Spirit Taken

by Rachael Rawlings

  “And don’t worry,” Cilla added. “We’re going to help with this.”

  Chapter Three

  In the evening, Cilla headed to her home as the sun was slipping behind the trees. A breeze had kicked up, and she could sense a dampness in the air. It was going to rain. In the meantime, she and Fargo had a relaxing evening of laundry, throwing together dinner, and maybe a movie before they headed for bed. Her aunt and uncle were out for one of their poker nights, which meant they would be coming in late. She tried not to think about how depressing it was that her aunt and uncle had a much more lively social life than she.

  She was unlocking her front door when Fargo abruptly tensed, his ears pricked as he passed from relaxed to complete readiness in a blink. She paused to listen for any sound he might be catching, but she didn’t pick up anything. Of course, his hearing was considerably more keen than hers, one of the reasons he made such a fabulous paranormal assistant.

  Cilla felt uneasy. There was no one out walking, and she couldn’t detect if there were any animals which might have disturbed the dog. Fargo was generally so serene, so low keyed, that his apprehension was contagious.

  “What?” she hissed. A low growl came from Fargo’s throat. She wrenched the key in the lock, feeling an almost frenzied desire to get inside. As the door opened, she pushed through the entrance, the dog at her heels, and snatched the key free before shutting it behind her as soon as she was inside. She threw the lock and leaned against the wooden panel.

  Fargo stopped inside the door, whirling and facing the door, still tense.

  “Is there someone out there?” Cilla asked the dog, not expecting an answer, but feeling comfort in the sound of her own voice.

  Fargo’s brown eyes rolled her way, and she felt some of the stress ease. He angled his nose up, testing out any foreign scents, and evidently convinced they were alone, turned and padded into the kitchen, his mind on food. She wasn’t as easily assuaged, so she continued from room to room checking windows and switching on lights. Fargo accompanied her, now relaxed but interested in her activities, waiting for her to return to the kitchen.

  She had fed the dog and was microwaving a frozen meal when a knock sounded at the door. Fargo responded with a volley of excited barks, his instinctual reaction to any visitor. He wasn’t, however, looking spooked as he had earlier, so Cilla felt a little consolation in that.

  Cilla left her dinner on the table and snatched her cell phone in one hand. Her pulse had sped up with the unexpected noise, but she felt a little foolish too. There was nothing to be alarmed about. Even though it was fully dark outside, it was only seven o’clock, not yet close to the witching hour.

  The dog walked with her to the door, and she squinted through the glass panes in the wooden door to see the shape of a man on the porch. He was tall, taller than her at least, but his face was in shadow, so she couldn’t see his features. She didn’t like that. She stood back, undecided. Then he tipped his head up, and she saw the full light touch his face.

  He had a close-cropped beard that framed a solemn mouth, and his eyes were dark in beneath heavy brows. His hair was neatly combed back from his face, a sandy reddish brown, his shirt a comfortable knit. He was neither handsome nor ugly, someone studiously nondescript but not threatening.

  Fargo stopped barking, and dropped to his haunches, waiting for her to open the door. She placed her hand on the knob, slowly turning it, still feeling a mixture of irritation and mild alarm.

  “Yes?” she spoke, the door open only a crack, her hand with the phone at her side.

  “Cilla? Cilla Marchand?”

  “Yes?” She didn’t say anything else, just waited for the response.

  “I’m sorry to stop by like this,” the man began. “My name is Brandon Court. I was supposed to come by and meet you at your office in the morning. But after what happened to me this evening, I didn’t think it could wait.”

  Cilla blinked. She recognized the voice now, and she was confident it was the individual she had spoken to on the phone when she made the appointment concerning the haunted office. She felt some tension drain. The man's face was creased with worry, and he appeared agitated, truly freaked out. Slowly she opened the door and stepped back.

  “Would you like to come in? I was just having dinner.”

  He wavered, clearly trying to decide if his situation was enough of an emergency to insist that Cilla leave without eating. Luckily, he didn’t attempt it because Cilla was starving, and she needed to at least grab a bite before she would hear his story.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks,” he muttered, following her inside. Fargo walked ahead of them, turning to glance over his shoulder, making sure they were following. Some dogs were indiscriminate about who they trusted, but Fargo had a good understanding of people, and his attitude toward their guest made Cilla feel more comfortable with the unexpected visit.

  Cilla closed the door behind him and hesitated to and draw her cell phone from her pocket. She dispatched a text to Smith, demanding an immediate response, better safe than sorry. If this guy was going to insist on starting their job right away, she wanted her backup. She just hoped that Smith hadn’t gone out to Melissa’s house which would make for a longer drive. It would take him more time to get there if he was on the other side of town.

  “Have a seat." She studied Brandon where he hovered awkwardly in the little entry. “Do you want something to drink? Water, diet coke, or well, water,” Cilla offered.

  “Water would be great. And thanks. I know this isn’t how this is supposed to work. I should have waited until tomorrow, but I couldn’t believe what was happening.”

  "Okay, I want to hear about it," she soothed.

  She felt a buzz and drew out her phone. Smith had responded with a terse, “Cilla, yes I remembered to lock the office.”

  Cilla made a face. She hadn’t told him why she needed him to respond promptly, and she could see he was thinking it was a usual nag. As she strolled toward the kitchen, she typed out a concise note explaining that yes, she was glad Smith had locked the office, but no, she had another reason for contacting him. She went on to explain that their morning appointment had come to her house. As expected, Smith immediately sent back that he was on his way.

  The text exchange had been brief, and she was finishing up the last note as she removed her dinner from the microwave and deposited it on the counter. She pulled two mismatched glasses from the cabinet and dropped a few ice cubes into each before holding them under the faucet. She didn’t do bottled water. She had enough bills and her aunt and uncle did not like unnecessary waste. Bad for the environment.

  She put one glass in front of Brandon and retrieved her meal. She placed a fork on the table with a paper napkin and dropped into her seat, feeling suddenly very tired. First Melissa’s ghost was coming out to play, and now this.

  “So, what happened?”

  Brandon leaned forward and picked up the glass. His hand was trembling slightly, and the ice tapped musically against the sides of the glass. “I went out to the office this evening after work. I thought I might take some pictures to figure out how I want to start the renovation.”

  Renovation, Cilla reflected. The office was getting a facelift, the house was undergoing a redo. Sure, it was a common thread. This was not the first time they had dealt with a restless spirit stirred up because someone had decided to try some reconstruction. And was it the main problem? Had the renovations caused the ghosts to be on high alert? Cilla figured it was a possibility, but she wasn’t going to assume that was everything going on. After all, Ruth had started haunting Melissa’s home long before anyone had sought to change things.

  “On the phone, you mentioned you had already seen some activity you suspected was, um, not natural. You said before you had heard something in the building. Saw some movement?” Cilla dug a forkful of her now heated lasagna from a package and blew on it. “Was it more of the same?”

  “Not exactly.” Brandon’s face was serious, his brows c
reasing over his somber brown eyes, mouth in a stern line. “I mean, I’ve been going to the building every day since we took possession. I was taking notes on what work needed to be done. Before we bought, we were only allowed to go inside twice to check it out. I knew there was going to be work. I was prepared for that. But when I went in this time,” he broke off and scrubbed a palm over his face.

  Cilla recognized the doubt in his expression. She had seen it before. People didn’t like to admit they had seen supernatural events. They didn’t want to appear ridiculous, but moreover, often they were doubting their own minds or senses.

  “Just tell me what you saw,” she declared, keeping her voice pitched low and easy. “Trust me, I’ve seen almost everything at this point. I'm not going to doubt you.”

  He lifted his hands, putting them flat on the table, and then taking his right hand and wrapping his fingers around the water glass. “I went in after I had finished with my last client. It was a little after four, cloudy outside, so I couldn’t see very well. I wanted to create a list of jobs that needed to be done before we could lease the place, a punch list they call it in construction. I walked through the lower rooms, keeping a checklist, taking some pictures of areas that needed work. There are still a few pieces of furniture there, but I need to get them dragged out. Most of it is trash. And I was taking stock. I mean, I want to get this started. I’m paying every month this place remains empty.”

  Cilla nodded, taking another bite of her dinner. It wasn’t unusual. Lots of her clients preferred to tell the story. It was almost as though recounting it, filling in all the little details, made it seem more real.

  “So, I’m taking notes, and I’ve got out my cell phone, because I need to take some pictures. I had taken a bunch of shots. Then I aimed it at the corner,” he leaned over and drew the offending cell phone out of his jacket pocket. Cilla watched as he tapped a few icons.

  The picture was the typical low light photo, but his cell phone was an expensive affair, so it wasn’t half bad. The dark blur in the doorway was small but dense enough to block whatever light might have leaked through the window in the next room.

  “Did you see anything when you took the picture?” Cilla glanced from the screen to the earnest face of the man.

  “No. I mean, I was hearing things, but I didn’t see it.”

  Cilla studied the picture for another moment. “It could be other factors. I’ve seen pictures like this before. It’s not necessarily anything supernatural.”

  “I thought about that. I tried to ignore it." He brought a hand to his chin, smoothing his beard in what she assumed was a subconscious gesture. “I won't lie. It scared the hell out of me. My heart was pounding, but I was trying to pretend I didn’t notice. I took a few more pictures. I went to different areas in the room. I was talking to myself, not out loud, but you know, in my head. I walked around the space, looking for anything that might have made the shadow. And I tried to think about how it could have accidently shown up, you know, if the phone wasn’t working right.”

  She handed him back the phone, and he turned it over in his hands, flipping it nervously. “But that wasn’t all.”

  Cilla looked at him patiently. He would tell his story when he was ready. She took another bite of her dinner, sipping water, and heard the rattle of the door. Smith had arrived.

  Cilla didn't stand, but waited as Smith let himself in. With his round glasses, pale hair, and worn tee shirt, he was far from threatening.

  "Brandon, this is Smith. He's my partner." She looked over to where Smith was closing the door and observed in mild amusement as the two men sized each other up. "Brandon, Smith has seen things like I have. He knows a lot about paranormal entities. He can help gather evidence, but I wanted for him to see your pictures and hear your story too."

  "Sure, yeah," Brandon replied, still looking uneasy and now mildly ill.

  "Brandon was telling me about when he visited the office tonight," Cilla told Smith as he slid into another of the kitchen chairs. "He has a picture he believes is of something in the building."

  Brandon nodded and tapped his cell phone screen again. After a moment, the pictures appeared, and Brandon handed the cell phone to Smith.

  Smith studied them without comment and then handed the cell phone back to its owner.

  "But that isn't all Brandon saw," Cilla went on, keeping her voice even, reassuring. She eyed Brandon as he took a gulp of the water and then placed the glass back on the table with a slight clatter.

  “I kept walking,” Brandon went on. “I was being really calm, taking more pictures, sometimes using the flash, but sometimes not.” He stopped, his hand going to his face again, stroking his beard. “There’s electricity in some rooms, but not all. Maybe some blown fuses. I don’t know yet. But I’ve always gone to the office during the day before.”

  “What were you seeing?”

  “I wasn’t seeing anything,” he paused, “not really. I thought I could see some shadows, movement, but I didn’t know if it was something coming through the windows, like the breeze blowing trees. The sun was going down. I figured it could just be my eyes playing tricks on me.” His eyes darted to the window. “Then I heard a kid laughing. It wasn’t a normal sound.” He drew in a deep breath. “It was creepy. It wasn’t like a cute kid sound. It was different.” He glanced from Cilla to Smith. “And then it got worse. It was louder, and there was a grinding sound, like something hard scratching against concrete or,” he passed his palm over his face again. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it, but I got a recording, I think.”

  “Is it on your cell phone?” Smith was asking, and at the same time, he was unpacking his bag, drawing out his highly sophisticated and exceedingly expensive laptop. It had taken a good chunk of their profits to afford the equipment, but it was a necessity for what they needed to do.

  “Yeah,” Brandon assured them. “It’s on here too.”

  “Do you mind if I hook it up to my computer and download the files? We’ll get a better look at the pictures and the video on a big screen.”

  “Yeah,” Brandon said again. “Yeah, sure.”

  Smith unfurled a cord and plugged it into the side of his computer. He held out one hand, and Brandon handed over the cell phone.

  Chapter Four

  It was another half hour before the complete array of pictures Brandon had taken were loaded onto Smith’s computer. The two men were bent over the electronics, stringing wire from the phone to the computer. Smith wanted a good download, and when Cilla recommended that they just email the things, Smith rolled his eyes.

  She finished her dinner. She made coffee. Fargo fawned over Brandon, then Smith when he arrived, and then Cilla when he hoped to get a scrap of her dinner.

  There were still more pictures. Brandon’s shots showed his advancement from the lower level, taking pictures in one room and another in the downstairs after completing his examination to the upstairs offices. He had continued taking pictures, searching for traces that anyone else was in the building. His shots revealed old plaster walls, cracked and peeling paint, shredding wallpaper in one small grungy bathroom, and photo after photo of old wooden flooring, scuffed and worn from use. It did not make Cilla anxious to get back to work. If anything, she was doubting whether or not taking the job seemed like a good idea. Brandon was a nice guy, from what she could tell in their short acquaintance, but he was as nervous as a cat at a dog race, and the abundance of photos showed how earnestly he wanted his problem to be true.

  Or not. Cilla couldn’t tell from his attention whether the thought of being a host to restless spirits was a problem for him, or if he was accepting it as being a property manager.

  “What do you know of the history of the building?” Smith’s question was the norm for them, and Cilla was confident he had previously completed some research himself before they were scheduled to meet with the other man the next morning.

  “I looked into it, but I don’t really have time for a thorough back history.
I know it was built in the early 1900s and used as a factory for making fabric for several years. It was closed down in the ‘30s when it was severely damaged but has been in use since then. It’s been empty for this last time for about two years. It needs a lot of work, but I think when it’s done, the location will sell it.”

  “Is that why you chose it? The location?”

  Brandon was nodding. “I needed something downtown where I could get across the river quickly. The building was in the right place and the price was right. My building inspector said it was in pretty good shape considering what it had been through. After all these years, no one has tried to keep it updated, but he figures if I’m willing to put some money into it, I’ll get it back with rent.”

  “Okay,” Cilla moved closer to the computer. “Why don’t you show me the picture again,” she placed her hands on the tabletop and leaned in.

  He started flipping back through his catalog of photos, now enlarged on the expensive glassy screen of Smith’s computer. He had flipped back several more when Cilla held out her hand.

  “Wait,” she ordered. “Go back.”

  Smith studied her, his expression puzzled, but they paged back a few prints until Cilla pointed to the screen.

  “This is it,” she said leaning close. “In the corner.” She squinted, feeling like she needed glasses to examine the picture more clearly. “Do you see it?”

  “A child,” Smith breathed.

  “Have you spoken with Melissa today?” Cilla asked the question to fill the silence as Smith wrestled with the key to the front door of their office building. Cilla had spent a restless night reviewing the photographs they had paged through at her kitchen table. Since they had already had their initial meeting with Brandon the night before, they rescheduled the second meeting for a few days in the future. It would give Smith a little time to do his magic including enhancing some of the pictures Brandon had taken and studying the history of the building.