Spookygirl - Paranormal Investigator (20 page)

After a stop in the girls’ bathroom so she could fix her face and reapply her decimated eyeliner, we fetched Tim and the gothlings from the courtyard and all piled into Isobel’s little tan car. It suddenly occurred to me that this little tan car might be the key to getting my butt to Riley Island on December 2. We might need help getting into the house, too, and Isobel had a talent for picking locks.

After we dropped off Charlene and Derek, I invited Tim and Isobel over. On the way, Tim and I delivered the standard warnings about Buster; Isobel was still surprised to see the television remote floating around the living room when we got home, but after her experiences with
Dirk, it was going to take a little more than an abnormal poltergeist to faze her.

The three of us holed up in my room to discuss the Logan Street property.

“I thought your dad wasn’t going to let you go,” Tim said; he still felt guilty about inciting Dad’s wrath the day of the locker-room investigation.

“I don’t think it should be up to him. He’s not the one who sees ghosts.” I felt bad that I was planning to deceive Dad again, but his reluctance to help left me no choice.

Isobel looked a little uneasy at the whole idea. “So the ghost at this place is a murderer? I think I had my fill of criminal ghosts on Halloween.”

“The Halloween séance was a scam,” I admitted. “Charlie the murderer was really a pair of sweet old dead ladies named Irma and Delores.” Quickly, I explained the scheming mechanics behind the cemetery haunting. “The evidence I have on Logan Street suggests James Riley, Jr., murdered his wife, but I think we’ll be safe if a couple of us go together. Just so you both know, though, if I can’t get anyone to go with me, I’ll find a way to go by myself. This investigation is happening either way.”

Still nervous, Isobel chewed on her bottom lip. “You shouldn’t have to do that, not after what you did for me. Okay, I’ll go. Just tell me what I need to do.”

After our transportation arrangements were set, the
next thing I needed was Mom’s equipment. Dad had taken it away, but I knew he wouldn’t get rid of it. I went back to snooping whenever he wasn’t around. I felt guilty; I was basically lying to him over and over for the sake of the investigation, but I couldn’t just pretend that this ghost stuff didn’t matter to me.

I found everything stuffed in a plastic bag in one of the locked storage cabinets in the embalming room. I transferred the equipment to my messenger bag, then arranged the plastic bag so it still looked full. A quick check with fresh batteries proved Coach Frucile’s theory about the digital thermometer—it worked perfectly.

Part of me wanted to ask Coach Frucile to help. She was the only person I knew with paranormal experience who hadn’t shut me down like Dad. I didn’t think she’d support the idea of me taking on an investigation like Logan Street, though, and I couldn’t risk the possibility that she’d spill my secret.

An Internet search led me to a local real estate company’s website, which listed the Logan Street house as being for sale, unfurnished. The listing included a number of photos, and let me tell you, the place
looked
haunted. Creaky old front porch, check. Huge, staring windows, check. The rotting remains of what had once been intricate gingerbread trim, check. It even had a tower with what looked like a widow’s walk. A freakin’ tower! You don’t see
this kind of thing in modern little retirement towns very often—but I guess when you’re James Riley, Sr., and you own the whole island, you can build whatever the heck you want. The main structure sprawled over a huge lot; including the tower and attic, it was three stories tall. The wood had that dingy, dirty look that begs for a pressure cleaner and a fresh coat of paint.

I found some interior photos, too—the rooms were empty except for sheets of plywood and cans of paint, the abandoned remnants of various restoration projects. That seemed like a pretty good indication that no one was living there; whoever owned it was sure to be the latest in a long line of people who thought they’d gotten a good deal on a fixer-upper. Judging by the asking price, the owners were no longer interested in flipping it for a profit and just wanted to be rid of it.

While I was on the site, I double-checked each photo for indications of paranormal activity. I spotted a few smudges and spots that could have been orbs, but after Coach Frucile’s reinterpretation of my locker-room results, I didn’t want to make any assumptions. Besides, the photos were all taken during the day, and the worst of the activity happened at night.

We had just one week left to finalize our plans. Isobel, Tim, and I spent each afternoon at my place, discussing, brainstorming, and planning. Buster usually stayed in my
bedroom with us; we took to wearing sweatshirts or long sleeves to guard against his cold spots.

The plan was for me to bring Mom’s equipment. I’d also bring her protective gemstones and split them equally among us. Isobel was going to bring her film camera so we could gather some photographic evidence that wasn’t digital. And it was Tim who came up with the idea of bringing a bodyguard.

“It’d be cool to have a ghost on our side,” he said, and suggested putting a leash on Buster. He was joking, but the comment made me wonder. Buster
was
pretty well trained, thanks to Mom.

“I wonder if that might be possible,” I said.

Buster was in the bedroom, bouncing his squeaky burger lightly off Isobel’s shoulders and squealing. Every few minutes, she grabbed the toy and tossed it across the room for him to fetch; it always came floating back to her.

“Have you ever taken him out of the house before?” she asked, chucking the burger under my bed. It came right back.

“Not on purpose. He’s attached to my family, not the house. That’s what makes him so weird. But if we could find a way to transport him safely and keep him contained until we need him…Maybe this will work?”

I pulled Mom’s jewelry box from the dresser drawer and emptied its contents onto the bed. The box closed with
the sort of latch that could be used to hold a lock, if desired. The latch was too small for the piece of obsidian we used to lock Buster’s crate, but one of Mom’s pendants—a thin obsidian crystal shard—fit perfectly. By then wrapping the pendant’s chain around the shard and the latch, I could secure it in place.

“Let’s try it.”

I unwrapped the necklace, removed the shard, and opened the box.

“Buster,” I cooed, “come here.” I knew he wouldn’t like the box any more than he liked his crate. But he was usually susceptible to bribery, so I added, “Who wants a cookie?”

I felt a blast of cold air as Buster approached. He made a doubtful shriek.

“Buster, we need your help,” I said. “We have to see if you can get in this box, okay?”

“It’s awfully small,” Isobel said.

“He’s a ghost. He doesn’t have any physical matter. He could fit in a matchbox if he wanted to.”

Buster cried out in protest; he didn’t want to be locked up.

“Look, buddy,” I said. “I know you don’t like being confined, but this isn’t a punishment. I need your help. As soon as we see if it works, I’ll let you out and get you a cookie.”

Buster made a whining noise that sounded suspiciously like an attempt at negotiation.

“All right,” I said. “Two cookies.”

With a resigned scream, Buster dove into the box. I felt it bump and shift, and I almost lost my hold on it. When the lid clattered down, I immediately put the obsidian shard in place and wrapped the chain around the latch.

“Okay, Buster,” I said, putting the box down on the bed. “Try to get out.”

The box shook and jerked. It levitated a few inches off the bedspread, then clunked down again. From inside, Buster wailed.

“It worked. He’s stuck,” Tim said.

“Then this is how we get him to Riley Island.”

Quickly, I opened the box and let Buster free. He threw his hamburger at me, hitting me on the nose. I got him the cookies anyway.

I wasn’t sure how much help he would be, but it seemed like a good idea to have as many elements as possible on our side. For years I had assumed it was unlikely that a ghost was to blame for Mom’s death. Now that I knew she hadn’t always been truthful with me, I couldn’t afford to assume her death was an accident. Dad hadn’t killed her. I knew that much. But maybe someone else—someone a lot harder to arrest and prosecute—had.

Our cover story for December second was totally unoriginal. It was a weeknight, which complicated the situation a little. I told Dad I needed to work on a big Chemistry project with Isobel, and suggested it made more sense for me to sleep over, since we’d be up working pretty late. Never mind that Isobel and I weren’t in the same science class, and that she’d already taken Chem last year—Dad didn’t know that. Isobel told her parents the same story, only her big project was for physics, and she said she’d be staying at my place. Since Tim’s mom worked two jobs, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t even notice he was gone. Just in case, he left a note saying he was at Derek’s.

Isobel picked me up at 8:30. The last thing I did before leaving was to pull Mom’s copy of
Wuthering Heights
off the living room bookshelf and page through it to find her Palmetto Paranormal business card. I held the little cardstock rectangle in my hands like a sacred thing.

“Mom, I’m pretty sure you can’t hear me, but just in case…I could really use your help tonight, okay? I’m doing this for you.” Then I put the card back in its hiding place. I called a quick good-bye to Dad, who was busy in the embalming room, and ran out with my overstuffed messenger bag banging against my side.

“Got Buster?” Isobel asked.

I patted the biggest bulge in the bag. “Right here, in the box.”

Then we picked up Tim and headed toward Riley Island.

On the drive, I kept an eye on the dark horizon. The evening weather report predicted a series of thunderstorms would move in from the ocean. The possibility made me uneasy because the night Mom died had also been stormy. But for now the sky was clear and starry, with no sign of lightning in the distance. If bad weather arrived, it wouldn’t be until much later.

A fifteen-minute drive to the bridge was the only way on and off Riley Island, followed by another five minutes along the island’s coast to Logan Street. Riley Island was a lot like Palmetto Crossing—small, neatly manicured, and full of old people. Fortunately, old people tend to go to bed early; Logan Street was deserted when we arrived at around 9:30.

Since an unfamiliar car parked in front of an empty
house might look suspicious, we parked at a small strip mall a few blocks away and walked back to the house. The stores in the mall were closing for the night, but there’d be enough employee cars in the parking lot to keep Isobel’s Kia from looking out of place.

Tim grabbed the messenger bag with the equipment; I took out Buster’s box and carried it separately. It wriggled and vibrated lightly in my hands; I cooed softly to him every few steps, telling Buster what a good boy he was being. We took a second to divide up Mom’s charms and crystals; I took her tourmaline for myself and carefully placed it in my pocket.

The house waited, dark and brooding; it loomed above us, looking bigger in person. The peeling remains of an old paint job chipped from the porch railing, and we stepped lightly to prevent the weathered floorboards from creaking too loudly. The front door was, of course, locked. We tromped around the weed-wild yard and tried the back door. It was locked, too, but Isobel didn’t seem to think that was a problem.

“I didn’t want to work out front where someone might see us anyway,” she said, pulling the bobby pin from her hair.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “That might work on an old doorknob at school, but a lock like this has to be more secure.”

“Not necessarily,” Isobel said. “I need some light.” Tim pulled out a flashlight and focused the beam on the doorknob. Isobel jiggled the pin around in the lock, listening and feeling for something. After a moment, she shook her head and slid the pin back into her bun.

“Now what?” Tim asked. “Break a window?”

“I’d like to avoid outright vandalism if possible,” I said.

Isobel rolled her eyes. “Oh, ye of little faith.” She dug a couple of weird-looking instruments from her purse—a bent metal rod and a skinny stick that looked like a horrific dental tool. “A torque wrench and a pick,” she said. “I kind of borrowed them from my dad. He owns the apartments on Beachfront Drive, and sometimes a tenant changes the locks without telling him. He’s the one who taught me how to do this.”

She knelt again and wriggled the tools around in the doorknob. “I just need to work on the pins and get them to set…” Her voice trailed off as she concentrated on the task. It took about ten minutes and several unsuccessful attempts, but finally she turned the knob, and the door swung open. “And there you go.”

“Amazing,” I said, totally sincere.

I stepped inside and quickly checked around the doorway, just in case any of the more recent owners had installed a security system. Nope. We entered into a back hallway in which discolored flowered wallpaper peeled
over oak baseboards. The wood floor under our feet was rough; it had probably been sanded for a refinishing that never came.

“Okay, everybody be careful and stick together. Tim, hand me the EMF reader and give Isobel the thermometer. And get out the recorders, too. We’ll start with those and see if we can find where the paranormal energy is strongest.”

The week before, we had pooled our money and purchased three small digital recorders. Each contained enough memory for several hours of sound, and they plugged into the computer with built-in USB ports, so retrieving the files later on would be easy. Describing our finds into the recorders would be easier than keeping track of notebooks and pens and trying to write in the dark. When Tim handed over the instruments as instructed, I gave him Buster in return.

“When are we going to let him out?” Tim asked, staring down at the box. He was less than thrilled to be the poltergeist’s designated babysitter.