Spirit Taken

by Rachael Rawlings

  But the sounds were too chaotic, like the rush of water over stones, and only a single voice trickled above the others, a giggle, like the tinkling melody of a child's voice, laughing.

  The air warmed after that, and the scent of damp dissipated with it until all they could sense was the still air. Fargo stood, his tail wagging slowly, and went over to Smith for attention.

  "It's gone for now," Cilla murmured faintly.

  "What did you hear?" Paxton was still standing close to her, and for a second, she was grateful for his human warmth and the solidness of his form. She fought the urge to lean against him or take his arm. It wouldn’t do to give him the idea that she was vulnerable. He had enough of a hero complex as it was.

  "I couldn't get much. Only laughter. And a child." The words felt heavy, and silence was all that met her as the surrounding people exchanged wide-eyed looks.

  “Do you want to listen to the EVP here?” Smith’s glasses reflected a slice of light from down the shadowed hallway as he looked toward Cilla.

  Cilla glanced around at the circle of faces. Listening to the recording would require quiet and concentration. Headphones would be useful too. “No,” she answered at last. “We probably will have better luck at the office. But we should go on down.”

  Smith nodded, and without another comment, led the way down the staircase.

  The basement showed the age of the building much more clearly than the rooms above. The stairs were wood, nicked and scuffed, with a wooden rail running down the concrete block wall to one side, and a freestanding rail on the opposite. Almost as an organized group, they pulled out smartphones, and several slices of illumination appeared on the concrete floor as they reached the bottom.

  Here the walls were rough and patched, pale gray paint that had seen better days. Cilla found herself frowning, and it took her a minute to realize what she had been expecting that failed to see.

  The stench, the damp and mold, was gone. She turned her head, looking in both directions and deliberately concentrating on her senses. There were no mumbling voices, no hisses or rattles and there was no scent beyond that of dust and stuffy disuse.

  “It doesn’t smell wet down here,” she remarked.

  “I agree.” Paxton still remained by her side, this time a step ahead of her, and when he turned, he cast his light toward the floor. “It doesn’t look wet either,” he continued.

  “It wasn’t our imagination,” Cilla said flatly. “I smelled it, and so did the rest of you.”

  “Let’s keep exploring,” Smith volunteered. “Maybe only part of the area has been leaking.”

  Cilla nodded and continued walking as the group proceeded deeper into the space, the dog staying close to her side. There were a few rooms broken up by the plaster walls. The area hadn’t been meant to serve as anything beyond storage. For now, it was mostly abandoned. There were a few lone file cabinets, old metal ones that someone must have wrestled down here thinking they might eventually be of use.

  “We need to look for the shelves,” Carlton said quietly. “That’s what was in the picture.”

  Smith moved toward the next door. They had seen two other rooms, and they were running out of alternatives.

  “I believe we may have just found them,” Paxton’s voice floated over his shoulder as he directed his light into the next area.

  The shelves were there, but they had been pushed back against the wall. The group filed in, Cilla and Fargo following the rest, still reaching out mentally for any possible communication from the spirits. She was reassured to feel nothing, but a little wary as well. Whatever prevailed here had plenty of energy. Their encounters so far had been significant in strength and clarity.

  “Let’s move the shelves out,” Smith said, studying the metal racks as Paxton shined a light on them. “We need to see what’s going on with the wall behind.”

  “Good idea.” Paxton stepped forward, and while Carlton and Cilla looked on, the other two pulled the shelves away from the wall. The surface behind the shelves was suspiciously clean, and there was a definite delineation where the wall had undergone a recent patching. Cilla felt an upsurge of excitement mingled with trepidation. It the wall had been patched, what were the chances that the remains were still in situ?

  “Is it okay with you if we try to tear this out?” Smith was looking toward Carlton, who, Cilla supposed, was the closest thing they had to an owner of the property.

  “Of course,” Carlton replied. “We have to find out if it, if the child is still there.”

  Paxton shifted, and Cilla realized he had an intimidating pocket knife in his hand. The blade was long and wickedly sharp, the handle ivory. He placed one hand flat on the wall and began digging the blade into the plaster, the tip piercing where the joint must have been. The patch job hadn’t been that well done, and it was easy enough to identify the edges. After a few minutes of pressing and prying, a rectangle of drywall fell out in Paxton’s waiting hand, and he turned to put it on the shelf.

  “There is indeed a hole,” he muttered, his accent strong in his emotion. “Bloody….”

  “Can you see anything?” Smith was leaning close, and Paxton directed the light into the cavity. Smith grunted. “Yeah, what I thought. Whatever was in there is gone now.” He made a sound of disgust. “I guess after Brandon found the bones, someone else came in and got them out and repaired the hole in the wall.”

  “Are we sure Brandon didn’t do it?” Carlton sounded doubtful.

  “I think if Brandon had done this, he would have told someone,” Cilla said, “probably you since he brought it up.” She stared blindly into the cavity. “He was really upset by the encounters he had. If he had known the bones were there and moved them, he would have also known what was causing the haunting.” She tipped her head toward the wall. “No, I think he saw the remains and planned to tell us about them the next day.”

  “He just never got to,” Carlton added softly.

  “No,” Cilla agreed.

  “Hey, hold the light a little closer here,” Smith demanded.

  Paxton did as he was told, and Smith pulled a tissue from his pocket. He bent over the hole and gingerly placed his hand inside, moving so that Paxton could shift the light. After a second, he pulled out his hand.

  “Looks like they didn’t get everything,” he stated. He opened his hand and unfolded the wrapping. Inside was a twist of twine darkened with time, s small white button with a looped letter carved into the top, and a third small item the size of an eraser that was brownish tan in color. When he held the collection up to the light, Cilla felt another jolt. The third object was unmistakable up close. It was a small human tooth.

  Chapter Twelve

  “The reports suggest the basement never leaked until the flood in 1937,” Paxton said, sounding satisfied. “The smell we all noticed when we opened the basement door had to have been part of the paranormal events taking place in the building.”

  Cilla thought Paxton sounded positively cheerful to have made this discovery. She didn’t know if it was just because this was his first supernatural encounter, and he believed it was a positive experience, or if he was just generally fascinated with the topic and would be equally as charmed if they were to come face to face with the malevolent spirit that appeared to be haunting Melissa’s home.

  Even so, when they had set up a meeting for the little group the following morning, Paxton had arrived armed with more information.

  “All the houses and buildings in this area were flooded in 1937,” Smith agreed. “Even places where they had never gotten any water ended up several feet under.”

  “It was particularly bad in this area,” Paxton went on. “According to what I gathered, by the 15th day of flooding, this sector was many feet above flood stage. It had to be evacuated. The surge continued to rise, and it was several days before people were able to come back in and see the damage to their property.”

  “Then the most obvious answer is that the building was flooded at some
time, presumably in the height of the flood, and a child died. I’m confident it took place. There were doubtless many deaths after such a catastrophic event. It would explain our child ghost, the giggles, and the smell. But what I don’t understand is how the bones came to be in the cavity in the wall? If the death was an accident caused by a natural disaster, then why would anyone want to hide it?”

  They were all silent for a minute as they contemplated the question. It was the most obvious, and to a paranormal researcher, it was logical. The child had died due to a traumatizing event. The spirit had stayed behind, unwilling to leave because of the manner the death had occurred.

  “I don’t understand it either,” Smith finally muttered. He was studying his computer screen where the picture of the bones had been blown up to double size. With the information from Brandon’s home, the account and the password, it had been easy to access his cloud account and pull up the catalogue of photos. They reluctantly had searched through a few more he had taken on the phone and then uploaded, checking for a potential clue about what might have gotten Brandon killed.

  “The death, if we are right, happened in 1937. And that is a big supposition. But whoever was alive back in that time would likely be gone by now.” Cilla glanced toward Paxton. He was still observing with interest, his hand holding a digital tablet which contained pages and pages of documents he had scanned. Cilla had been amused to learn that Paxton was not as comfortable with the digital information as he might paging through ancient volumes and scanning microfiche. Apparently, the bulk of his research had been the old-fashioned kind, on site at libraries and book collections.

  Carlton hadn’t joined them for this meeting. After the visit to the building, he planned on going out to his aunt’s home. Just wandering through his cousin’s former house had made him feel the loss more keenly. Cilla thought it was good that he could share his sentiments with his aunt.

  Paxton had volunteered to join them, however. And even though Cilla was still hesitant to trust him completely, Smith had received him with open arms. There was little she could do but go along with the plan.

  “I believe, considering the remains were found in the wall, that we must consider this to not be an accidental death, but murder. After all, as you have stated, if the death was due to natural causes, then the child would have been buried, as was correct.” Paxton’s tone was dry as though he were giving a lecture in a university auditorium.

  “So, say someone had the kid, and somehow, he died, whether it was by accidental or purposeful drowning.” Smith was staring thoughtfully out the window but seeing nothing.

  “We cannot say for sure the cause of death,” Paxton stated. “Without the remains, only the smell of the water gave us the impression of the river taking the child.”

  “Pretty bad when your biggest clue is paranormal,” Cilla said wryly.

  “True, but we can go on with this conjecture,” Paxton agreed. “The child died in the flood, and the murderer, or indeed the individual responsible for the care of the child, realizing they had done something incredibly wrong, resolved to cover up the atrocity. They took the body and hid it in the building.”

  “Then the child’s disappearance goes unsolved,” Smith declared.

  “Exactly. They have no idea what became of the missing child, and the murderer got off scott free.” Cilla’s tone became fierce.

  “Say that is precisely what took place,” Smith went on, taking up Paxton’s line of reasoning. “The murderer gets away with it, but he eventually dies himself.” He shook his head slowly. “Brandon buys the building.”

  “He’s going to make it into a working office, and he plans on doing some renovation and renting the place out,” Cilla added. “Had the murderer been alive, and the crime more recent, he would need to stop Brandon. Killing Brandon makes sense.”

  “But the murderer has to be long gone.” Smith folded his arms over his chest.

  Paxton stood and paced toward the window. “An old crime would have some impact on the present,” he replied deliberately. “If, say, you found out your relative had been a murderer, you undoubtedly would be upset by it.”

  Cilla didn’t say anything. Smith had come from a terrible family background, and she wouldn’t be surprised to learn one of his relatives had been on the wrong side of the law. He had said as much to her, fully aware that his mother had been on drugs for most of his lifetime and had habitually put her addiction before her child. It was a wonder Smith had been born as healthy as he was. But his lineage certainly didn’t change how she felt about him, what she thought of him. For all he had gone through, she respected him more for his strength, but it definitely colored his perspective on life, being raised knowing his closest family members were criminals.

  “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “That’s a stretch.”

  “Say you come from a prominent family.” Smith’s eyes went toward Cilla, and she was glad to see he wasn’t looking agitated by the direction of the conversation. “Say you have a reputation. And if someone finds out your father or grandfather or uncle killed a kid and buried it in a decrepit basement room, it would impact your business, your family, your reputation.”

  “That,” Paxton said nodding, “would be a potential conclusion.”

  “Or,” Cilla said, “maybe your relative inherited something because of the death, and if the murder was found out, the legacy would go away?”

  “Again, a good possibility. I believe these all have a common theme. There was something about the victim, the building, or the history of the place that made the murderer act. Brandon’s death was tied to his purchase of the property. I believe our next step would be to trace the former owners of the property and determine what skeletons we can shake from their ancestral closets.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Smith agreed. “We can work on that tomorrow. Cilla and I have some commercial work to do in the morning, but maybe later…”

  “And we haven’t listened to the EVP we took earlier,” Cilla broke in. “If the spirit was trying to tell us something, I think we need to give it a listen.”

  Smith gave a curt nod and pulled out his cell phone. “We can check it now. I’ll get the earphones.” He bent and pulled a pair of expensive noise cancelling earphones from his desk drawer. While Cilla and Paxton looked on, Smith tapped an icon on his cell phone and donned the earphones.

  Cilla felt a wave of light-headedness sweep over her so abruptly, she had to clutch the chair to keep her balance. She closed her eyes tightly, aware of a piercing headache. Just as the pain faded, she had a sudden picture of Melissa bloom in her mind. Prickles of dread caused her heart rate to escalate, and she was aware of the communication pushing through her defenses. She recognized it for what it was, the frantic warning she was picking up from just beyond the veil.

  “Where’s Melissa?” she burst out, unaware of the men both staring at her.

  “I think she’s at the house,” Smith responded tentatively, bringing the headphones down around his neck.

  Cilla’s intuition rarely flared when she was contemplating a living person, but when it did, she never discounted the message. There had been a few occasions when she had been so inexplicably alarmed about her parents’ plans that they had canceled at her request. One time, she insisted they not take the short drive to the park for an impromptu picnic, only to discover there had been a fatal accident on the road just by the park. She had told Smith about her odd notions, but he hadn’t been surprised.

  Now she saw the same comprehension dawn on his face.

  “Why?” he demanded, his voice hard.

  “I don’t know,” Cilla blurted. “Smith, just call Melissa.”.

  Smith gave a brief nod and tapped an icon on his phone while Paxton looked from one to the other, puzzlement across his elegant features, dark eyebrows creasing over worried, but extremely perceptive, eyes.

  Cilla ran her hands up and down her arms feeling a chill, like someone had walked over her grave, she thought. A
nd she waited for Smith’s reply.

  By all reports, Melissa was fine, but Cilla didn’t believe it. Not for a second. She had gotten a message from the spiritual world, and even after Smith hung up the phone, she felt the anxiety plucking at her nerves.

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you,” Smith stated. “I can tell by the expression on your face that you’re not going to give up.”

  “You’re right,” Cilla responded. “I want to go now.”

  “I’ll drive,” Paxton volunteered, looking serious and determined.

  “Come on, then.” Cilla led the way out of the office without a look back.

  They filed out of the front door, hurrying down the sidewalk. Cilla climbed into the car next to Paxton; Smith taking the back seat. Paxton drove fast but skillfully, Cilla alarm pushing him. What if they didn’t make it in time? What if something horrific happened to Melissa, and Cilla could have stopped it?

  “How long have you been in the US?” she asked, struggling to get her mind off the grim prospects.

  “A little over a year. I have dual citizenship,” Paxton replied, eyes intense on the pavement ahead.

  Cilla fidgeted with the fabric of her seatbelt. “Did you come here just to write the book? Or did you have other things planned?”

  Paxton’s eyes flashed in her direction and then back to the road. “I wanted to work on the book, yes but there were other reasons for my visit.”

  He didn’t appear to want to elaborate on that, and Cilla let the silence fall. She glanced in the backseat where Smith was tapping on his phone screen, most likely texting Melissa. She gripped her seatbelt to steady her hands. The looming sensation of dread made her skin prickle.

  “Tell Melissa to meet us out front,” she demanded, glancing back at Smith. “And ask if anyone is working today.”