Pipeline (4 page)

His heart pounded with excitement, releasing
a swarm of anxious butterflies from his stomach. The word
“pipeline” popped into his head.

Dylan’s expertise was in EMF’s, or
Electromagnetic Frequencies, used to identify the presence of a
haunting through means of various technologies. If the team were
allowed to study and produce results of this particular type of
paranormal activity, it would be a huge success to the society. He
began picturing himself in all of the published journals for the
discovery that would propel him to the top in his field. Tracy
Kimball was someone he had to meet.

He printed four copies of the e-mail.

“Guys, you’ve got to take a look at this,” he
said.

Seated across the room were his colleagues,
surfing and diving deep into Internet research, scaling different
heights for the latest information both technological and mundane,
and staying informed of everything current. The sound of Dylan’s
voice broke the dead silence of concentration.

“We’ve just received an interesting e-mail,
and I’ve printed copies for all. Everyone, roundtable.”

“Hear that? Roundtable discussion! It’s
kindergarten time,” Sidney Pratt said, repeating Dylan’s request in
a louder tone, teasing his terminology.

Sidney was one of four that comprised the
small motley crew of paranormal investigators led by Dylan. A
sarcastic wit boasted from his robust semblance, and his
smart-assed quips sometimes caused them to stray from their focus.
Yet, the fat, funny guy had one distinct asset well documented by
the paranormal research society’s archive: Sidney Pratt could hear
the dead. The society listed him as a “Listener,” a term describing
those who could hear the voices of the dead as they called out from
beyond.

“C’mon, Sid. You’re going to want to see
this.”

Dylan took his place at the head of the
table, and to his left sat Sidney and another investigator. Brett
Taylor had the look of a modern day hippie, with shoulder length
brown hair and a heavy, khaki green, army jacket that pre-dated
him. His proficiency as a master of monitoring sound waves and
detecting paranormal patterns within them was well documented. He
was also noted as a technological wizard.

To Dylan’s right, sat a small, soft, angelic
beauty with a pad, pen, and laptop in front of her. Leah Leeds’s
blond hair, blue eyes, and tiny structure caused one to wonder how
this portrait of purity and innocence hung so well fitting amid a
gallery of oddities. She served as secretary and archivist to the
society, her vocation of a voluntary basis, overseeing the full
documentation of all cases. But her main role was of investigator
because like Sidney Pratt, Leah Leeds also possessed a special
talent: she could see the dead.

Various titles had been attributed to people
like Leah and Sidney: medium, clairvoyant, psychic, none of which
encompassed the true definition of either of their capabilities.
Leah defined herself as a “Seer:” not a seer of the future, but one
who saw and acknowledged the dead as they dwelled in the plain
light of reality.

Her young life had changed forever the day
that her parents moved into the house on Cedar Drive: a
three-story, colonial fortress that captured her mother’s heart,
destroyed her father’s mind, and held Leah prisoner in a world
haunted by ghosts and tormented by the wrath of poltergeists.

From the second day after they’d arrived,
Leah could see the dead that remained within that house, unlike her
parents. They’d shrugged off the sightings as the fascinations of a
child, and Leah’s “playmates” were not to be taken seriously.

They had soon discovered otherwise.

The society had record of Leah’s Cedar Drive
experiences, all of which she’d transcribed in autobiographical
format. Her capabilities stemmed from her first-hand experience
because the ability to see ghosts and apparitions didn’t die in the
child but became stronger in the adult. Both she and Sidney were
powerful assets to the society, phenomenal psychic beings that were
not only utilized, but studied.

Dylan passed copies of Tracy’s e-mail around
the long, rectangular conference table that was surrounded by lush,
purple velvet chairs. A fifty-two inch, widescreen TV and video
apparatus were placed strategically at the far end of the table,
providing a clear view for all seated.

The four sat in silence, reading, and the
meeting of minds in synchronicity restored the deep concentration
so abruptly broken earlier. Their eyes met when finished.

“So, what can we assess here?” Dylan said,
quizzically.

“A voice through the television static...
intense.” The far out, distant vocal tone belonged to Brett, whose
persona lived up to appearance.

“That was the first incident,” Dylan said.
“Brett, what’s your take on it?”

“We’ve all studied it before—sounds that are
said to be voices coming through the static of televisions, radios
that have gone haywire. There is a theory that the dead can
manipulate these outlets as a form of communication.”

“Precisely,” Dylan said. “And she thinks
she’s had other forms of contact as well, specifically, the
phone.

“Try to find out when those calls came, as
close as possible,” Leah said, taking notes. “We can verify through
the phone company.”

Sidney joined the conversation.

“And she knows, or thinks, that this contact
is from her fiancée that was killed in the accident?”

Dylan nodded.

“I wonder if she’s seen him yet,” Sidney
said.

“What’s on your mind, Sid?” Dylan’s question
turned all attention toward Sidney.

“I have the feeling that if she hasn’t seen
him yet, she’s about to,” he said. “Other forms of contact, whether
they’re noticed or not, usually occur prior to a ghostly
manifestation.”

“What interests me is her patient’s last word
before he died,” Leah said. “If this is the kind of activity I’m
thinking of, we’re talking about something very powerful.”

Memories of the Cedar Drive house flashed in
her mind, and in an instant, she blocked them and focused
again.

“Yes,” Dylan said. “But if there is contact
through these means of technology, then we may have proof of a
theory rarely experienced.”

“The Pipeline Effect,” Sidney said.

“Exactly. It is a rare occurrence, but the
theory is a strong one. It speculates that when the dead attempt to
communicate through technology, they form what is called a
‘pipeline.’ The theory is thus named. There are many cases
documented around the world, but conclusive proof is sometimes
elusive.”

“This, of course, is not to be confused with
the geological pipeline effect.” Sidney’s humor materialized at the
oddest moments, causing the others to stare at each other. “Sorry,
just wanted to make that clear,” he said, shrugging.

“So, we may have a case,” Brett said. “Which
means—?”

Dylan interrupted him. “We have to meet Tracy
Kimball... right now.”

Chapter Six

Her knees shook when
she saw the return address of the e-mail awaiting her, and she sat
quickly. It was from “drasche;” she could feel the moment of
confrontation about to begin. She clicked it open.

Dear Nurse Kimball,

We wanted you to know that we received your
e-mail and after meeting with my colleagues, we have decided that
we would be very interested in reviewing your situation. Here, at
the university’s Paranormal Research & Investigative Society,
we have explored a variety of cases involving haunted people,
homes, and other locations, but we are specifically interested in
your case from the aspect of contact and communication. We are
located in Room 208 of Levin Hall, and we could meet with you at
your earliest convenience. We hope to speak with you soon.

The e-mail was signed, Dylan Rasche, and
beneath, a phone number was listed.

She jumped from the chair. Today was
Wednesday, her day off, so it was now or never. She grabbed her
keys and locked the door behind her.

The multi-colored panorama of autumn leaves
from the trees whizzed past her as she drove in silence, and this
time, she kept the radio off.

Soon, the winding residential boulevards gave
way to the picturesque campus set serenely against a brilliant
network of fall foliage, displaying reds, oranges, and yellows. The
main building stood rectangular, poised to perfection with its
towering, Victorian structure crowned by a pointed steeple. Its
long, Corinthian columns encased an entranceway, and a steep set of
stairs led upward into the majestic edifice.

She searched for Levin Hall and soon
discovered it around the corner.

A twisting, spiral staircase to the second
floor awaited her once inside and she climbed to the top, where
many doors lined both sides of a long hallway. Small plaques
accompanied each door, and her eye caught the one that read 208.
She knocked with faint apprehension.

A male voice called out after a five second
pause.

“Come in.”

Tracy turned the heavy doorknob and entered.
Three young men and an even younger girl, not more than twenty,
stared back at her. Room 208 was a vast, academic haven with an
elongated, black top conference table in the middle, surrounded by
plush, purple velvet chairs and a giant screen TV. There were
several computerized work stations equipped to the fullest capacity
with printers, photo scanners, and web cameras. One wall contained
several white marker boards, and the opposite wall displayed an
array of video equipment including: TV sets, VCR’s, DVD players,
sound mixers, and amplifiers.

A young man with dark, curly hair and equally
dark eyes stepped forward.

“I’m Dylan Rasche. Can I help you?”

“I’m Tracy Kimball. You responded to my
e-mail today,” she said, glimpsing the spread of surprise on his
face when she extended her shaking hand to meet his.

“Yes, of course. We were just waiting for you
to respond.”

“That’s what I call a timely response,”
Sidney said.

“Ignore him,” Dylan said, with a lighthearted
laugh.

Leah stepped forward and shook hands with
Tracy. “Yes, please do. I’m Leah Leeds.”

“Tracy, this is Brett Taylor,” Dylan said.
Brett stepped forward and they exchanged introductions. “And this
is our court jester, Sidney Pratt.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sidney said, and shook
Tracy’s hand.

Dylan motioned for Tracy to sit at the head
of the table, the space he usually occupied. The four divided
themselves to the left and right of her so she would have their
undivided attention. She spoke about herself in a brief
introduction and uttered a nervous laugh.

“This is a little awkward for me,” she
confessed. “I understand that you all study this type of thing, but
this has never happened to me before. I wouldn’t blame you all if
you thought I was crazy; I’m having second thoughts, myself.”

“No, no don’t,” Leah said. “That’s why we’re
here.”

“That’s right,” Dylan said. “People call us
‘nuts’ because we do what we do and spend hours, sometimes days,
researching this field of study. If the truth be known, we have all
chosen this because of reasons that are close to us on a personal
level.”

This time, Brett spoke. “Tracy, why don’t you
just relax and tell us everything you can remember, starting at the
beginning.”

She began with the night of Rex’s birthday
party: the drinking, the fateful drive home, and David’s mutilated
body, dying only inches away from her inside the mangled vehicle.
She detailed the months of grief and the blame she assumed for the
accident, and how the grief counseling proved to be fruitless; yet
after six months, things were starting to become normal again.
Then, one night she had almost fallen asleep on the couch when the
sound of an unexpected voice caused her a sudden and rude
awakening.

“It came from the television—I know it did,”
she said. “I wasn’t asleep, not yet. I could still hear the static
from TV, and then I heard his voice. He said, ‘Tracy’ twice, then
‘love... you.’ I was awake before that point. I know what I
heard.”

“Just for the record, you live alone, right?”
Sidney said.

“Yes, and I
was
alone.” She hesitated,
embarrassed. “I even checked.”

“In your e-mail, you mentioned something
about the phone,” Brett said, prompting her.

“Yes. That came next, and I’m not really sure
what happened. I mean, it might be nothing. The next afternoon, I
was having my coffee before work and thinking back on the night of
the accident, when the phone rang.”

Tracy detailed the strange number on the
caller id and the remote, crackling sound of static on the other
end.

“I answered, but there was no noise other
than the static. The next strange call came later, and I heard a
muffled voice.”

The hardest part of the story came next: Mr.
Richardson’s final words.

“There was a patient I had to check on,” she
said. “He had suffered awhile with a deteriorating, cardiac
condition. We knew that he didn’t have much longer, so we were just
trying to make him as comfortable as possible. I was checking his
vitals which were falling, and I tried to stop him from speaking,
but he spoke anyway.”

Leah honed into this part of the story. She
noticed the look of uneasiness on Tracy’s face and waited for her
to continue.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You can tell us. It’s
not like we are strangers to this sort of thing.”

Tracy took a few calming breaths, then
explained that Richardson had called her ‘princess,’ David’s
nickname for her, which he had no way of knowing.

“He said this just before he died. When the
ER team arrived in the room, I was frozen. They think I’m losing my
mind through grief, but I’m not. If only they’d been there when it
happened.”