Spirit Taken

by Rachael Rawlings

  “Then you were here to conjure up a ghost?” Moss’ gun had lowered slightly, and Cilla felt a thread of hope. If he believed they were there to contact the spirit world, perhaps he wouldn’t feel they were threatening to him.

  “Yes, of course. I told my girl it wouldn’t work. And it’s getting bloody cold in here. I’m sorry we trespassed. We’ll just get our things and leave.”

  The gun had dropped, the barrel toward the floor. Cilla tried to keep her gaze directed toward Moss, tried not to think of her best friend on the floor dying.

  “You have been investigating, poking your nose into things that are none of your business.”

  Paxton looking charmingly embarrassed. Cilla couldn’t fault him for his acting. He was undoubtedly talented.

  “My girl here, she thought she heard the ghost. She wanted to figure out who it was. Then when she found out about the guy dying here, she figured the ghost might have done it.” Paxton took a casual step forward, arms out. “We didn’t mean to get into anyone’s business. I can see as a business man, you might be upset that we trespassed. If you need to, you can call the cops.”

  Moss’ face was still, but Cilla could see the instant he changed his mind, and his gaze became suspicious as it darted between the two of them. Just as the gun started to rise, Paxton leapt forward, his body hitting the other man hard and knocking them both to the ground. The gun slid across the floor, spinning away from Cilla and the grappling men.

  Cilla launched herself toward the weapon. She didn’t know how to shoot with perfect accuracy, but she was pretty sure she could pull the trigger well enough. Just the sound should get the attention of the combatants.

  Her hand closed around the warm metal, and she straightened and stepped back, trying to position her hands in the right grip.

  “Stop,” her voice rang out with more conviction than she felt. “Stop right now.”

  The men had separated, Moss finally getting to his feet, Paxton standing above him, hands clenched, jaw tight. Moss had a trickle of blood going down the side of his face, and if the swelling was any indicator, he would have a magnificent black eye by the morning.

  Paxton looked unmarked besides his clothes being in disarray. His eyes flashed in the dim light, his face so still it could have been carved from stone.

  “Put your hands up, or so help me, I’ll shoot, and at this distance, I’m bound to hit something important,” Cilla threatened through clenched teeth.

  Moss’ hands slowly went up. “I wasn’t going to shoot you,” he replied, his speech going mild and even. “You were right. You trespassed on my property. I was protecting what is mine.” He tilted his head in Paxton’s direction. “You got in a few good hits, young man. But I’m not as young as I once was.” He took a step toward Cilla, his hands still raised. “If you give back my gun, I’ll let you pack up your things and be on your way.”

  “I don’t think so,” Cilla replied. She had to give the old man credit. His acting was almost as good as Paxton’s. She looked at Paxton. “You take this,” she said tightly, and waited with the gun still trained on Moss until Paxton had taken the revolver from her. She watched as he examined it quickly and directed it toward the older man. As soon as she saw he had the situation under control, she hurried to Fargo’s side. The dog was panting, one eye rolling in her direction, a high whine coming from his throat as he saw her draw closer.

  Cilla yanked her phone from her pocket and dialed for emergency services. Her dog needed help, and this was the quickest way to get it.

  She heard the line connect and a tinny voice came over the speaker. She blurted out the address of the office and said hurriedly they needed help. Before the woman on the other end had a chance to respond, there was a deep physical shock that vibrated the device in Cilla’s hand, and the phone blinked off, dead. At the same time, all ambient light from the streetlights outside died with it, throwing the room into darkness. Cilla could almost feel the power from the building and the surrounding area extinguish with an auditory buzz.

  The temperature in the room fell, going from chilly to frigid in a gust of charged air. The spirits of the building were making themselves felt.

  Cilla heard a scramble in the blackness, but her eyes hadn’t adjusted. She could only guess Moss was attempting to seize control of the situation. From her place on the floor next to the dog, she barely discerned the movement in the darkness. The gun went off, a sharp twang, and then the sound of something metal hitting the floor.

  They all halted in silence, Cilla gradually focusing on the figures of the two men, both facing the stairway as a rumbling roar began to build. Cilla slowly eased to her feet, her breath snagged in her lungs.

  With the tremendous bang, of all the doors in the upper hallway slammed open, and a howling wind of fury rushed down the stairs, bringing with it bits of paper and debris, raining down upon them. Both Moss and Paxton remained suspended as a darkness materialized at the foot of the stairs, a profound blackness which appeared to soak up all light. Then the air stilled, and a figure began to form in the darkness, a sketching of a small body, arms, legs, and trunk, clothed in short pants, a conventional rounded collar shirt, buttons running up the front. As the face developed, a ghastly grin appeared, greenish gray teeth in a rotting mouth, black lips pulled back from a cadaverous smile. The thing that had been a child opened his mouth, and a soft singing emerged, faint and tinkling, but somehow discordant. The face angled toward Moss, weeping eyes showing a glittery black, and between the notes, a scratchy voice could be heard.

  “Uncle Adolph, will you leave me here? I don’t want to be alone. I think I shall keep you.”

  Cilla stood still in shock. She had felt terror before, but this sensation seemed to rise above the rest, the icy cold of panic holding her, encompassing her, until she felt like the only part of her that could move were her eyes.

  “I…” the voice faltered and broke. “I don’t know you. I don’t see you.” Moss’ speech was hesitant, thin, his earlier confidence gone.

  “Come to me,” the voice chimed, off tune, otherworldly. The spirit creature reached out a hand, bare bones showing pale where the skin had been pulled back on the fingertips.

  “No, no.” It was apparent the older man was losing his grip. “I’m not Adolph. Adolph was my father. He’s dead.”

  “Uncle Adolf, why did you leave me here?” The lisping words seemed to drill into Cilla’s head, and she winced in pain. She couldn’t raise her hands to cover her ears, to block out the noise that threatened to overcome her.

  “That’s not me! Adolph was my father. And he was wrong. He told me what he had done, how he had killed you to keep the company,” Moss was speaking fast, the words spilling out. “He was the one who drowned you. He was the one who left you here.” Cilla could detect no light source, but now she could plainly read the expression on Moss’ face, the sheer terror, the growing madness.

  “Don’t leave me,” the child monster begged. He took a soundless step toward Moss.

  “I didn’t hurt you.” Moss had taken one unsteady step backward. “I got revenge for you. I killed Adolph. I took a pillow and smothered him. He was an old man, a weak man. I killed him for you.”

  The entity tilted its head, the movement making him appear as a broken doll. “Murder upon murder,” it announced, the singsong voice still a screech in Cilla’s head. “And you are dead.”

  Cilla turned her gaze back toward Moss. He had stopped moving, his eyes wide, face slack. He stood still as a statue for half a second, and then collapsed, like a puppet with the strings cut.

  There was a second roaring sound, and the wind stirred again, this time traveling up and away, churning up the stairs like a miniature tornado. Cilla had to close her eyes against the stirred dust and dirt, bits of paper and trash. The lash of cold seemed to tear at her clothes, at her skin. Pain rippled from her clenched hands. Just when she thought she could hold her breath no longer, the air seemed to pull away, like a vacuum suction. A second lat
er, the doors in the upstairs hallway slammed closed. And all was silent.

  “I got you extra whipped cream,” Smith declared, clumsily handing Cilla the cardboard cup with his good hand. He was disappointed to have missed the excitement of the night before, but mostly he felt bad he hadn’t been there to support Cilla when she genuinely needed someone.

  “Thanks,” she answered, her voice still rough. She had been up half the night with Fargo, sitting by his side after they had completed surgery to remove the bullet from his abdomen. The emergency care at the veterinarian’s office was wonderful, and the vet told her they were fortunate. The bullet had been a ricochet and lost some momentum by the time it struck the dog. Instead of instant death, it had torn through some muscle and intestine. The long-term outlook was good as long as Fargo could stave off the infection from the perforated bowels.

  “Pax told me they had made a cursory examination of Moss.” Smith dropped in his seat but made no move to fire up the computer.

  “Yeah,” Cilla agreed. “Moss was dead without a mark on his body. The paramedics thought it might have been a massive heart attack.”

  “I’m surprised they didn’t keep you there longer.”

  Cilla nodded. The investigation into Moss’ death the night before turned out to be surprisingly painless. Paxton and Cilla had a reason to be in the building, the ghost investigation. And despite the obvious doubt about the validity of their occupation among the police officers, their story made sense. When they explained that Moss had come to the building on his own and held a gun on them, the police were baffled.

  “There wasn’t a reason for Moss to be in Brandon’s building. No one had any idea why he was there. It’s just a shame the cameras were drained before we could get anything good.”

  Smith nodded. The police had taken the equipment and footage from the cameras even though there didn’t seem to be any wrongdoing. The fact that Moss was dead was enough to make them want to cover their butts. True, there was nothing to connect Moss or his company to the office building. Why he would have had a firearm was another puzzle. That he had a heart attack wasn’t as much of a stretch. He was over seventy years old, and despite being financially stable, it was well known that he was a workaholic in every right. But the officers wanted to be thorough. Moss was a big name, and they needed to be able to explain to the public just what had caused his death.

  “So, all the recorders were drained by the time Moss made his big confession,” Smith was frowning.

  “Completely,” Cilla said. “We can look over the footage, but I doubt you’ll find much.”

  “I’m amazed your cell phone lasted as long as it did.”

  Cilla nodded. “Me too. I wish now I had it recording.”

  Smith leaned forward. “Well, I did look up a few things after you called me last night.” He clumsily opened the laptop with his good hand, favoring the casted arm. “Turns out, old Adolf Moskov was found in his bed, dead, at 88. No foul play was suspected, despite what Moss said about killing his father. But there was an interesting link between the building and the surrounding area where Brandon died. Moscov and some other wealthy elites donated workers to help renovate after the flood. It seems old Adolph himself was on site a few days. I’m wondering if he was hiding the body then, or just making sure it wasn’t discovered.”

  “You mean, he killed his nephew, and later stowed the body in the building?” She felt the pieces falling into place. “And years later, somehow Brandon accidently uncovered it.”

  “That would be my guess,” Smith responded thoughtfully.

  “And Adolf?”

  “Adolf was the younger brother. He wasn’t in line to inherit the family fortune. By killing off his older brother’s son, he was assured that the business would come to him. Ironic because his brother lived to be 89 himself. But by then, both men had become wealthy,” Smith turned his computer in Cilla’s direction, so she could see the black and white portrait of an elderly man with a decidedly weak chin. “This is old Adolph. Despite being a coward and a worm, he was apparently happily married and had one child, Christopher. Assuming what you got from him was right, Adolph must have confessed to his son.”

  “And Christopher Moss killed his father, so there could be no deathbed confession.”

  “Yes. No one suspected a thing.”

  Cilla’s stomach was a little queasy. “Why do you think he did that?”

  “He was angry at his father? He knew if it was discovered, the whole empire would go down the toilet? He was afraid his dad might make another deathbed confession to someone else? Who knows?” Smith turned the computer back in his direction. “All I’m sure of is that one mystery died with him.”

  “He tried to buy the building back. Christopher Moss, I mean.”

  “Apparently.” Smith took a sip of his coffee. “He probably figured he could buy it and get rid of the evidence. He was going out of his way to make the company, and his family, look like fine upstanding folks. He gave millions to local charities. He opened a soup kitchen. He made sure the media knew all about his good works.”

  “And what about Brandon?” Cilla’s voice was faint.

  “I don’t know what he had put together, but we know at least he had found the bones. We also know he had been doing some research himself. Somehow, Moss got wind of what he was preparing. Probably the same way he found us.”

  “It would have been easy enough. We were asking lots of questions in the neighborhood, and we weren’t making it a secret that we were investigating a death.”

  Smith nodded. “So, Moss decided to take care of Brandon.”

  “And we can’t prove it.” Cilla was frowning, feeling a heaviness in her chest. It wasn’t fair. True, Moss was gone, but Brandon’s family would never know what was behind his murder.

  “Well, now, I don’t know about that. There may have been a tip sent into the Louisville PD that suggests looking for evidence to link Moss to Brandon’s death might be an excellent idea.”

  Cilla looked at Smith. “You think the police will be able to find something on Moss?”

  “They aren’t going to get a confession like you did, but I figure there has to be some thread they can pull to link the two men. We found enough on our own, and we’re not professional investigators.” He shrugged. “We gave them somewhere to start. It’s up to them to connect the dots.”

  Cilla took a sip of her coffee. “I’m afraid I’m going to have dreams about him,” she stated at last.

  “About the little boy?”

  “Smith, I’ve never seen an entity that gruesome. And the power of it rivaled whatever it is that’s taken up residence at Melissa’s house.”

  “Do you think it’s gone?”

  Cilla was silent for a moment, taking another sip from the cup while she pondered the question. “I don’t know, but to be honest, I’m not anxious to go back there to check.”

  “Well, I think we’ve done our job,” Smith answered, his voice firm and businesslike. “We found out who killed Brandon, and now the killer is dead too.” He peered at Cilla. “His spirit was taken too soon, I know that. But our duty to him is done.”

  “And the child?”

  “There has been a kind of justice served. Let’s just hope it’s enough to satisfy the other spirits.” He paused. “I wish we had listened to that EVP a little earlier though.”

  Cilla nodded. “It really did sound like a voice saying, ‘Uncle Adolf’,” she agreed. “I don’t know if it would have gotten us to the right conclusion any quicker, but the evidence was strong.”

  Cilla sighed and leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes tiredly.

  There was a sharp knock on the office door, and before Cilla or Smith could rise, the door opened. Paxton stood in the entrance. His face was pale and strained, his eyes glittering.

  “Melissa has contacted me,” he declared hastily. “And we need to leave right away.”

  Cilla stumbled to her feet, feeling the fatigue in every bone of her b
ody.

  “What’s going on?” Smith looked doubly alarmed.

  “Her house, her ghost,” Paxton said grimly. “It’s taken another victim.”

  Thank you, Dear Readers, for accompanying me and the intrepid Fargo on the ghostly adventures of Cilla and Smith.

  Once case is solved, but what is really haunting the Coulter mansion?

  And who is Paxton? What are his reasons for joining the paranormal investigation team?

  Join the group as they work to drive out the entity that has trapped Melissa in its terrifying web of gothic horror.

  If you like my work, please visit me on my website at: www.rachaelrawlingsauthor.com

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  About the Author

  Rachael Rawlings is a full-time mother, writer, pet owner, and Speech Language Pathologist. She likes the unusual and paranormal, but she prefers to think ghosts live anywhere but in her century old home.

  She lives in her hometown of Crestwood, Kentucky with her three children, Faith, Nicholas, and Chase. She has two dogs, a couple geckos, and five loudmouthed birds she is pretty sure are talking about her behind her back.

  She thrives on good coffee, chocolate, and great friends and family. To learn more about Rachael’s work and her upcoming releases, visit her on her website:

  www.rachaelrawlingsauthor.com

  Book Title Copyright © 2018 by Rachael Rawlings. All Rights Reserved.

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