Spirit Taken

by Rachael Rawlings

  “Smith, there’s something here,” she whispered.

  Smith stared at her, his face reflecting disbelief. He didn’t have any of his clever devices, but she saw him pull out his cell phone, angling it, tapping the camera application to scan around the room. They had planned on doing a cursory overview of the office during the day, and they would return at night for the full investigation.

  “I don’t see anything. Do you want me to record?”

  Cilla stopped in her tracks, her skin prickling still, her eyes half closed. The feeling drifted over her, a desperate need, a struggle, a giving. She could almost detect the moment of release down to the exact second. And then a word, a single utterance, wrong.

  Smith’s breath was escaping in plumes of fogged breath, the textbook sign of a spirit holding true. He stared wild eyed around the room, his hands still gripping his cell phone, the piece of electronics forgotten.

  “It’s going,” Cilla breathed. “Almost.”

  “What is it? Who is it?”

  Cilla was shaking her head. Spirits didn’t carry identification. It wasn’t like they would flash their driver’s license as they floated past. The soul was foreign to her, but she felt like she should know, should have an inkling of who it was.

  “Do you want to go out?” Smith’s face was pale in the limited glow of the lamplight, but Cilla knew in the harsh light of day, he would be more comfortable. She almost agreed. She would have liked to feel the sun on her skin.

  “No, we need to find Brandon if he’s here.” If he was feeling even a shadow of what they were, Brandon had to be upset. She didn’t want to leave him vulnerable and alone. “Whatever that was, it’s moved on. Maybe not for good, but I don’t feel it anymore.”

  Smith breathed out a sigh. Whether he was frustrated or resigned, she couldn’t say.

  She led the way through two more modest offices, using her cell phone to illuminate corners that the sunlight didn’t reach. The tension of the area seemed to diminish. Perhaps the haunting had been a brief one. A spirit passing.

  But it appeared Brandon was correct in his assumption that his office was haunted. There was something there, and it wasn’t from the earthly plane.

  “Let’s keep going,” Cilla said, keeping more confidence in her voice than she felt. She knew Smith would see through her. He always did.

  They went upstairs then, climbing quickly, not bothering to be quiet, but instead calling out to Brandon as they went, the tapping of their footsteps echoing in the essentially empty rooms.

  Cilla didn’t hear anything from the other man, not the shuffle of feet or the swing of a door. She was beginning to believe he wasn’t there. They had made too much noise for him not to notice. And he wouldn’t ignore them. It only meant one thing, in her book. He hadn’t come for the meeting. And why would he not show up?

  She noticed a slight bloom of irritation. They had come here for him. Sure, he had left a retainer for their services, but for him to just not show was beyond rude. She had lots of other things that she needed to do. The least he could have done was call.

  At the head of the stairs, they entered a small waiting area. It was better lit here, the windows in better shape, letting in the light which set the motes of dust to flame like sparks as they swirled upwards.

  “We’ll give a quick run through, and then we can try to call Brandon on his cell. I can’t believe he would just stand us up.” Smith pushed his hand through his hair. “Especially after he came to you place with those pictures. He was serious.”

  “I know,” Cilla replied, leading the way down the hall. Two of the doors were closed. The first in the hallway opened to the right, and only a sliver of light showed through between the door jamb and the panel. Cilla pushed it open gingerly, slowly, giving an involuntary sigh when she saw the empty room. One step ahead of her, Smith was opening the door to the left, his hand on the wood. He froze.

  “Cilla,” his voice sounded stilted, and when he turned, Cilla felt her muscles tense at his expression.

  “What?” she replied.

  “Call the police,” he muttered, backing away from the door.

  Cilla saw only the shape of the body inside, and in the shadows, the dark stain on his clothes looked like ink spilled. His face was tilted up toward the ceiling as though he were studying the shapes of the tiles above him. A soft light reflected in his open eyes.

  Cilla knew death.

  Chapter Six

  “Do you think it was him?” Smith’s voice was strained. He still looked a shade paler than normal and was tapping the steering wheel with nervous fingers. Cilla had wanted to drive, but he declined, claiming the motion would help keep his mind off the situation.

  The ‘it’ was unspoken between them, but they both knew he was referring to the feeling of the fleeing ghost. Finding a body was an experience for them. Sure, they had come face to face with plenty of undead spirits, but this was usually after the body had long been entombed, oftentimes turned to dust.

  Brandon’s corpse had still been warm. Cilla hadn’t touched him. Just looking at him had told them enough. He was dead, but not long dead.

  When the police arrived, Smith and Cilla were sitting in the black sedan. Cilla was wishing for coffee. A chill had settled in her bones, and she couldn’t shake it. Smith declared he was hoping for something a little stronger to ease his nerves. Beyond that, they hadn’t spoken, each lost in their own thoughts.

  The police were quick in the answer to the call, but then slowed to a crawl as they processed the scene and took their statements. Cilla was grateful she hadn’t gotten dressed up for the appointment. She suspected the police would have frowned upon the high-heeled boots and sweeping skirts which were part of her image. Of course, there was still the question on why the victim had called them. The scheme to lie, to claim he was considering at advertising, crossed Cilla’s mind. It was much easier to explain away than to admit that they were there for a paranormal investigation. But Cilla was pretty sure they would have to confess about the late-night visit. She had seen Brandon a few nights before, and the event may have been written in Brandon’s calendar. To say he had come to her house to discuss some designs for advertising would be stretching the truth to the extreme. Admitting that he had come to show them pictures of a spirit made little sense, but it was better than the alternative.

  She decided honesty was best, even if the police looked at them with the usual mix of irritation and scorn.

  They made their statement in separate areas of the downstairs offices at the site. The lamplight threw shadows against the walls, and the sky had birthed clouds which muddied the light coming through the windows. Cilla knew their renditions would be the same. She told Smith just to tell the truth. It was their best weapon against disbelievers, anyway. She trusted him with taking her at her word.

  They remained for three hours, long enough to see solemn faced investigators file through the office, a few younger men with elaborate equipment whom she assumed was the forensics team, and a composed middle-aged woman in a white coat who must have been a medical examiner. A little later, Cilla saw the worn face of an officer she thought she recognized. It was Officer Talbot, the friend of Melissa’s who had helped her with access to the old house before the legalities of the purchase had been completed. Melissa trusted the older man, and Cilla felt a little better seeing him on the scene.

  As they were strapping themselves into the sedan, ready to leave, they saw the shrouded gurney exit the building as well, going to an ambulance which must have been one of the most haunted vehicles in the county. Just being in the same lot as the vehicle gave Cilla the shivers as a million breathy voices whipped through her skull.

  Now that the car was moving, Cilla felt the pressure ease. “Do I think that was him?” she asked. She knew what Smith was referring to. Of course, she did. The spirit in the office had been so strong, so fresh, that she had immediately concluded it was Brandon passing as soon as she saw his body. She wasn’t sure she wan
ted to admit that to Smith, though. It seemed heartily unscientific to take such a leap with this conjecture.

  “You know what I mean. The spirit we felt go through the office. Do you think that was Brandon?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m not the psychic,” Smith’s voice was uncommonly sharp. He ducked his head and pounded on fist softly against the wheel. “Sorry,” he growled.

  “I think you’re right,” she responded mildly. It was hard for her to remember that for all the support her parents had bestowed upon her in the beginning of her paranormal journey, Smith had been greeted with disbelief and then ridicule. “What we felt was a new spirit, but Smith, I also think it was a departing spirit. I don’t think it lingered any longer than it took to communicate with us.”

  Smith was mute, a sharp crease between his brows. He eased the car over into a gas station parking lot. “Do you want to go somewhere?” he asked.

  Cilla realized they had been riding with no destination in mind. “Let’s go to the office. We can grab some coffee,” she slanted him a look, “or another drink, and talk about all this.”

  His shoulders sagged in relief. It was, after all, a Thursday, and they should be working. Their business didn’t call for regular hours, but they liked to keep them all the same. Cilla wasn’t a routine oriented individual, but Smith thrived on it, so for him, it was better that they maintained consistency, even in the wake of the death.

  They parked outside of the narrow brick building and started down the sidewalk, past their front door, without discussing it. The little bakery on the corner was manned by a trio of partners who knew them on sight.

  Cilla ordered a fancy coffee drink with plenty of sugar and a cinnamon scone. Smith ordered a large coffee and a mammoth blueberry muffin. Together, they took their comfort food back to the office, walking in silence, the hazy sunlight ducking between the clouds easing their mood.

  A few minutes later, Smith was dropping into his slightly beat up but comfortable chair. He automatically flipped open the lid to his laptop. He put his coffee on his desk next to his computer and laid into his muffin.

  “Do you think we’ll hear from the cops again?” His voice was muffled.

  “Swallow,” Cilla replied in a distracted tone. Then she focused on him again. “I hope not. I don’t know anything more than what we told them.”

  Smith grunted his agreement. “Can’t believe we found him that way.”

  Cilla sighed. “It was absolutely terrible,” she acknowledged. “And I suppose there’s nothing we can do for Brandon now.”

  Smith nodded. His eyes shifted to Cilla and then away. “What are we going to do about Brandon’s case?” His statement was low and hesitant.

  “You mean about his investigation?” Cilla wasn’t certain precisely where the conversation was taking them.

  “Yeah, that.” He halted, his eyes going to her face and settling there, gleaming through the lenses of his glasses. “And his death.”

  “We can’t do anything about his murder,” Cilla began. “The police said they would get back to us if they needed anymore answers, although after the looks we got, I don’t know what they think of us.”

  “Do you think we’re suspects?”

  Cilla had been pondering that question herself. The police were professional, careful to appear casual and not off putting. However, Cilla and Smith had been in the office, and they were some of the last people to admit to seeing Brandon.

  “We called in the body,” she raised her eyebrows. “Surely if we were the people that did it,” she didn’t hardly want to spell out the crime, “then would we have called it in?”

  Smith shrugged. “It wouldn’t make sense to me, but then again, I’m not a psycho murderer.” He wavered and shook his head. “I can’t believe it. You know, with everything we’ve done, I don’t think I’ve seen a body so,” his face contorted with distaste, “fresh.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Cilla agreed. “It was pretty disturbing. Definitely not a peaceful way to go.”

  “Poor guy,” Smith added in an undertone. “I can’t believe we just saw him a few nights ago. And he was so excited, or upset, or, I don’t know,” he pushed his glasses up his nose with a finger, and Cilla could see his hands shaking. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t simple.

  “I hope it was quick,” she murmured. “I hope he didn’t know.”

  “Yeah,” Smith breathed into his hands.

  They were silent for a long time, Cilla eating her scone, breaking off little bits, and generally avoiding any work. Smith had pulled up his computer program and was flipping through graphics, taking comfort in the routine and familiarity.

  Cilla sipper her coffee and looked out the window. It wasn’t the first time she had felt the spirit of a newly dead, but it wasn’t something that happened often. And it was the first time she had known the man in life. Not that she had known Brandon well. But really, she had hosted him in her house, they had spent a few hours together, they had formed something of a bond. And now he was gone, and in his final message, as his spirit escaped, he had told her it was wrong.

  What would she do with that knowledge? She didn’t know.

  They hadn’t gotten any work done. Cilla didn’t expect she would. She was grateful to make it through the day without the police calling to reconsider the interviews.

  She pulled up to the house as the sun had begun to set. She remained in her car, breathing softly, looking into the glowing windows. A few nights ago, she had been eating a frozen dinner. That night she had been making plans. That same night Brandon had been alive, not a lump of empty flesh on a metal table in some cold lab.

  She rubbed her arms briskly and unbuckled her seatbelt. Fargo was inside, waiting for her, anxious to see her and consistently happy. Her aunt and uncle’s car was missing. She couldn’t remember where her aunt had told her they would be. She slipped out of the car and shut the door with a firm thud. She stalked to her side door, moving fast and decisively. The door was locked, and she used her key quickly, dropping the keyring back into her bag when she turned the knob.

  Fargo raced to meet her. She bent and gave him a brief stroke before letting him out to explore the yard. She walked in, hung her purse on the hook, and shrugged out of her jacket. She flipped on the television set to provide background noise as she started dinner. She was boiling spaghetti when a name from the news drew her attention. It was the story of the murder, Brandon’s death, a brief blurb in between shorts of adoptable dogs and the weather update. The terse report fleshed out what little Cilla knew about Brandon. He wasn’t married. There was no mention of him leaving behind a wife and children. And he was local. But Brandon had left behind friends and family. He had been a real person with real dreams and aspirations. He had been a nice guy who was a victim of a brutal crime. Cilla felt her appetite disappear but forced herself to finish cooking. Perhaps she couldn’t help Brandon with his ghost. Maybe he was gone. But he thought the office was haunted. He believed there was something going on in that building. So maybe, well, she would try to get to the bottom of the haunting. And first? She needed to do what they always did. First there was research, then the investigation. She wondered if they could get back into the place. Who owned it now? What would happen to it now that Brandon was gone?

  The answer was shockingly easy to find. She looked up Brandon’s information on her laptop and promptly found her first clue. Brandon’s business was a partnership. She wrote down the name and address of the other half of The Beckman Group and shut down the computer. Tomorrow she would put Smith to work. He could gain all the background they would need to begin the investigation. And this time, she was going to push it through.

  Cilla wasn’t a stranger to death. Anyone in her business dealt with the idea of life and death and the mysterious veil in between. She had spent most of her life experiencing whispers from behind that curtain, and she knew it was ultimately a place she would be visiting on a permanent basis. In some ways, her ability
was reassuring. It proved life after death. It confirmed that when the body died, the soul moved on in some form or another. And to her, it often demonstrated an awareness of spirits. It was unfortunate the healthy souls, the ones headed for the light, for everlasting bliss, weren’t the ones she got to communicate with. A soul like Brandon, even in his tragic death, had not stuck around to see the aftermath, to relive the tragedy. At least she assumed that was correct. She hoped what she had felt was his spirit passing by.

  But that didn’t make his death any less wrong. He might have been able to move on to his eternal joy, to his spot in the blissful ever after, but there was still some spirit in that office that was anchored there. Just the idea of the small figure in his photos, the entity they had detected before Brandon’s spirit had rushed by, made Cilla uneasy. It was unfinished business, and she had a stack of bills on her table that reminded her of that.

  And if Brandon hadn’t moved on to the ever after? If he was trapped in that gloomy building because of his tragic death and unfinished business? That was a greater reason for them to pursue the mystery. They had been paid to do something about the haunting. That Brandon was gone didn’t make the cash any less real, or the contract less binding in Cilla’s opinion. They could give the money back. But who would they give it to? The partner in the business, the other half of the Beckman group, assuming he knew what Brandon had been doing? Or perhaps Brandon’s family, considering the cash may have been pulled from his personal account and was not part of his estate.

  And what about his family? What did they know about the man beyond his supernatural experiences?

  Cilla fidgeted in her seat, tapping at the ceramic coffee mug. She didn’t like all the questions. She didn’t like the unfinished business. And she certainly didn’t like murder.