Haunting the Haunted: A Marie Jenner Mystery, #6

Haunting

the Haunted

a Marie Jenner

Mystery

E. C. Bell

To Nolan and Glen. I wish you both were still with me.

I’m selfish, I know, but I miss you.

Ruby: How I Ended Up in Edmonton

I WAS FIFTY-four years old when I died. Got caught in a tornado in Oklahoma and had to save my grandchildren, who I was babysitting so my daughter Lynette could go out for a weekend of fun with her on-again-off-again no-good husband, Steve.

The last time Steve had beaten her, she’d ended up in the hospital for five days, and she’d promised me she was leaving him for real this time. But her promise hadn’t taken, so she was out painting the town red with him when the first tornado of the season rolled in and destroyed my mobile home.

I managed to save both those little girls, but took a real beating and ended up in the hospital. Lynette showed up, but, no matter how hard I begged, she wouldn’t bring the girls to the hospital to see me.

It won’t do them any good, seeing you like this, she said. You’ll see them when you get out.

I didn’t get out, of course. I died that night.

I was a religious woman and fully expected to go somewhere else when I finally shed that mortal coil, but that didn’t happen. I was stuck in the hospital and couldn’t get past the front doors. Every time I tried to leave I’d feel that hospital room pulling at me, keeping me nearby.

Lynette came back to the hospital ten nights after I died. I saw her when they wheeled her in. It looked like Steve had taken a belt to her before he’d pushed her down the stairs and broken three of her ribs. He’d used the buckle end, so she’d lost several of her teeth.

I stayed with her while she healed, but I didn’t believe what she told Preacher Thompson when he dropped by.

That’s the last time, she said to him, mushily. If I go back, he’ll kill me.

Now, Preacher Thompson was an old-fashioned sort, and I half expected him to talk her into staying with Steve, for the children. Bless his heart, he didn’t.

I’ll do what I can to help you, he said. And don’t you worry about Madison and Dakota. Mrs. Abernathy is looking after them for you, until you heal up. And the rest of us will be praying for you all.

Mrs. Abernathy lived down the way from Lynette, and I hoped Steve had finally been picked up by the cops, so he couldn’t get to them.

Lynette thanked him, tears in her eyes. Just don’t let her bring my girls in to visit, she said. Not when I look like this.

I’ll tell her, the preacher said. But promise me you won’t go back to Steve. He’s hurt you enough.

She promised, but she’d promised before. After she healed, she left, and I didn’t see her again. I hoped that meant she’d finally done the right thing, but I was afraid it meant Steve had finally finished her off and my grandbabies were being raised by a woman killer. Was it any wonder I was worried about those two little girls?

I WAS TRAPPED in that hospital until Isabella Sunbeam came in with appendicitis.

She was a psychic of some local renown. Lynette had been to her before and had told me all about her. When I was alive, I figured all that psychic business was bunk, but once I was a ghost, trapped in a hospital, I was willing to suspend my disbelief.

I went to her room and waited for her to come out of the anaesthetic. I hoped I’d be able to talk her into finding out if my grandbabies were all right, but when she finally came around, she acted like she couldn’t see me.

Now, I didn’t know anything about being a ghost, so I figured that maybe I needed to hang around awhile longer, and that eventually she’d become aware of me.

As she recovered, she did readings for all the nurses. Whenever one of them asked about ghosts in the hospital, Isabella said she could feel many of them in her presence. There were many ghosts in her presence, of course, because I wasn’t the only spirit doing everything in their power to get the woman’s attention, but she didn’t know we were there.

She couldn’t see any of us.

The rest of the spirits gave up on her, but I didn’t. I was desperate to get out of that hospital in order to find my grandchildren and make sure they were all right. So, when Isabella packed up to leave, I grabbed onto her and rode her out.

It was a rough ride, for a while, but once the taxi took us ten blocks from the hospital, I didn’t feel stretched quite so thin anymore. I still clutched Isabella like the lifeline that she was, but I felt like I might actually make it.

We ended up at her ramshackle storefront where she lived and worked. If you can call conning poor grieving rubes out of every penny they could afford, work.

I can’t tell you how many readings I had to sit through, with her acting like she could see the dead all around her. But she couldn’t see ghosts. I knew that, because she never once realized I was there.

Even though I knew she was a fake, I couldn’t get the gumption up to try to get away from her. Every time I thought about leaving her, I’d feel the pull of the hospital room where I’d died, and knew I’d snap right back there if I left. The only way I felt strong enough to resist that pull was by staying close to her.

And then along came Patrick Whitecroft.

You here to buy candles? Isabella asked when he walked into the claptrap storefront stuffed to the rafters with old-time junk she’d collected to give the place the proper feel.

No, he’d replied, looking around like he couldn’t really believe he was there. You’re Isabella Sunbeam, the psychic. Right?

That I am, sonny, Isabella replied. You want a reading? Find out what the future holds for you?

He shook his head. I hear you can contact the dead, he said.

I can. She smiled. Who do you want me to contact?

His name is Nolan, he said. Nolan Brandford. He was my—friend. I need to know that he’s at peace.

Something about the way he said the name made me think they were more than friends. Isabella took him by the arm and led him through the beaded curtains to the back room.

I think we need some privacy, she said, and sat him down at the round table draped with black cloth. Now, tell me about Nolan.

Patrick looked at his hands and droned out his history. Something about going to college and finding Nolan there. How they hit it off and quickly became inseparable.

I thought we had more time, he said, his face a mask of misery. But he died. I need to talk to him one last time, Miss Sunbeam. So I can say goodbye.

His need to find Nolan wafted out of him like strong perfume. I was overwhelmed by it and couldn’t stop myself from reaching out and touching his arm, just above the elbow.

I believe that was when the connection between us truly started.

I could feel his anger, just below the surface of his skin. Below that, I could feel his sadness, and his need. It was so strong that, for a moment, I couldn’t pull my hand from his arm. It was as though I’d been glued to him.

For sure, Isabella said. You understand it will cost you twenty dollars, cash? Maybe a bit more, if it’s hard to make a good connection. Sometimes the spirit world is resistant.

I understand, he said. When he reached for his wallet, I was able to finally break free from him. I stumbled to the far side of the room, gasping, as Isabella shook her head.

Not now, she said, pointing at his wallet. After.

Even though I still felt frightened by the way I’d attached to him, I hoped he had a bunch more than twenty dollars in his wallet, because Isabella Sunbeam was about to fleece him, good.

She sat down across from him and went into her trance. Now, she could no more go into a trance than I could, but she put on a pretty good show. She closed her eyes, held out her hands, and rocked side to side, calling Nolan’s name.

Patrick looked around expectantly. Isabella opened one eye and peeked at him, then redoubled her efforts. I wondered if she’d ever thrown herself out of her chair by accident, but she soon stopped rocking, and sighed.

I’m finding it hard to make a connection, she said. Tell me your name. He’ll respond if he knows who’s looking for him.

Cha-ching, I muttered. It’s going to cost you another ten bucks.

Patrick Whitecroft, he said, quickly. But he called me Patty. Tell him Patty is looking for him.

Patty, Isabella said. She smirked, but quickly hid it with an overly friendly smile. I’ll tell him.

She closed her eyes and held out her hands over the table again. Nolan, she said. Nolan Brandford, Patty is looking for you. Come to me, Nolan. Come to me.

The table rattled like some unseen hand had rapped on it, hard.

Nolan? Isabella called. Is that you?

Another rap on the table, as though Nolan was in the room, desperate to make a connection. Of course, it wasn’t Nolan trying to signal from beyond the grave. It was Isabella, with her knee.

Usually, the rube on the other side of the table cried out the name of their loved one at this point, delighted that they were finally making a connection. But Patrick didn’t make a sound. He frowned and stared down at the tabletop like it was made of glass and he could see the hand-made contraption Isabella had set up under her side of the table.

Isabella didn’t see him frown, because she still had her eyes closed. Nolan, she said. Patty wants to speak to you. If you wish, you can communicate with him, through me. Is this what you want?

A quick double tap on the table, and Isabella slumped over the tabletop, groaning. But Patrick wasn’t buying it.

How are you doing this? he asked.

Isabella sat upright and moaned in a gruff voice quite unlike her own. Patty, is that you?

Patrick didn’t respond. He pushed away from the table and stood.

Isabella opened one eye and frowned. Don’t you want to talk to Nolan? she asked, in her own voice. He’s here, waiting.

No, Patrick said. I don’t think so.

Before Isabella could move, Patrick grabbed the black silk tablecloth and pulled it from the table. The three candles from the centre flew across the room and smashed against the far wall, and Isabella gave up all pretences.

What are you doing? she cried, and leaped away from the table. Quit wrecking my stuff.

Patrick didn’t answer. He grabbed the edge of the table and tipped it over.

Stop that! She pointed at the bead-covered doorway that led to the storefront. I think you should go. Now.

Patrick remained silent as he examined the exposed bottom of the table, and shook his head. It’s a lie, he muttered. It’s all a lie.

I want you to get out of my place of business, Isabella said.

Business? Patrick said. You call this a business? I call it a lie, and you—you are a charlatan!

He grabbed the table and flung it across the room. Isabella squawked as it broke up into so much firewood. Get out! she cried. Or I’m calling the cops.

Good idea, Patrick said, his anger pulsing from him in hot red waves. Call the police. I want to talk to them. You can’t trick people like this. It’s cruel. Cruel!

Oh, come on, Isabella said, all patience spent. What did you expect? Did you actually think you’d see this Nolan person, in the flesh? He’s dead, you moron. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back. It doesn’t matter how much you want—need—to see him again. He’s gone.

I don’t believe that, he said. I’ll find someone who can help me. But you? You’re a cheat who needs to be stopped.

He walked past Isabella, and she flinched away from him as though she was afraid he was going to slap her. He didn’t touch her. Just stopped and glared. You better be gone when I come back, he said. Because I swear to God, I’ll burn this place to the ground if you’re still in business.

He walked through the beaded doorway to the storefront, his anger wafting around him in huge red waves. It was more than anger, though. I could feel his sadness, and his need. His need wrapped itself around me and pulled me toward him, like he was a magnet and I was iron.

What’s going on? I said, and looked at Isabella like I thought she’d actually help me. But she was pressed up against the wall, her hand to her mouth, and I could tell she was truly afraid.

Patrick walked through the dusty, junk-filled storefront to the exit, and I followed him. My feet weren’t even moving, but still I followed him.

Stop it! I cried, but of course he didn’t know I was there. He just walked through the door and out into the hot white sunlight, and I followed him, completely against my will.

Later, when he started gathering other spirits just like he’d trapped me, I came up with a theory about what was going on. It was his need that turned him into a magnet for the dead. His need to make contact with his friend Nolan pulled the dead to him.

Just like I couldn’t stop the need to see my granddaughters, Patrick couldn’t stop his need to commune with the dead. Need feeds need. That was why we bonded, and that was why he was able to collect so many more of us.

That bond was as tight as iron. Nothing could break it. Nothing.

I WAS HIS first ghost, but I sure wasn’t his last. After he finished with Isabella Sunbeam—who never worked as a psychic again—he travelled from county to county, across the country, looking for a real psychic so he could say goodbye to Nolan. When he found fakes, he destroyed their careers and moved on. Word got out, and people started to call him the psychic debunker.

WITH NEARLY EVERY fake he found, he also found trapped spirits. Like me, most of them had hoped that somehow, they’d be able to communicate with their loved ones. And, just like me, they were bonded to Patrick, trapped by his need, and theirs.

He got pretty famous in the living world, and in his heyday, he was interviewed for all the big magazines and was even invited to talk shows on television. That eventually became his thing. He’d debunk psychics on live TV.

However, in all that time, and with all his searching, he never, ever, found a real psychic.

He fell out of fashion after twenty or so years and started going to fairs and conventions to flog his books. Then he started going to haunted houses and turned himself into a ghost debunker. Even had his own handmade instruments that were supposed to show, scientifically, whether ghosts were there or not. And he always proved they weren’t there, even when a spirit was standing right in front of him. Anything to make a buck.

He acted like he’d forgotten about Nolan, but beneath the money-grubbing attention-seeking behaviour, his need was still there, holding me—all of us—as tightly as before.

I was losing hope, but, in 2013, we ended in Edmonton, up in Canada, where Patrick was checking out a haunted night club. That was where we met Joy.

She was a little girl with long brown hair that hung in natural ringlets down her back and she reminded me of my granddaughter, Madison. Joy had died many years before, all alone, and even though she said she wanted to find her mother, she grabbed onto us and wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let me go. She needed someone, and I was it.

When Patrick left the Springworks nightclub, he had ninety spirits bound to him. Ninety of us, going wherever he went, all of us hating him a little bit more every day because we couldn’t get away from him.

But I didn’t feel quite as badly as I usually did, because when we left, Joy came with us. Suddenly, I had a reason to keep going. Somebody had to look after her, after all.

A COUPLE OF years after Joy joined us, Patrick got a phone call. It came way too early in the morning, after a night of him drinking way too much, and Joy laughed as he flailed around, trying to grab his phone off the small table beside the bed.

He knocked the bourbon bottle that was next to the phone to the floor, and cursed. It was only half empty, because it was the second bottle from the night before, but he’d forgotten to replace the lid, and it spilled all over the stained carpet.

Jesus, he muttered, and reached again for the phone. Somehow, he managed to flick it half way across the motel room, where it continued to ring.

Damn, he said, and lurched to his feet, kicking the bourbon bottle and stubbing his toe. Damn!

I figured he’d give up and drop back down on the bed, but he didn’t. He stumbled over to the phone, bent to retrieve it, and gagged. Pulled himself together, and held it to his ear.

Yeah? he said.

Whoever was on the other end talked for a long time. Patrick picked up the bourbon bottle and held it to the sliver of light screaming past the edge of the blackout curtains. He snorted and shook his head, probably because there was only an inch left in the bottom.

I guess, he said, as he set the bottle down on the top of the old-fashioned CRV TV squatting on the dresser. What’re you paying?

Whoever was on the other end of the line said something, and his eyes finally snapped open. They had his attention.

Maybe I can help you out, he said. When do you need me?

He frowned and shook his head. I can’t get there tomorrow. I’m in Winnipeg, in the middle of a job. Give me one more day.

Whoever he was talking to obviously said yes, because he half-smiled and nodded gingerly. Great, he said. That sounds great. I’ll see you in two days.

He ended the call and lurched to the bed. Edmonton again, he muttered. What the hell’s going on in that town?

He crawled back into his bed and pulled the covers over his head. Soon he was snoring. I looked at Joy.

Looks like you’re going home, I said.

Can I see Mommy? Joy asked.

I shrugged. We’ll see, little girl.

That was enough for her, and she settled. Then we all waited for Patrick to wake up.

Looked like we were going back to Edmonton. Maybe there, this horror show would finally end.

Stage One

Meeting the Haunted

Marie: It Just Isn’t Going to Happen

IT FELT LIKE my luck changed for the better when I finally got out of Alberta Hospital with a clean bill of mental health the month before.

James Lavall, my boss and a whole lot more, was glad to have me back at work, because he could barely keep up with all the new business rolling into the Jimmy Lavall Detective Agency.

Most of that new business entailed people supremely disappointed with the direction their marriages had taken. They wanted James to help them prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that their lifemates were a real problem so they could file for divorce and clean the aforementioned lifemate out, financially and in all other ways.

Dissolving marriages. That was how we kept the lights on at the Jimmy Lavall Detective Agency.

Luckily, my ability to see ghosts was starting to help keep the lights on, too. Ever since I’d been released after my thankfully brief evaluation period to determine if my ability to see and interact with ghosts was just some terrible chemical interaction in my brain, the website James had developed for me had been giving me leads—good leads—to the haunted and the grief-stricken in the Edmonton area. And those leads had led to some pretty decent paydays.

I wasn’t quite ready to move out of my best friend Jasmine’s basement yet, but things were finally looking up.

THE PHONE ON my desk rang. I glanced at the call display, and sighed. It was Ellis Wheeler again. Third time this week.

That for me? James Lavall called from his office.

Nope, I said. It’s for me.

You going to answer it? he asked.

I haven’t decided yet, I said.

It’s Wheeler, isn’t it?

Yes, I replied. It is.

Why don’t you let me deal with him? James asked. I can get rid of him, easy as pie.

He’s my problem, I said. I’ll handle him.

I’d done a stupid thing after I’d been released from the hospital. I’d decided it was time that the whole world knew that I could see and interact with ghosts, so I told Ellis Wheeler I would go on his late-night talk show and prove it.

Ellis Wheeler was a bit of a shock jock, TV version. Every Thursday night at midnight, he loaded his talk show with the weird and wild, and apparently that summer, Andrew Westwood and I were his favourite topics.

For about a minute after I got out of Alberta Hospital, I honestly thought that going on TV and admitting my abilities to everyone who watched that show was a good idea. But then I had a second thought, and a third, and I realized that going on TV—and that show specifically—was a terrible idea. Probably the worst idea I’d ever had.

I’d told Wheeler I was no longer interested, but that didn’t stop him from calling me, continuously. I had the feeling he’d built his summer season around me, my abilities, and what had happened at the ball diamond the month before.

Wheeler had already spent a lot of airtime dealing with Andrew Westwood and what had happened to him that dark night at Diamond Two at John Fry Park. What he wanted me to do was have me tell my version of the story.

That night, Andrew Westwood had attacked me, much as he liked to make everyone believe otherwise. And then, he had been attacked. But it wasn’t me who had attacked him. He’d been attacked by ghosts. Actual, pissed off ghosts.

They were protecting me, true, but there was a bigger reason they’d gone after him. Forty years before, he’d killed Karen Dubinsky and buried her at that diamond, and the ghosts all knew about it. They also knew that he’d killed her for no other reason than she’d said she didn’t want to screw around with him anymore, because she’d found out he was married.

Karen Dubinsky’s ghost, who had been trapped at the ball diamond until I met her, and who was now sitting at the window of the Jimmy Lavall Detective Agency, turned and stared at me like she knew I was thinking about her and her situation.

After you take that phone call and tell that idiot, one more time, you aren’t doing his stupid show, are we going out to the ball diamond? she asked. Those poltergeists aren’t going to stop themselves.

The poltergeists Karen was talking about were from her dead softball team. They had worked out a way to interact with the living side of the veil, and most of them were very much into revenge, which made them dangerous. They were the ones who had attacked Andrew, and then they’d gone out into the living world, in order to take revenge on others. Many of the ones they attacked had hurt—or killed—someone on the dead ball team. But some hadn’t. It looked like the poltergeists from Karen’s ball team were branching out.

Luckily, I’d found most of them, and convinced them, with Karen’s help, to stop the revenge beatings and killings and move on to the next plane of existence. There were just two poltergeists left to move on, but both of them seemed to be intent on sticking around and cleaning up Edmonton, one crappy boyfriend or husband at a time.

Still, I was confident I’d be able to convince them to move on to the next plane of existence and leave the rest of us alone. The biggest problem was, it couldn’t be during office hours. I had a job to do, after all. Receptionist slash secretary for the Jimmy Lavall Detective Agency.

Plus, I had a client of my own to visit this morning. A paying client.

I can’t go right now, I said to Karen.

But there might be a game, she said. Maybe.

Since all the poltergeist activity had started, Karen’s dead softball team had stopped coming to the diamond, which meant that, on top of everything else, she wasn’t able to play ball anymore.

Sorry, I said.

Before she could respond, I picked up the receiver and took Ellis’s call. He started shrieking at me almost immediately.

Ellis, you have to quit calling me, I said, even though he was yelling so loudly I wasn’t sure he could hear me. For the last time, I’m not coming on your show.

When he started screeching about breach of contract and suing me—even though I hadn’t signed a contract—I’d had enough.

I said no, Ellis, I snapped. Sue me if you think it’s going to help. We’re done.

I slammed the phone down, hoping that would make Karen feel a little bit better. Didn’t seem to help her, but it did help me.

SOCCER MOM PHYLLIS Miller was adamant that I find the ghost she was convinced was hiding in her daughter Estelle’s bedroom, and then get rid of it before Estelle finished school for the day.

Estelle is delicate, she said. She needs her own space back.

Phyllis was right. There was a ghost in Estelle’s bedroom, hiding under the bed. He was terrified of Phyllis and quite willing to move on. He just didn’t know how. So, I helped him and then I went back to the office.

I parked in the back lot beside James’s Volvo, and walked inside the office building. It was just as hot in the hallway leading to the stairs as it was outside, because, surprise surprise, there was no air conditioning in the old building. I could hear a phone ringing somewhere above me as I hit the stairs. It stopped, and then started again. Somebody was having a busy day.

I started up the stairs, and Karen appeared beside me. You better hurry, she said. He’s going crazy.

Sure, sure, I said. The phone rang. I finally got to the top of the stairs and stopped for a second, covered in sweat. Then the phone rang again and I realized the sound was coming from our office.

That phone was ringing off the hook.

See? Karen said. Get in there. He’s losing it.

I threw the door open and found James seated at my little receptionist desk, small pieces of paper littering the top of the surface in front of him. He didn’t look up at me. Just kept saying Uh-huh, over and over, and scribbling down frantic notes. She’ll get back to you soon, he said, and hung up the phone.

So how’s it going? I asked.

He didn’t answer me. Just hit another button on the phone. Thank you for holding, he said. How can I help you?

I was actually quite impressed with his phone skills. He sounded pretty chipper, even though thunderclouds had formed on his brow.

He scribbled on a fresh sheet of paper, said, She’ll call you back as soon as she can, and finally hung up the phone for good.

I told you to let it go to voicemail when I’m not here, I said. Remember?

You were gone a long time, he