Spirit Taken

by Rachael Rawlings

  “She claimed she was alone,” Smith said without looking up.

  “Tell her to meet us on the driveway.”

  Smith sent her a concerned glance.

  “Just to be safe,” she added in a calmer tone. “I don’t know what it is, but I want to make certain she is in no danger.”

  “Okay,” Smith responded. They rode in silence, each wrapped in their own private thoughts.

  A tense ten minutes later, they were turning into the drive. Even from a distance, Cilla could see the small figure of Melissa where she stood in the driveway, her arms crossed over her chest. As they drew closer, her hands dropped to her sides.

  Smith was out of the car almost as soon as the wheels stopped rolling. Cilla watched him lope toward Melissa, attempting to be casual, but concern in every line on his face.

  “What’s going on?” Melissa’s challenge was valid, and Cilla had been prepared for it. Sort of.

  “I’m sorry,” she explained as she rose out of the passenger seat and closed the car door, “but I had to make sure everything was okay. I just had this feeling, and it wouldn’t go away.”

  “Feeling?”

  “I can’t describe it,” Cilla said sincerely. “It was just an instinctive fear,” she continued. “It felt like you were in danger as long as you were inside.” She made an uncertain gesture in the direction of the old house.

  “You think there’s something wrong with the house? You think someone is in there?” Melissa face was shifted toward the old building, her delicate profile looking waxen in the light. “Like a real person? Do you think they were with me while I was in there?” She sounded more perplexed than angry. “Or is this more paranormal?”

  “I don’t know,” Cilla responded. “I don’t, truly. But just to make sure,” she let the words hang.

  “I’ll go in and check around,” Paxton said decisively.

  “I’ll go too,” Smith added.

  “If it’s dangerous for me, why wouldn’t it be dangerous for you?” Melissa looked tense, and a little irritated as she glanced between the two men.

  “We know we’re looking for something,” Smith replied. “We won’t do anything stupid.”

  “No, I should go in,” Cilla spoke up. “It was my feeling. I should go.” She turned to Smith. “You stay out here with Melissa. Keep your phone on. I still feel like it’s related to her, and I don’t think she should be alone.”

  “But…” Smith’s lips were pinched.

  “I will accompany Cilla,” Paxton assured them. “We will remain in close contact.”

  Cilla started toward the door, opting to evade the argument. She knew what she felt. She also suspected she would recognize it when she discovered the cause of the sensation, and that wouldn’t happen unless she was on the inside. She needed to do this.

  “Let’s go,” she added hurriedly before there were any further questions raised. She didn’t pause but continued moving briskly.

  “We’ll be back momentarily,” Paxton assured them, and he strolled with Cilla to the front porch.

  Paxton stepped forward and yanked the heavy door open, gesturing for Cilla to pause on the threshold. A gentleman held the door for a lady, Cilla thought darkly, but what happened when the mansion was full of spirits? She knew enough to depend on her gut, and her senses were telling her that something was wrong. It hadn’t abated even with Melissa out of the house. There was still something here.

  She stepped into the foyer despite Paxton’s frown and stopped, feet grating on the tile floor. She had felt the energy here before, the fragile mother seeking her children beyond the grave. But there had been something else, something, she believed, that had been here longer than the dwelling had been in existence.

  Was that what beckoned her? She stood there a moment, eyes scanning the shadows. She wished she had Fargo there to support her. He was better at narrowing in on locations. He could sniff out or feel the disturbance long before she could.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Paxton’s voice seemed to skate along the tension in the air. He was standing unusually close to her elbow as though ready to catch her if she started to do anything reckless.

  “No,” Cilla said quietly. “Let’s just walk a little.” She advanced deliberately toward the staircase, but at the last minute, she felt the rightness of the hallway, the need to continue in that direction. She shuffled slowly toward the kitchen, hearing her shoes against the floor, feeling the slight warmth from the man next to her. Her senses spread. There it was. That tiny spark, so familiar, so much a part of her that she often forgot it wasn’t her. But that was fine. Because this time, she needed the separateness, she needed the additional consciousness that would guide her. She followed the spark, less physical and more psychological, toward the kitchen. She was almost at the doorway when she felt the tight grip of a hand on her arm.

  “No.” Paxton’s speech was loud in the dim and destruction. The kitchen in front of them was piles of rubble, of loose nails and boards and shards of plaster. “I smell,” Paxton’s voice failed him, but then he glanced toward Cilla. “Gas. I smell gas. There may be a gas leak.”

  Cilla noticed it now, the sour smell that was added to natural gas to make the odorless deadly substance easier to identify.

  “Back,” Paxton said immediately. “If there is a leak, it was probably from here. We need to call the fire department.” He still had her arm in a tight grip, and he was moving back down the hall pulling her with him.

  Cilla felt the urgency along with the mild headache. She was sensitive to most environmental changes, so this didn’t surprise her at all. She felt an unusual weakness in her muscles, her legs giving beneath her, and she leaned against Paxton and let him guide her toward the front door.

  He grabbed the handle with his free hand and pulled. The door held fast. He jiggled the knob and yanked again, this time with more force. Nothing.

  “We’re locked in?” Cilla said, her expression faintly bewildered, disbelieving.

  “No, the lock isn’t triggered. The door is jammed.”

  Cilla put a hand out, feeling the wood beneath her palm. The surface, which should have been room temperature, suddenly seemed to be cooling. She turned and glanced at Paxton, watching his breath plume in a cloud of white mist.

  He let go of the doorknob as though scorched and stepped back. His blue eyes were wide. Then he frowned, determination etched in his features.

  “It’s here, isn’t it?” he demanded.

  Cilla nodded. She could sense the reverberations, the scattering lisping notes. There hadn’t been a gradual buildup. It had progressed from mute to fully formed, a present darkness, an act of unnatural nature.

  She turned and faced the entryway, the steps winding up into the darkness. She drew in a deep breath, steadying herself. “I’m not afraid of you.” Her voice was firm and flat in the odd silence. “You won’t get rid of us this way. Let go of the door.” This was no time to try to identify their spiritual menace. They needed to get out. A single lamp switched on could ignite the gas and cause the entire place to go up in an inferno of flame.

  She felt the pressure, the bitter rage, the flush of feeling. The sounds crept into her skull and she winced. She raised her hand, her fingers catching the tiny cross on a chain that her priest friend had given her.

  “You have to let us out,” she said roughly. “Now!”

  Then the spark was back, the hidden companion, the secret friend, and the scent of lilacs filtered into the air. The buzzing softened, the chill mixed now with a curious warmth.

  “What’s happening?” Paxton asked, his voice hushed. Cilla couldn’t tell what he felt, or what he knew, but by the tone of his voice, she knew he was conscious of something changing.

  “Try the door,” she said in an undertone.

  She continued facing the room, her eyes blind to the spiritual war going on in the space, but feeling it on her skin, sensing it in her mind.

  She felt the movement of air as Pa
xton yanked the door and it fell open. Then Paxton’s hand was on her arm, and he was pulling.

  “Out, we need to get out now,” he grated, his face tense and pale.

  She let herself be moved even if her feet seemed reluctant to deviate from her stand. She wanted to see the completion of the battle but was keenly conscious of the danger.

  As she crossed the threshold of the mansion, she felt the upsurge of energy, the cold malevolent force that seemed to tremble with rage at her back.

  “Go!” Paxton shouted, and together they dashed down the porch stairs and into the weedy lawn just before the door slammed shut with a supernatural force, the gust hitting their back like a wave of glacial air.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “The fire department agreed it was a gas leak. The gas has been shut off to the whole house until an inspection could be conducted. They are thinking someone cut a line when they were tearing up the kitchen.” Smith looked disgusted.

  “Then all construction is suspended,” Cilla said.

  “For the time being,” Smith agreed.

  “Have you heard anything from Paxton?”

  “He should be here any time,” Smith acknowledged.

  Cilla was silent for a long moment, lost in thought. “You completely trust him,” she stated deliberately. “I’m not sure why you do.”

  Smith looked up at her. “He seems to be a good guy,” he countered. “He’s serious, like, not much of a sense of humor, but he has helped in the research. I mean, I haven’t found any reason why we shouldn’t trust him. Have you?”

  “No,” Cilla sighed. “I guess his job, you know, a writer, makes me nervous.”

  “He said he wouldn’t print anything we didn’t want publicized, and he signed the paper without asking any questions. He seems genuinely interested in what we are doing, and he did an exceptional job with the research. He’s not as good as I am,” he gave her a mischievous smile, “but almost.”

  “Okay, fine. I hope you are right.”

  She went back to her computer, frowning over the project she was supposed to be finishing. They had a new client, a twenty something guy who was a wizard with technology and had invented an app he swore was the new thing in shopping. Cilla didn’t need to know the minutiae. She just knew what kind of graphic the guy was looking for and was adhering to his instructions.

  She was finishing up when she heard the polite knock on the door, and Fargo climbed to his feet and padded over to the door. By his behavior, she suspected he knew who was visiting. His perception of the identity of a visitor even through the closed door always amazed Cilla. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was the keen nose, the sharp hearing, or the paranormal that gave him the expertise.

  She stood and strolled barefoot to the door, swinging it open and stepping back. Paxton looked good. He always looked good. He was clad in black jeans and a dark tee shirt, a jacket thrown over his tee, he even smelled good as he sauntered past, plucking the hat from his head.

  Cilla frowned. Could the fact that she thought Paxton attractive be clouding her judgement? Just because he was nice looking didn’t mean he was necessarily lying to them. Being handsome didn’t make him bad.

  “Hi,” she forced a smile. “How’s it going?”

  “Well, thank you,” he responded, impeccably polite, his tone a pleasant bass. “And how are you this morning? After our race from the house, I was worried you might be traumatized. I know I was.”

  Cilla shrugged. “It all worked out well in the end.”

  “You most likely saved Melissa’s life,” Paxton said gravely.

  Cilla looked down at her bare toes. She didn’t want to think about the possible consequences if she hadn’t insisted they go to see Melissa. Now it was a tossup about who they were more worried about. Brandon was gone, but his killer was still at large, and the idea that they may never discover who took his life made Cilla feel sick inside.

  On the other hand, Melissa was out of the house and likely to stay that way for a few more days. At least until the pipes were repaired. That meant she would be safe, temporarily.

  So, they had elected to go back to studying Brandon’s property, and Paxton had been surprisingly skillful at digging up history they hadn’t yet stumbled upon in their searches. His old fashioned technique of combing through the library collections of newspapers, even small local rags, and deed records, had churned up a good amount of additional information.

  “The owner of the building in 1937 was Andrew Constant. He was forty-seven, proud father of three children, and reputable business man.” Paxton was seated across the desk from Cilla and had a large tablet in front of him. He was flipping through some scanned documents as he spoke, angling the screen so Cilla and Smith could view it clearly. “Everything I read was the same. After the flood, he had some financial issues, so he didn’t go back to try to rebuild. He had two other properties he wanted to attend to first. After some time, he did the rudimentary rebuilding necessary to get the place back in business. He sold it six years after the flood.” He looked up toward Cilla where she leaned over the desk. “He was well liked. He was respected,” he shook his head, “but it’s not like he was a famous land owner. He was squarely upper middle class.”

  “Okay, and what happened after he sold the building?”

  “The man that bought it did some minor improvements, and he managed to keep the business going for another two years.” Paxton hesitated and Smith broke in.

  “I remember this part. Yeah, the guy did some work on it but,” Smith raised one finger, “it was not without problems. I found an article mentioning the bankruptcy of the owner. The building went into foreclosure and was taken over by the bank. That was the first of three times the bank ended up with the property.” He cocked an eyebrow. “What’s the chances of that? Three times?”

  “So it’s what we had gathered. The individuals who acquired the place weren’t able to make a go of it. But do we know why?” Cilla crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes looking unfocused.

  “Um, from what I read, the stories were different in each case. But in general, it appeared that they had trouble keeping personnel.” Smith flipped through a few more pages. “Failure to thrive,” he added quietly.

  “And what about our latest owner?”

  “Ah, well, he wasn’t as interesting. He had his other business that continued to be moderately successful. The next mention of him was at the wedding of his oldest daughter. I followed the family line. Our man lived until he was sixty-nine. Died of a heart attack.” He shrugged, “none of the family went into the family business. One daughter died when she was in her twenties, cancer, but the other two lived. They weren’t interested in keeping the business going.”

  Paxton was scanning through some of the material on his screen, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “I believe you are correct in your assumption that whatever has been causing issues in the building are long standing,” he stated. His eyes slid up, catching Cilla in that attractive blue gaze. “What we need to know is who left those bones there.”

  “And how those bones might have gotten Brandon killed,” Cilla agreed. “I wish we had a record of who he had been talking to lately.”

  “Cell records?” Smith asked. His eyebrows had raised, and he looked suddenly interested.

  “That would be helpful,” Cilla agreed.

  “I’ll get on that,” Smith returned.

  “While you do that,” Paxton added, “perhaps we might return to Melissa’s house. Just to look on the outside, of course.”

  Cilla reluctantly agreed to go. She didn’t like visiting the house, and since her last experience there, she was pretty sure whatever lingered felt the same. There was something in the house that didn’t want visitors. But Paxton seemed to have a goal, and she was interested in getting him alone to ask a few questions. There was much about this man she didn’t know, and she was feeling more and more determined to get to the bottom of his purpose for his examination of the house.


  The mansion was predictably locked up. Cilla wasn’t sure if Paxton had planned on that or not, but when they checked the front door and found it secured, they continued around to the back.

  “What was it you wanted to check on?” Cilla was following Paxton as he climbed the short flight of steps to the rear door.

  “I suspected we wouldn’t be able to get inside,” he replied, giving a tug at the handle and turning with a frown when it didn’t budge. “But I wanted to look just in case.” He straightened to his full height, standing much taller than Cilla from his vantage point on the steps. “There is an area in the back garden here which I wanted to explore a little more thoroughly,” he continued.

  Cilla nodded and followed him as he stepped down into the weedy lawn and began striding across the uneven ground. When Paxton stopped abruptly, she had to back up a step to avoid running into his back.

  “What?” she burst out, a little out of breath.

  “Don’t you think it’s peculiar how the ground here is cleared?” Paxton remarked.

  “I thought it might be because there had been an outbuilding here. Or even a flower garden.”

  “I believe a building would be more accurate,” Paxton said deliberately. “The dwelling is certainly old, but I suspect there have been people inhabiting this land long before this area was developed.” He swung around. “When I was out here before, I noticed this,” he stooped down, and using one hand, dragged away long stringing vines from over a stone. “This not only was an earthly home,” he declared softly, “there are graves here as well.”

  “You think this is a graveyard?”

  “Not exactly. I assume there was a smaller dwelling that predated the house. I think these stones, rough as they are, are the graves of the inhabitants of those earlier settlers.”

  “You assume these earlier people have something to do with the hauntings, then.”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “What do you honestly know about spirits?” Cilla asked bluntly.