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It troubled Gera, knowing that Abe Cunningham’s widow wasn’t ‘taken care of,’ as Grant Young described it, after all.
She didn’t have long to dwell on the matter. She wanted to make the last tour of the day at Douglas Mansion, now the Jerome State Park. After that, she had the ghost tour with Anise.
The mansion was interesting, and the short film playing on a loop filled in a few historical blanks. However, she rushed through the self-guided tour, knowing she had only a half hour to be back in town. It gave her just long enough to grab a soda, review her notes, and make her way to the next tour with a few moments to spare.
Only four other people took the ghost tour, and she knew two of them. Mr. Grump and Mrs. Gullible were already in the small waiting room of the office, perched upon a ragtag sofa across from two men. Mr. Grump looked more approachable than he had before the first tour. The bulldog expression had softened to that of a Saint Bernard.
Their real names, Gera learned, were Pete and Sandy Gibson. After a recent near-death experience, Sandy opened herself to ‘new possibilities,’ as she described it. Pete was still skeptical, but a restless night at The Dove had worn him down.
“Did you change rooms?” Gera wanted to know. She couldn’t imagine Sandy staying in their original room, not after last night’s hysterics.
“Yes, but I’m not sure our new room is much better,” she fretted.
“Oh?”
“They moved us to the other end of the hall, but I swear I heard a woman scream last night. I kept hearing running in the hallway, but when Pete opened the door, no one was there.”
“She got me up three times to check,” he confirmed, none too happily.
“You heard it, too,” his wife insisted. “And even you saw the shadow.”
In spite of herself, Gera inquired, “Shadow?”
“There was no one in the hallway, but we both saw a huge, looming shadow. It hovered on the wall for a good five seconds before it faded away.” Sandy nudged her husband in the ribs. “You saw it, Pete. Tell her.”
“It’s true,” he said, his voice a sulk. “I saw the shadow. I have no idea where it came from, but I saw the shadow.”
“And this morning when we woke up, our electronics were all unplugged and our soap was missing. Has anything like that happened to you?”
Gera didn’t want to encourage the woman. There had to be a logical explanation for it all. “I had a little trouble with my remote,” she acknowledged. “And the maids left all the lights on in the room while I was out, but that’s all.”
“I doubt it was the maids. It was more likely the spirits,” Sandy predicted.
Before Gera could put up an argument, their tour guide arrived.
She introduced herself as Anise, their spiritual pilot for the evening. Dressed for the part, she wore long flowing robes of gauzy white, bound at the waist with a wide, printed sash. Even Gera recognized the pagan symbols scattered across the swatch of cloth. Many of the same emblems dangled as amulets from around Anise’s graceful neck. Wisps of palest blonde escaped from the turban she wore, the pale green wrap positioned upon her head like a crown. Long feathers dangled from her earlobes to complete her outfit.
The clothes, Gera knew, were a persona. All part of the job she did. Even her soft, whispery voice could be practiced and perfected. But Gera had no explanation for their guide’s ethereal complexion. With skin so pale it was practically translucent, and eyes a faint, watery blue, the woman could almost pass for a ghost.
If I believed in such a thing, Gera reminded herself.
Anise asked the group to introduce themselves. Sandy spoke for her and Pete, eager to share their spooky experiences at The Dove. Josh and Eli were from San Francisco, here to celebrate Eli’s birthday—ghost chasing was a favorite weekend hobby for the couple. Sensing that she was the only non-believer in the group, Gera admitted only to being a journalist, writing a story on supernatural powers.
Anise welcomed them with an airy smile and arms spread wide. She gave a nice spiel about the journey they were about to embark upon. She encouraged the group to keep an open mind. If the spirits sensed they were among friends, they might be willing to speak with them, interact with them. She had tools to help detect when a ghost was present—EMF meters, infrared thermometers, ultra-sonic listening devices, flash photography—but the best tool was an open mind and a positive attitude.
Gera did her best to get into the spirit of the hunt. No pun intended, she snickered to herself. These people were believers. And even she wasn’t so rude as to insult them to their face.
She couldn’t help but think of Grant Young as they began their rounds through town. He was an intelligent man. Well educated and revered among his peers. Yet he, too, was a believer.
She suspected Jake believed, as well. He hadn’t come out and said as much, but it took a person secure in one’s position—someone such as Anise, for instance—to openly admit to believing in ghosts.
Anise not only admitted to her belief in other worlds, she embraced it. She spoke freely about séances and spiritual rituals. She talked about spirits she had called forth, conversations she had led. She talked about guiding lost souls back to the inner realm so that they could peacefully cross over into the next life. That was her sole purpose of ghost hunting, she insisted. She wanted to help those trapped within the in-between realms of now and the hereafter.
To that end, she claimed she had a good rapport with most spirits. They sensed that she was here to help them. A few, however, had turned out to be bitter and uncooperative, but she tried to help those, as well. Sometimes all they wanted, Anise explained, was to have someone listen to them, someone to care. Ghosts weren’t so different from mortals, having been one themselves at some point in time.
They began the tour at twilight, that mystical, mysterious time of day when things weren’t always as they seemed. A play of light could fool the mind. Shadows could play tricks upon the eye. Anise used the fading light to her advantage, her whisper-soft voice enhancing the mood of secrecy and mystification.
Aside from the running commentary about ghosts, Gera learned a great deal of valuable information about the town. Jerome, once hailed as the wickedest town in the west, had a vivid and interesting past. Minnie and Leo had shared some of that history, but most of their stories had revolved around The Dove. Anise offered a more well-rounded version that included the entire community. It turned out the town was full of colorful characters. And, if Anise was correct, many of their ghosts still lingered today.
By the time they reached the Sliding Jail, darkness had set in. Their leader offered a riveting tale about the historic structure and some of the spirits she had encountered there throughout the years. As they left the jail and headed toward the shadowy corner of town that housed the Cuban Queen Bordello, Anise launched into a lively tale of its owner Anna, and her jazz musician husband. Both were known to practice voodoo, she told her followers.
“Ouch! What was that?” Eli cried, stumbling a bit as they crossed the uneven terrain of the city park. “Someone pulled my hair!”
Anise stopped suddenly, creating somewhat of a pile up amid the group following closely upon her heels. “Please, everyone. Shh. A spirit is among us.” She nodded to the hand-held meters gone silent. While in search mode, the meters gave off a steady hum of static. Silence signaled an energy source was near.
Sandy fumbled in her pockets and pulled out her thermometer, waving it around to see if the numbers plummeted. Josh moved closer to his boyfriend.
“Eli, ask your friend if he or she can present themselves,” Anise suggested.
“Is—Is anyone there?” the man asked, his voice timid.
“If you’re there,” Anise said, “please know you’re among friends. We would like to help you. Please give us a sign.”
“I felt it!” Josh insisted. “Something—someone—brushed against my arm.”
“Good, good. They’re making contact. Eli, is there anything you would like to ask our friend?”
“Uhm, sure. So, are you a dude? Or a female?”
“A different format, please,” Anise murmured. “Remember, our meters can only detect yes and no answers. One spike is yes, two is no.”
Eli gave a nervous nod. He held his meter out like a flashlight, waving it through the air. “Are you male?”
There was a brief burst of static as the needle spiked across the grid one time. “Okay, good. Were you ever a guest at the jail?”
The response was delayed, but finally there were two bursts of static. “So no jailbird. Cool. Hey, are you Mac?” he asked hopefully.
Gera had been studying the town from this vantage point, trying to judge the most probable path used by Abe’s killer. Hearing mention of Mac, even she turned inward and awaited the ‘answer.’
The meter rattled out a single gust of static.
She was standing next to Eli, if not a few feet behind. She could play this game, too. She quickly stepped up and asked the next question. “Did you kill Abe Cunningham?”
The group held a collective breath as they waited for the answer. When the meter began to crackle and hum, they sighed in disappointment. “We lost contact,” Anise said. “Perhaps he was insulted.” She didn’t verbally chastise Gera for her question, but her pale eyes were full of censure. “Those of us who know Mac know he could never commit such a heinous crime. Mac has a good, gentle soul.”
“Have you ever seen him?” Gera asked, refusing to apologize for scaring away a ghost. And wasn’t that an oxymoron, at any rate?
“Why, yes, many times.”
“Why do you believe he hasn’t crossed over? What keeps holding Mac here?”
“I believe that Mac feels responsible for the blast of ‘38. Do all of you know the story?” When all heads nodded, she continued, “I think he made a commitment to the town, to stay behind and watch over us, to keep us safe in the afterlife, even though he was unable to do so during his mortal life.”
“So, you don’t believe he is responsible for all the mischief that has taken place recently?” Gera pressed.
“Of course not. Mac is too honorable to do any of those things. Please, if you take nothing else away from our search tonight, please know that Mac McGruder is a good, kind, gentle soul. He will be your friend, if only you allow him to be.” She stressed her sincerity to the group, her pale face practically aglow in the dim moonlight.
“Let’s continue,” Anise said, starting to walk again. “Eli, I believe that Mac may have been trying to guide you through the park. The ground is uneven here. He may have sensed you were about to stumble, and pulling your hair was his way of warning you. Now, up ahead, as I mentioned, is what remains of the bordello. This was a very fancy establishment in its day, with gambling facilities, a full-service saloon, musical entertainment, and, yes, girls of the night. You’ll notice...”
Gera fell slightly behind, only half-listening to what Anise had to say. She was tempted to drop out now, before she wasted an entire evening listening to this charade. A ghost, trying to warn a man about stumbling? She snorted in disbelief. She didn’t care if her meter had gone silent again. It didn’t mean that a ghost walked beside her.
She looked back over her shoulder, still trying to imagine the path Abe’s killer had taken. How long would it take to get from the crime scene to this darkest corner of town? Bare minutes, particularly at a run. That could explain how someone could kill Abe and escape without being seen. By the time Grant Young wandered along, the killer could’ve been hiding here in the shadows, watching from a safe distance.
Gera realized that by lagging behind, she had allowed the group to wander further ahead than she intended. She would need to hurry to catch up. The night was dark and her flashlight was prone to moments of flickering light. Anise suggested it was indicative of a ghost nearby, taking its energy from her battery, but Gera knew it merely meant the batteries were weak.
She saw the others up ahead, rounding the corner to head up the rugged path of First Avenue. Another skeletal building loomed in front of them, an eerie but beautiful structure in the moonlight. No street lights illuminated this sad stretch of pavement.
Her flashlight dimmed on her again, going almost completely out. Just her luck, it happened at the precise moment the moon tucked beneath a cloud. Gera almost stumbled in the darkness, but she managed to keep upright and moving. Her gracefulness surprised even her.
But as the moon came back out and the others noticed for the first time that she wasn’t among them, the hairs on Gera’s arms ruffled to attention. She had the oddest sensation of being watched. It wasn’t someone in the group, but someone who studied her intently, their gaze pointed. Someone watched her, she was certain of it.
After that, she made a point to stay with the group. They made their way back up the steep assent of First Avenue, pausing at various points as Anise shared one story or another. Gera snapped pictures with her cell phone as the guide relayed her tale. Let the others think she was trying to catch an orb; Gera was trying to catch a killer.
She blamed what happened next on the fact that she knew someone watched her. She had to admit, she was a bit spooked by the fact. Her defenses were down, she decided. That was why she reacted the way she did when Anise told a poignant tale about a group of children, the tale about Mac saving a group of school children, rushing them out of harm’s way.
Gera felt a shiver of cold pass through her.
It was an emotional story, she reasoned. It was only natural to get chills. Didn’t mean a ghost was present, even when her meter fell silent. Even when she snapped a photo of the dark street beyond and noticed a tiny speck of light on the preview screen.
Gera glanced up and checked the same spot with her naked eye. Nothing.
She snapped another photo. The light had moved, closer to her this time.
Again, she looked up. Nothing was in the street. Nothing she could see, but her mind insisted that it was a piece of trash, catching the light of her flash.
No one else seemed to notice. They were caught up in Anise’s dramatic rendition of Mac’s heroic deed. The chill crawled up Gera’s spine, manifesting itself in gooseflesh that covered her arms. She could’ve sworn she felt a cool breeze swirl around her, but no wind stirred Anise’s dangling feather earrings, nor the filmy edges of her flowing skirt. The night was still.
As the group trudged up the street, Gera was angry with herself. This wasn’t proof of a ghostly spirit. This was proof of the power of suggestion. She, of all people, knew there was no such thing as ghosts, yet here she was, almost willing to entertain the notion of an unseen entity.
She was almost too aggravated to appreciate the fact that they passed right by the old Bartlett Hotel. It was hauntingly beautiful in the moonlight, its stark structure and elaborate ironwork a beacon in the dark night, even when swathed in crime tape. Out of respect to Abe Cunningham, Anise kept her commentary on the old building brief, but she hinted that spirits dwelled within.
Lastly, they crossed the street and visited the Upper Park, where of all things a miniature golf course was once the rage at the turn of the twentieth century. Dynky Lynx was gone, but swing sets and picnic tables now nestled amid the town’s busiest streets, a tiny hidden oasis amid the trees. When the group aimed their temperature probes at the playground equipment and found the meters dipped as much as ten degrees or more, excitement stirred among them. They interpreted it as a sign that playful spirits lingered, particularly those of children. Gera attributed the sudden plunge to the cold, hard substance of steel, but she kept her opinion to herself.
Their final stop was the old Catholic church. As they climbed the steep incline, Cathy commented it wasn’t far from their hotel, which sat higher up the hill. The roadway was dark, as were the steps up to the church. Gera found it a bit disconcerting to visit a church on a monetized tour, and, yes, just a little creepy. In spite of the dark, she still felt as if someone watched her.
The chapel was dim, the only light coming from the flicker of a hundred prayer candles. Behind the altar, dozens of decorative crosses and stained glass caught bits of light and seemed to dance across the back wall with a life of their own.
Anise spoke in hushed tones and guided the group about with reverence, careful not to disrespect the house of worship. They stopped briefly in the cemetery out back. Despite the beautiful landscaping and its aura of peace and tranquility, Gera still found the visit in poor taste. It left a negative vibe that nibbled at her conscience.
And even as they traveled back down the hill and dispersed as a group, Gera still couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched.
Most disturbing, however, was the sinking feeling that she, of all people, had succumbed to the greatest evil of all.
She had fallen victim to the power of suggestion.
***
GERA WOKE IN THE NIGHT, hearing voices.
She had drunk too much wine last night. She hadn’t been drunk, merely aggravated. The ghost tour left her restless and in a bad mood, and dinner at the Spirit Burger hadn’t sat well on her stomach. Sulking, she had come back to her room and consumed the better part of a bottle of wine.
Now, drawn out of a deep sleep, she was slow to clear the cobwebs from her mind.
She heard a child crying. A baby, from the sounds of it. Perhaps more than one.
Gera sat up in bed, still trying to get her bearings. Was that a car she heard? And where were those voices coming from? Last night her room had been so quiet and peaceful, but tonight a low din of noise came from outside.
A draft wafted through the room and pushed against the drapes, playing among the long wispy panels.
“I bet the doors came open,” she said aloud.
Using the light on her cell phone, Gera padded into the sitting room, where she found the French doors flung wide open, just as Jake had warned they might.
She started to shut the doors, but decided to step out on the balcony and see what the commotion was.
The night was quiet. Warm. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the purr of an engine, but it couldn’t have been what she heard earlier. There were no voices now, just the hushed sounds of a town, fast asleep.
She looked up the hill to her right, to the house she knew belonged to Ruth Cunningham. The house was dark, save for a single light in an upstairs window. She wondered if that was the master bedroom, and if Abe’s widow was having trouble sleeping. From this distance, it was hard to be certain, but Gera thought she saw a person’s silhouette against the light.
Even more impossible, she could’ve sworn she heard crying. Not a baby this time, but the sounds of a woman sobbing. A woman with a broken heart.
The sound echoed in her head, even as she moved inside. Gera closed and latched the doors, making certain the lock was secure.
The baby next door had stopped crying. Gera thought she heard someone singing a soft lullaby.
As she went back to bed, she failed to notice the paper airplane crashed at the edge of the sofa, nor the half-eaten lollipop stuck to the cushion.
