may determine why you stay in this house. Why you do not crossover the veil and join your loved ones in spirit. Please give us your answer now.”

  A door slams upstairs and an icy breeze brushes my face. The pendulum sways over the Ouija board and stops at NO.

  “I understand you don’t want to leave your home, but it is time to go to the light. It is time to leave this earthly plane so that your soul can evolve to its next level. Your loved ones are waiting for you so you can make a safe journey. You are loved, Alexander. Carmela is wait—

  NO.

  This time Alexander’s managed to move the board, just barely an inch, but Acker saw it too. He sits up a little straighter.

  I swallow hard and ask what I fear to know. “Tell us why you refuse to leave.”

  He spells out C H I L D E R N.

  Uh, oh. No need to reveal everything, Jenningsworth. “Your children are in the spirit realm. They await your arrival. You can go to them—

  NO.

  “Your children’s spirits are free of their bodies, free of any pain or illness they had on this earth plane. I promise you what is left behind will be cared for. They are spirits now as are you. They are not here. You are safe and loved and must go to them. We’re asking you to leave now for your own sake as well as theirs.”

  M U R D E R E D.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  §

  The candles flicker and a chill shoots through me. A chill from one who I know is not happy or friendly. I can’t be sure whose spirit I sense, but I feel dizzy and drowsy. Mojo paws my arm, and I shake my head to clear my confusion.

  “Maybe we should stop for now.” Acker’s taken my hand. I must look worse than I feel.

  “No, not yet. He has to finish this,” I say, taking back my hand. “Alexander, who is the murderer?” I’m not sure this is the direction he wants to go, but fear it is.

  C A R M E L A.

  The sound of little footsteps run down the stairs. Acker starts to get up. I grab his arm and whisper, “Let’s finish this. He needs resolution. Don’t be afraid. Your fear will only make things worse.”

  “Alexander. Who did Carmela kill?”

  Silence then the crying starts. Acker’s ready
to bolt. I should never have let him come. “Please. We’re safe. Let him finish.”

  “Alexander, who did Carmela murder?”

  C H I L D E R N.

  There’s a scream upstairs and manic laughter. A chill slams through me once again, and this time it puts out the candles.

  “We need to stop. You’re wrong, this isn’t safe anymore.” Acker has my hand. My lips stretch into a bazaar smile. I know it isn’t me who’s doing it, and I know who is.

  “Carmela Grace Bristol Jenningsworth, your presence is acknowledged.” The Ouija board slides across the table. “Carmela, join our circle and speak what truth you have left unsaid.”

  There’s another disembodied laugh that echoes down the stairs.

  “Carmela, you have been called forth by your husband, Alexander. He is here with us now and needs your help to crossover. Speak your truth for his sake and your own.” There’s a slam from the kitchen, maybe the basement door.

  Acker is squirming. His energy is all over the place. “Maybe it would be best if you left,” I whisper. “It’s okay to go.”

  “I’m staying,” he says.

  “Then you must calm yourself. Please, I need to finish and I’m not certain what that will bring. Alexander must release her and she must release her hold on him. Her spirit’s returned to do that. The time is now. This can’t be stopped.”

  “I said I’m staying, but are you sure you can handle this?” There’s sweat on his brow and pain in his eyes. “This is real, Jack.”

  “I know. It won’t be much longer. Be still and pray.”

  “Good idea on praying. I can do that.”

  “Carmela. You have come here to speak your truth to Alexander and to let him continue his soul’s journey. Speak now and let him go.”

  There’s another scream upstairs, and the sweetness of roses floats into the room. I relight the candles.

  “Speak your truth to Alexander. End his suffering now and be gone for good. The pain and sadness you felt in life are no more, but continue for Alexander. Free him now. Let it be as intended.”