Dead Bolt (20 page)

“Of course,” said Olivier. “Feel free. And if they do show orbs, which are a sign of spirits present, please e-mail them to me so we can put them up on the Web site.”

Most in the group seemed so earnest and . . . gullible .  . . that I found it hard not to roll my eyes. Since my experience at Matt’s house six months ago, I had come to believe in the existence of spirits from a different dimension. But this tour felt like nothing more than making money off the titillation provided by the idea of a ghostly presence. I supposed there were worse ways to make money, but it felt unseemly, somehow.

Things improved as we left the hotel and walked the neighborhood. Olivier spun a fascinating tale, and clearly knew a lot about San Francisco history. We heard about scandals and tragedies, and numerous possible spirits and hauntings. Finally we paused outside two houses connected by a breezeway that belonged to sisters who grew to hate each other. Olivier told us a lunatic cousin had been kept in the attic but broke out one day and killed a woman visiting in the front parlor. The houses operated as a hotel for a while, but the guests complained of horrifying apparitions.

“Now, though, we must only look at it from this side of the street, for the current owner does not like the fact that he is a stop on the famous Ghost Walk tour.”

The crowd tut-tutted their disappointment, but I sympathized with the homeowner. I could imagine spending millions on a house only to have the local ghost groupies hang out in front, oohing and aahing and talking about lunatic murderers and lingering spirits.

“I found this key in an antique store, and the amazing thing is that it once belonged to this very house. Now, if you hold it in your flat palm, it will sometimes move toward the house.”

The group gathered in a circle around Olivier, watching intently, hoping to see the key turning in his palm.

“How does he know the key belonged to this building?” I whispered to Matt. “It’s an old skeleton key. I have a dozen of them at home, and a few in my satchel.”

“Because he’s psychic?” suggested Matt.

“And why would a key point to a building, anyway?”

“Because he’s pushing it?”

I smiled.

“It’s a nice night for a walk, in any case,” said Matt, lifting his face to the stars. “Except that it’s flipping freezing out here.”

Several stops later we circled back to the Eastlake Hotel. Matt and I hung around until the crowd dispersed.

Olivier met my eyes, and gave me a small, ironic smile.

“I take it you’re not a believer?” he said.

“What makes you say that?”

“You rolled your eyes with every story I told.”

I blushed. “I’m sorry; that was rude. I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

He gave a very Gallic shrug. “Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t denigrate me. Comes with the territory.”

“I wouldn’t say I was denigrating you.”

“What would you call it then?”

“Sincere skepticism.”

He laughed. It sounded genuine, and the twinkle in his blue-green eyes was hard to dismiss. He wasn’t all that good-looking, but there was something about him . . . probably that voice.

“But I must ask: Why take my tour?”

“I was hoping to ask you a few questions, in private. The ghost society referred me to you. Could I buy you a drink, or hire you for an hour or something?”

“Hire me?”

He looked surprised, and I was afraid he misunderstood.

“I’d like some advice and I’m happy to pay for it. That’s all I’m saying. . . .”

“Mel and I want to take you for a drink,” Matt interrupted. “She wants to ask you some questions about ghosts.”

Olivier nodded, looking intrigued. “I would love to take a glass with you. There’s a nice bar on the corner.
Allons-y.
Let’s go.”

The lounge was upscale and mellow, a slight murmur from the patrons vying with a recording of Nat King Cole crooning “The Very Thought of You.”

We scooted into a plush upholstered booth.

To my surprise, Olivier ordered not wine but a tumbler of Macallan, a single malt scotch. Suddenly that seemed like a great idea, so I followed suit. Matt ordered a Sprite. Olivier raised his eyebrows at Matt’s order, but said nothing.

“You know your scotch, I see,” I said to him.

“It is in my blood. My mother was Scots, my father French. I’m a Channel baby.”

“Wouldn’t that be a ‘Chunnel’ baby?” I asked.

Olivier laughed, and looked from me to Matt.

“Just FYI, Mel and I aren’t together,” Matt said.

“Matt’s friends call him Mr. Subtle,” I said.

“Ah?” Olivier said, looking confused.

“Mel and I are strictly platonic friends. Though I’m half in love with her, like all the men she knows. And you, Olivier, are you married?”

Olivier smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, he looked me in the eye and held my gaze, the way European men do. It made me nervous. I became fascinated by the amber depths of my scotch.

“Coincidentally, Mel’s been planning to move to France,” Matt said.

I felt myself blush. Though I kept insisting that was my plan, the more it became widely known, the more embarrassing it felt that I didn’t either up and leave, or drop the whole thing.

“Is that right?” Olivier asked. “Which part?”

“Paris.”

“A beautiful city, but of course I must love it, because I am French. Though myself, I am from Normandy. What will you do there in Paris, Mel?”

“Nothing much. No definite plans, I mean. I thought I’d find a cheap apartment somewhere on the Left Bank and just hang out for a while.”

“I hate to tell you this, but the Left Bank has been ‘discovered.’ I’m not sure you could find anything cheap there these days.”

I shrugged. “At the rate I’m going, I won’t get there until it’s fallen out of favor again, anyway. Guess I’ll cross that
pont
when I get to it.”

“Oh!” said Matt as he scooted out of the booth. “I just remembered something I have to do. So sorry to leave you two alone. Have fun without me.” With an obvious wink to me, he abandoned his Sprite and hurried out the door.

“I apologize for Matt,” I said to Olivier. “I don’t know how well you know him, but his enthusiasm tends to overwhelm his good sense.”

Olivier smiled. “He’s charming. So, Mel, what can I help you with?”

I leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice.

“When you said earlier that I wasn’t a believer . . . That’s not entirely true.”

“
N
o?”

“I’ve seen things that convinced me there are, in fact, people . . . or beings . . . or whatever, on some different plane maybe, and they visit us. . . .” I stumbled over my words. I didn’t have the ghost lingo down.

“What have you seen?”

“Some months ago I saw an apparition of an acquaintance who had recently died. But once I got over the shock of it, he didn’t try to harm me in any way. He was confused . . . and annoying, to tell the truth.”

Olivier nodded and sipped his scotch. “That’s typical, actually. It is only human to react with fear, but most spirits aren’t out to hurt us.”

I wasn’t quite so sanguine about the brief, odd glimpses and sensations I’d had from the ghosts in Cheshire House.

“But now I’m working in a house where there’s something .  . . wrong. I can feel it.”

“What has happened?”

“It started out with things going wrong as the house undergoes renovations. Handprints appearing on the ceiling; equipment starting of its own accord; things being moved. Rusty old dead bolts that lock and unlock by themselves. And earlier today, I thought I heard whispers behind a wall. And then someone was hurt falling off a ladder, and my toolbox was pushed off a ledge. It barely missed hitting me on the head.”

Olivier frowned, shook his head, and took a sip of scotch. “That sounds more like an unhappy human than a spirit. It is rare for a ghost to attack someone, and it’s difficult for them to manipulate physical items.”

I nodded. “I haven’t completely ruled out human mischief. But in the closet in the attic, where I thought I heard whispers, I saw something written on the wooden panel that serves as a door:
Memento mori
. Do you know what that means?”

“‘Remember you must die.’ Or ‘remember to die.’ Depending on your interpretation.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Not at all. It used to be a common inscription on tombstones and that sort of thing. Have you seen any actual apparitions in the house?”

“I saw footprints in the dust right in front of me, as if someone was walking toward me. And a figure in a mirror. But the worst is a dark, amorphous figure, like a shadow or black cloud. The woman of the house says it hovers over her shoulder sometimes when she tries to enter the baby’s room.”

Olivier’s nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled deeply, nodded, and released the breath.

“What do you feel when you are in the presence of this shadow?”

“Rage. Fear. Even . . . desire, lust. I didn’t feel this way with the first ghost I met, at least once I got over the shock. This time it’s . . . more disturbing.”

A group of twentysomething hipsters started laughing loudly in the next booth, their rambunctiousness seemingly at odds with the subdued tone of the lounge. Olivier leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice.

“What you are describing sounds like a shadow ghost. They appear darker than their surrounds, and are often experienced as a barely-there figure, or a column of smoke.”

Great. I was already searching my peripheral vision; now I had to scope out shadows for something darker than dark?

“Some believe they are more dangerous than other ghosts, that they remain in the shadows out of guilt, or shame, or the fear of being revealed. What you may be feeling is this fear, this shame.”

“How are they different from other ghosts?”

“Many spirits are trying to reveal themselves, which is what allows sensitive people to see them from time to time. It is why you saw your friend before. They may need something from us, or may simply not understand where they are and what is happening. And so they wish to interact with the living. But shadow forms . . .” He took another sip of scotch, sat back, and shook his head. “They’re usually not benevolent.”

“Can they actually hurt us? Or do they just make us so jumpy that we end up hurting ourselves? I mean . . . how can something immaterial, ghostly, affect the material world?”

“Do not discount the power of emotions. You have no doubt heard of people who, when faced with a grave crisis, find strength they do not normally possess? A mother seeking to rescue her child, suddenly able to lift a heavy weight?”

“Sure. The fight-or-flight response to threat. The mother’s body releases adrenaline when she sees her child in danger, and it pumps up her muscles. But a ghost doesn’t have either muscles or adrenaline.”

“Of course it does not. But, Mel, it is the mother’s
emotions
that release the adrenaline, yes? What if that emotion had no body to be released into, to channel it? Who knows what effect it might have on the surrounding physical world?”

“Wow. I . . . I guess that makes sense.”

The increasingly raucous group at the next table called to the waitress for another round, making me realize I had gulped down my scotch. I contemplated ordering another, but I was driving. And considering the circumstances, it was probably best if I kept my wits about me.

“This sounds silly, but could ghosts have been responsible for a murder across the street from where they usually live—er—reside? A man was shot.”

“Ghosts don’t shoot people. However, a powerful ghost might inspire someone to shoot someone else.”

“Are you talking about . . . possession?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, sticking his chin out slightly. “Not in the way it’s portrayed in movies. It’s more that their emotions can influence others, particularly if a situation reminds them of a critical time in their own lives. They sort of . . . what is the word . . . pig-backy?”

“Piggyback?”

“Yes, piggyback on the living person, enhancing the living person’s guilt or anger. Or even lust, desire, jealousy.”

That sounded bad. Really, really bad. I didn’t want to think too hard about what had happened in the attic with Graham.

“So how do I get rid of them? My client says she lit sage and asked them to go, but now it seems worse than before. I . . . I know this is asking a lot, but would you be willing to come to the house, see what you can see?”

“I would be honored.” He held my gaze again, sipped his scotch, gave me a crooked smile.

“I will have to charge you a small fee, I’m afraid.”

Strike that. He was just happy to meet another sucker he could soak for money. “I’ll talk to the owners, make sure it’s okay with them.”

He nodded. “May I ask you a sincere question, Mel?”

“Shoot.” I signaled the waitress for the check.

“Why are you so worried about this? It is not your home being haunted.”

“It’s my job site.”
Duh
. “And it’s just plain wrong.”

“Ah, you are very American!” He smiled. “You think everything should be sweetness and light all the time. But that is not life. If you move to France you must embrace your dark side. There is beauty and romance in the darkness, no?”

I wondered if I could leave Jim and Katenka with that insight.
“No worries,”
I’d tell them as the black cloud appeared and footsteps marched across the floor.
“Just embrace the beauty of the dark side!”
Then again, I imagined Katenka was no stranger to the “life is pain and then you die” school of thought.

Feeling a headache coming on, I sighed and rubbed my temples.

“Headache? Allow me,” Olivier said. He reached across the table and encircled my head with his large hands, his thumbs on my forehead, the fingertips holding the back of my neck, at the base of my skull. He pressed hard, rubbing slightly. I studied his face; his eyes were closed.