“The ’37 flood?”
Cilla often forgot that Smith wasn’t from the area. Most native Louisvillians would have heard of the flood in 1937 which brought the city to its knees. Many of the older generation could recall stories, either from when they were children themselves or tales their parents would tell about the rising river, the severe flooding, and the subsequent struggles to rebuild.
“This whole area took on a tremendous amount of water. This shop was flooded with several feet of water at one point. It wasn’t a shop back then but a supply house. After the flood, there was an overwhelming amount of damage and rebuilding to be done. This place was restored, and most of the other’s in the neighborhood really. There was even some outside help to get the place rebuilt.” She gestured to a small plaque on the wall. It showed a group of men in bowler hats cutting a ribbon with a pair of ornamental scissors. “Some factory bigwigs funded the renovation of this area, including this building and poor Brandon’s place.” She shook her head. “Some businesses flourished, but some, not so much.”
Smith was gazing at the surrounding walls, thoughtful but quiet.
“Do you think they did a bad job of it?” Cilla asked.
“I think they did a quick work of it. And now that it has a few years on it, it’s showing age.” Ms. Corning shook her head sadly. “This was a nice area. And these buildings aren’t bad. That office though, something must have gone wrong. It should have rented better. We haven’t had a business that stayed in the area more than a few months, so far. I worry that it’s close to being condemned at this rate.”
Cilla was still mulling over that statement as she and Smith eased around to the rear of the locked building and tugged at the latch. Why had the building fallen into such disrepair? Why hadn’t any of the businesses flourished that tried to move into the old building? And why had it been left abandoned to rot?
Cilla gasped aloud when the door swung open, letting out a puff of stale air. “Why wasn’t this locked?” she hissed to Smith, who was frozen beside her.
“There’s nothing in here to steal? No sane person would be breaking into this building? It’s probably haunted. Take your pick.”
She grunted in response but didn’t comment. Quietly, she took a step inside, and watched in amusement as her partner, Smith, and her loyal hound, Fargo, hesitated on the threshold. “Come on,” she whispered, flapping her hand in a rapid gesture.
“Still thinking this is not the best idea we have had,” Smith growled, pulling the door closed. After their poking around the neighborhood the day before, Cilla hadn’t been able to get the idea of searching the building off her mind. It had taken some fast talking to persuade Smith to explore the abandoned building, but once she assured him that she would leave at the first sign of police, he reluctantly agreed to accompany her.
“We wanted to get to the bottom of the spirit at least,” Cilla responded. And she was honest about that. Brandon’s death had shaken her but taking his money and leaving the job undone was just another wrong. That they had been some of the last people to see him alive didn’t escape her notice. They were invested in his life and death.
“We who?” Smith asked dryly.
“We us,” she snapped back. “Come on.”
It was dark inside the office. Cilla imagined she could detect the faintest scent of copper, the smell of drying blood. True, the police would have cleared the scene, but had it been cleaned up? Cilla didn’t want to think about it.
They eased into the dim hallway. To one side was a stuffy bathroom, and the other was an empty office.
“Do you want to go upstairs?” Smith’s voice was choked.
“Not yet,” Cilla responded. She paused a second. “Actually, if you want to make sure there aren’t any humans upstairs,” she continued softly.
“I was afraid you would say that.” Smith slipped away, climbing the stairs swiftly and silently.
Cilla stepped forward now that she was alone. She couldn’t see well, but they didn’t want to use any flashlights. Best if no one noticed they were visiting. She heard a scraping as Smith’s feet hit the floor at the head of the stairs, and then the clicking of claws as Fargo followed close behind. The dog had abandoned her, she thought wryly.
In the front room, she stopped and waited. A few seconds later, she felt a nudge against her leg as Fargo settled next to her, and Smith stopped at the foot of the stairs.
“Anything?”
He shook his head. “Now what?” He demanded.
“We wait.” Her goal was to get a track on the paranormal entity Brandon had seen. And with most of their investigations, waiting was a prime activity.
“I’ll get my phone out,” Smith continued. “Maybe we can catch something.”
Cilla nodded. She was already settling in. She could hear the rush and skitter of the wind outside the windows. She deliberately relaxed her breathing, reaching out mentally to her surroundings. Long minutes passed. Time slowed, her breathing steady and slowed. As she slid into a state of tranquillity, she detected the slightest change in the atmosphere, and her skin prickled.
“Do you hear something?” Smith had his phone out, but the screen was still blank.
“Not yet.”
They remained absolutely still, eyes scanning the battered walls and stained flooring. Minutes slipped by, and Fargo slumped to the floor, his chin on his paws. Cilla was tense now, senses stretching, reaching to feel any other entities.
All was silent.
“Maybe we need to go upstairs,” she murmured to Smith.
“This is where the picture was taken,” Smith replied. “I think we need to give it a little more time.”
Cilla nodded. She eased back into the corner and leaned against the wall, feeling the coolness through her shirt. Cool. Yes, it was cool, and getting colder.
“Did you notice?”
“The temperature?”
“Yeah.”
Smith pulled out a little instrument. He hadn’t brought much, but he generally would have a few gadgets. Smith loved technology. He used any of his spare money to invest in additional instruments to further measure, record, and quantify their experiences. Now Cilla was glad he had come prepared. She could see the plume of her breath. The skin on her arms was covered in gooseflesh. Something was happening.
The sound started like a bell chiming, the tinkle of a giggle, and then the lightest tapping, like feet racing down a hall. Cilla remained unmovable, the fog of her breath painting patterns in the air. She could feel the mildest vibrations under her feet, not the natural shudder of the earth that accompanied an earthquake, or a booming explosion from some man-made venture, but the tremor that shifted like the air current, subtle and persistent.
She swung slowly toward Smith, unwilling to disturb the spiritual visitor but needing to see his expression. When her eyes landed on his pale face, his lips a tight seam of concern, she knew he was feeling something too. At his feet, Fargo stood at attention, the line of fur tracing his back from scruff to tail rising in a ripple of alarm.
The sound came again, high and light, the giggle of a young child. Fargo let out a whistling whine, and his eyes rolled in Cilla’s direction. He wasn’t afraid so much as on edge. He heard it, but he was confused at the same time. Fargo loved children. He liked to play and was willing to tolerate little hands and sticky kisses with the patience of a saint.
But this? This playmate was otherworldly, but he knew enough to recognize the spirit was young and teasing. Cilla just hoped it stayed that way. It pained her to think the ghost was a child, caught between this world and the next. Children should be in their spiritual playground, forever held and loved, forever safe in the warm arms of the hereafter, not haunting an ancient office building, trapped within rotting walls.
Cilla had a fleeting thought, a memory of another child, a child with twin braided pigtails, a child who had never gotten to grow old. She shook her head in frustration.
She picked up the footsteps again from
above, rapid and uneven.
“Let’s go up,” she whispered, and pointed, an unnamed urge pushing her to go.
Smith said nothing but gave a sharp nod. When Cilla moved, he followed, Fargo at his side, and then Fargo pushed forward to proceed the humans up the stairs. Cilla walked slowly. Over time, a scattering of papers and loose debris had fallen on some treads, and Cilla didn’t want to fall. They were here illegally. She didn’t need any further trouble.
At the top of the stairs, she stopped with Smith close behind. He eased to her side.
“Which way?” he hissed.
She pointed, and they moved forward, the dog out in front, the two humans huddled close together. The cold was shifting, frigid here but normal temperatures there, no rhyme or reason to their placement. Cilla envisioned how they would look to an observer coming through the door, hunched there like Scooby Doo cartoon characters.
At the end of the hallway, she saw a shadow dance across the wall, and a musical giggle sounded.
“There,” she said pointing, not stopping, but quickening her speed. Someone wanted her attention. Well now they had it.
“Cilla,” Smith whispered.
She ignored him and followed the echo of the laughter. She reached the end and turned, her eyes scanning the office. She hadn’t seen much of it the last time they had come this way. With Brandon’s body laid out on the floor, she hadn’t stayed to study the décor. Now she paused in the doorway, her eyes searching the gloomy interior.
Then she saw it. Like a child’s playthings, she noticed the stacked books and binders, one on top of the other, not haphazard but playful, a triangular pyramid which was so plainly deliberately built, it made Cilla feel more uncomfortable.
“That is,” Smith’s voice choked. “What is that?”
“Someone has left us a sign,” Cilla said quietly. She eased into the room, her eyes scanning the stacks of office supplies arranged in perfect balance.
“It wasn’t here when I was up just ten minutes ago.” Smith turned, the fragile light from the shaded windows catching the round lenses of his glasses, even in the dim room. He looked blind for a moment. Cilla shivered at the thought.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” she answered.
Chapter Eight
“Who would have thought ghost busting would be such a time-consuming thing?” Smith griped, looking up from his computer.
Cilla grunted from her place at her desk. They had agreed to split up the cases; she was looking into Brandon’s office building, and Smith was researching Melissa’s house. Much of the haunting business had something to do with history, so it wasn’t an uncommon task for them. The next step would probably be heading to the local library to search for evidence which was collected in the earlier chronicles. So far neither had found a smoking gun, or the cause for all the spiritual upheaval.
Fargo’s abrupt movement, shuffling to his feet and charging toward the door, had Cilla casting an inquisitive glance toward Smith.
“Expecting someone?” she asked. They hadn’t seen Melissa for a few days, but she knew Smith kept close contact with her on the phone. So far, no further incidences had occurred, although the noises and unexpected items moved in the house still hadn’t been explained.
Smith shook his head and stood as a sharp knocking sounded at the door. He opened the door and stood back, revealing Paxton standing in the hallway.
“Am I disturbing you?” Paxton looked much as he had the last time they had seen him. He had taken off his fedora and held it in his hands. His expression was one of polite curiosity. His eyes looked very blue in contrast to his black shirt, and the looped earring caught the light.
“No,” Smith replied slowly, clearly at a loss.
“Come on in,” Cilla spoke up. She stood, watching as Fargo followed the man to give him a once over, sniffing at his shoes and accepting a chin scratch. She was a firm believer in intuition, especially with this particular dog. Fargo had an excellent understanding of right or wrong, and if he trusted someone, she was more inclined to the do the same. But she still had that sense of uneasiness.
“Thanks so much,” his deep accented voice was charming. “I had been out to speak with Melissa, but I was hoping to take a few minutes of your time. I am concerned, you know?” He cocked one dark eyebrow.
“Has something else happened?” Smith looked ready to push past the other man to get out the door, but Paxton raised a placating hand.
“No, I apologize for alarming you,” he replied. “I was aware that you were helping her with her spiritual issue, and I hoped we might work together to solve the problem.”
Cilla stayed in her seat, leaning back and crossing her arms, studiously casual. “And how do you propose to help?” she inquired.
“In case you were unaware, I am an investigator in my own right. Granted, I do not often perform paranormal research, but it won’t be so different from the work I do to prepare for my manuscript writing.”
Cilla continued to study him quizzically. “I appreciate that you want to help Melissa. But I must be honest with you. I don’t want my name featured in some novel or exposé you’re writing. I get enough flack for doing what I do. I don’t need any additional publicity.” She rose slowly, pinning him with her gaze. “I don’t do this for the fame or the money. I do this because it has to be done. And I won’t tolerate anyone trying to make this anything that it’s not.”
Paxton nodded, clearly undisturbed by her words. “I understand what you are saying, and I will assure you, I never intended your name to be mentioned in any of my work.”
Cilla was still contemplating him, lips pinched. “And would you be willing to sign a paper to that effect?”
“I would,” he countered.
She was momentarily nonplussed. She hadn’t expected him to agree. Most people who asked to accompany them on any of their jobs, the paranormal ones at least, intended to use the knowledge in some way. She had gotten some papers drawn up by a lawyer friend of her parents to help protect her from any kind of slander. It wasn’t perfect, but they had managed to stay under the radar with most of the widely known media streams so far.
“I have a contract drawn up by a lawyer,” she added, her tone firm and businesslike. “It limits any possible release of information. You will have to get prior authorization and approval from us in order to use anything you learn while you are in our company.”
“That is acceptable to me.” His manner was formal, business like.
Cilla glanced over toward Smith and gave him a nod. He slipped back to his desk and opened the old file drawer, full of their various papers and case studies. A moment later, he pulled out the contract and brought it to Cilla.
Paxton, recognizing they weren’t making him leave, ambled into the office and dropped down in the single chair across from Cilla. She took the papers from Smith and spread them on the desk between her and Paxton, slowly paging through the sheets. When she was satisfied that they all were there, she glanced back up at the man, struggling to interpret his expression.
“You might want to read them.” She offered the sheaf of papers to him.
“I will,” he assured her. He took the papers, skimming them rapidly, faster, she thought, then she would have been able to. Was he digesting any of the information? She wasn’t sure. But by the way he was flipping through them, he must have at least been getting the overall impression of the rules and regulations they had established out for anybody choosing to accompany them on one of their investigations.
Of course, it wasn’t something that happened often. Only twice before, to be exact. The first, an attempt that had yielded nothing but a long time standing in the dark listening to an old barn sigh and groan as the wind blew outside.
And the other time? She chose not to think about that one.
“Why do you want to go into an investigation with us?” Cilla asked bluntly.
For the first time, Paxton’s bright blue gaze wavered. “I have a particular interest i
n the afterlife. This appears to be a reliable alternative to entertain my interest.” He hesitated. “In addition, I have grown fond of Melissa, and her plight appears to be quite serious.”
Cilla studied him. He was being truthful but evasive. He didn’t want them to know why the spiritual interested him. And perhaps that would have to do.
She observed as he scrawled a signature on the last page, ending in a flourish and adding the date. When he handed it back to her, she scanned the writing. His letters with dark and spiky, self-assured. Very much like he was.
“We thought we might go out to see Melissa tomorrow evening,” Cilla said, her eyes skating toward Smith. They hadn’t discussed it, but with everything happening with Brandon’s death, she felt like they needed to grab the time while they had it.
“Then I shall meet you there,” Paxton agreed. He hesitated for a beat. “Do you mind my asking, Melissa said one of your clients was recently murdered, and you came upon the body? Is that accurate?”
Cilla winced. She hadn’t wanted that incident to get around, but no doubt Smith had shared it with his lady love.
“Yes,” she acknowledged honestly. “We had only met him once, and we arranged to do an analysis at his office building. We were passing by to get the lay of the land, plan out the placement of our equipment, when we discovered, um, we found him.” Cilla felt her throat close up at the memory.
“That must have been terrible.”
Cilla nodded. “It was.” She ducked her head and smoothed her hair behind her ear with one hand. She was ready to show her visitor to the door, but he didn’t seem inclined to leave.
“And his office building is haunted?” Paxton’s tone was flat and factual. He was asking a question, but at least he didn’t voice his incredulity.
“By our analyses, we’re pretty confident it is.” Smith was in his comfortable groove now and joined the conversation. In things regarding business, he let Cilla take the lead, but when the investigation was being discussed, he was more comfortable speaking out.
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