A Ghost for a Clue

by C L R Draeco

“I need answers, Bram. All the answers I can get so I can convince Tromino to help us. You need him—and all his connections—to do what you need to do.”

  55

  The Psychic And The Psychiatrist

  We kept the nursery in darkness. Even though Eldritch trusted the guards who had let us in in the middle of the night despite the TRO, there was no telling who would tell. Training the tiny flashlight of her mobile phone on the stony path, Triana followed me through the maze of electrified shrubbery, and there, by the 3D glass chamber in Greenhouse 3C, the psychic and the psychiatrist met for the first time.

  “How do you do,” Triana said as they shook hands. “I’m so pleased to meet a counterpart of mine for the undead.”

  I thought she was being sarcastic, but I should’ve known she was being sincere.

  “Many people struggle to find happiness while they’re alive,” she said. “And if they end up still stuck here on Earth in the afterlife, I don’t see why things should be any different.”

  “I appreciate your point of view.” There was a sudden hint of warmth in Eldritch’s icy gray eyes, as though engaged in friendly banter at a cocktail party. She and Eldritch did seem dressed for it, compared to me, in my gray pullover and faded jeans, with a satchel holding the iCube slung over my shoulder.

  “Mr. Radio had advised me that you’ve volunteered to come and take your daughter’s place as a conduit to Thomas.”

  “Yes, and I’d like to thank you for agreeing to help us,” Triana said.

  He took a deep breath. “I do so with great reluctance. These experiments have taken a toll on your children’s health. Why risk your own?”

  “If this is the only chance for my daughter’s research to reach any fruition—for her to find the answers she’s seeking—then I’d like to ensure it has its best chances.”

  Had they been holding champagne glasses, they might have shared a toast.

  Eldritch cocked his head. “I must emphasize, though. I only agreed to risk the TRO for the chance to set Thomas free and guide him to the other side.” He bowed slightly at Triana. “But as agreed, I’ll wait until after you’ve asked him what you need to.”

  Triana nodded, smiled, then averted her gaze, turning towards the empty glass chamber. Eldritch hadn’t been told about Torula’s real condition and why Triana was willing to face any consequences in order to see Thomas. All he knew was that Torula had fainted during our “ghost hunt” and that she was still too weak to come view the hyperwill today. “I’m ready,” Triana said. “How do we begin?”

  I walked up Starr’s workstation platform, set up the iCube, and activated the Verdabulary—but this time, I disabled all computer-assisted “extrapolation.” The hyperwill we’d captured in the church basement would make an appearance inside the pitch-black glass chamber in whatever time-ravaged state it was in by now. I’d expected to feel more enthusiastic about seeing it, but maybe because I’d reconstructed it from head to foot, the mystique had all but faded.

  A glowing vortex descended like a lazily spiraling mist, turning into a shapeless swirl that slowly coalesced. “Okay, brace yourselves,” I said. “If the information has deteriorated beyond what the Verdabulary can read, I don’t know how ugly the sight’s going to be.”

  I waited for the tattered remnants of a turn-of-the-century man in blue to fade in, but then . . . What the devil? I gaped at the image that appeared. Who the hell is that?

  I faltered towards the stairs. Mouth open. Mind frozen. I miscalculated the first step and half-tumbled down. Limping my way towards the chamber, I stopped once I came within the glow of the unfamiliar apparition. It stood nearly motionless and unresponsive, just like Thomas’s hyperwill had done, but all the similarity ended there.

  This manifestation looked like a twenty-something-year-old man from the early 1900s, attempting to look well-dressed minus the means to do so. He wore a rumpled brown suit with a wide necktie, trousers a tad too big, and a cloth hat that belonged on Sherlock Holmes’s head. No blue flowers. No bright blue clothes. Everything was as drab as the Great Depression, but the image, down to the details, was intact.

  “Well, that’s good,” Triana said, staring at me. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “I have. I am. That’s . . . that’s . . .” I pointed at it. “. . . the wrong ghost.”

  “No,” Eldritch said. “I can sense this is him. This is Thomas.”

  “What are you talking about? This bloke’s from the wrong century altogether!”

  “Don’t be distracted by how he looks to us now, Mr. Morrison. What we were seeing before was how he had chosen to communicate with Dr. Jackson. He was sending her a message. Remember, they speak—”

  “In symbols. Yeah, yeah.” It was a great excuse for not understanding what the hell was going on. I shook my head as I stared at the apparition of a man who seemed lost in thought on the wrong side of the road, waiting for the stoplight to change so he could cross over. I wonder how long that stoplight’s been stuck on red.

  The hyperwill blinked and seemed to sigh.

  “It’s disorienting, where he is,” Triana said, observing the motionless apparition. “Perspectives get distorted. Focusing is a challenge. And communicating to the living? I had no clue how to do that.”

  Eldritch raised his brow. “You had an NDE?”

  She nodded. “Traveled all the way to the barrier. And I was convinced that if I’d gone through that barrier, there was no turning back. My life would’ve come to an end.” She raised her chin. “An end, Eldritch. That’s why ghosts make sense to me. They’re not interested in crossing over, because it means this life—this precious one they’re desperately holding on to—would come to an end.”

  He sighed. “It is, indeed, a point of no return, but it’s not the end. It’s the entranceway to our next existence.”

  “But what if I don’t want the next one? I want this one. I love this one. This is where I’ve built my home in every deeply meaningful sense of it. And then there’s all the knowledge I’ve gained. All the experiences and relationships I never want to forget.” She turned towards the hyperwill inside the chamber. “Which is why I would want to have a talk with Thomas. I want to find out how he feels about that barrier, and if he’d be interested in . . . an option.”

  “What kind of option?” Eldritch asked.

  “To stay on in the willdisc.”

  His face hardened. “To keep him trapped in your crystal cage?”

  “It’s not a cage,” I said. It’s not something I’d consider for Torula, if it were. “Do you think your skull is like a prison for your brain? It’s protection. That’s all it is.”

  “Poor man,” Triana said, waving a hand in front of the hyperwill’s eyes and getting no response. “He’s down to the barest minimum of what he needs to stay alive.”

  Eldritch peered at Thomas’ expressionless face. “Do you really think he is? Truly alive?”

  “He could be, but barely. Like someone in a hypoglycemic coma. The body shuts down in response to a severe shortage in fuel for metabolism.”

  Triana studied the image closer like an art aficionado absorbing details of a masterpiece. “See those little ticks and movements he still has? It’s similar to what a person in a coma would exhibit. They could just be autonomous reactions programmed into memory. It doesn’t mean the patient is awake. But it also tells you the patient isn’t dead. He’s just waiting—for his strength to return.”

  I swabbed my hands down my face, torn between optimism and confusion. “Look, I’m telling you, this isn’t the hyperwill Torula was studying. I can show you the composite I made of it.”

  “Please do,” Triana said.

  I hurried to the workstation and, on the TV monitor, played back footage of the likeness of Thomas I’d digitally put together. “I made it as close as I could to what we saw.”

  “That looks like The Blue Boy,” Triana declared the moment she laid eyes on it. “By Thomas Gainsborough. Except you have
a man, not a boy.”

  A prickling sensation traveled up my spine. “What did you say?”

  “The painting was of a boy not a—”

  “No. The artist’s name,” I said.

  Triana’s eyes widened. “Oh, my word.”

  “I understand it now,” Eldritch said, his voice registering some life. “He wasn’t showing us what he looked like. He was giving us his name.”

  With the look of a man enlightened, Eldritch strode towards Triana. “Perhaps all we need is a little bit of ‘fine-tuning’ to get more answers from him. Would you mind?” He held out a hand towards her. She stared at his open palm for a moment then reached out and clasped it.

  “Breathe with me,” Eldritch said and began to inhale and exhale in a slow, relaxing rhythm.

  Triana closed her eyes and followed his lead.

  I cracked my knuckles, not quite used to the complete absence of objections in my mind. There was no voice declaring this a waste of time. No pressing desire to distance myself from the absurdity. I got up and watched them and let the ritual take its course.

  Then, the hyperwill turned towards Triana, and in a voice I now recognized as Thomas’s, the image spoke without moving its lips.

  “Please help . . . tell her . . .”

  Triana gasped and opened her eyes.

  “It’s using the Verdabulary,” I said walking down the steps towards them. “It’s a playback of something we recorded before when we first hailed it.”

  The image flickered and twisted like a transmission losing its connection.

  “Stay calm,” Eldritch said. “Stay with me.”

  Triana clasped a hand over her solar plexus and took a deep breath.

  “. . . (static) . . . help me . . . (static) tell her . . . my promise . . .”

  “Oh, dear me,” Triana said. “Are these his dying thoughts?”

  It was saying things we hadn’t deciphered from the recording we had. The hair on my arms rose as I listened to every word.

  “. . . I’m bleeding . . . (static) inside the church . . . (static).” The image glided towards Triana. “Tell her . . .”

  “What’s her name?” Triana asked. “Give me her name.”

  We waited, but no answer came.

  Eldritch closed his eyes and clasped Triana’s hand in both of his, drawing her closer. The hyperwill’s lips moved, voiceless, and yet I heard his words . . .

  I narrowed my eyes at Eldritch who was now speaking in a different, younger-sounding voice, devoid of his British accent. “Help me. I’m bleeding to death. On the floor, inside the church.”

  I shook my head. He could just be making this all up. Just like Roy’s ex-wife used to do.

  “What’s her name?” Triana asked.

  Eldritch gave no answer.

  “Give me a name. Yours or hers.”

  “I need to tell her,” Eldritch continued in his borrowed tone. “I’ll never forget my promise . . .”

  “Is your name Gainsborough?” Triana asked, feeding it an answer like she’d provided her toddler son the name Thomas. I curled my hands into fists. This isn’t right.

  Eldritch, eyes closed, tilted his head, scrunched his brow, tilted his head even more—but said nothing. It was obvious he’d run out of symbols to stab in the dark.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s not force things if there’s really nothing there.”

  Eldritch slit his eyes open and glowered at me. “The spirits can sense distrust. It sends a message to them that they’re not welcome.”

  “Oh, I doubt the spirits even care,” Triana said. “It’s not unheard of for nonbelievers to suddenly see a ghost despite their skepticism.” She sighed and patted Eldritch reassuringly on the arm. “Come on, this is probably just stage fright. Concentrate and bring Thomas back.”

  “Dr. Jackson, it’s not that simple.”

  “I’m not saying it is. But my daughter needs answers to convince others that this is real. And I think you can get them from that ghost.” She looked earnestly into his eyes. “I believe you can. I know you can.”

  Eldritch took a deep breath and nodded then turned and stepped closer towards the glass, holding out his arms as though they were divining rods. Triana looked on patiently as he inhaled and exhaled towards the alpha-theta border, while I struggled against a nagging feeling that we should just pack up and leave.

  Fix the frequency. It was like the thought hadn’t even come from me. I glanced over my shoulder, imagining the suggestion had come from . . . maybe . . . Franco? Then suddenly, the words made perfect sense. Both Triana and Eldritch were new to this equation; we weren’t on Torula’s frequency anymore.

  “I have an idea,” I said bounding towards the platform. “But you need to come up here. Both of you.”

  I scrambled around the workstation looking for the gold electrodes Starr had used on Torula. I found them stuffed inside a box under the table. As Triana and Eldritch approached me at the console, I dragged two chairs and positioned them right next to the iCube. “Sit down.”

  Fumbling with the electrodes, I stuck some on their temples and scalp to course their brain signals into the Verdabulary. I double-checked the jacks and cables, tightened connections, and gave the setup one quick scan to make sure the settings were right, and then I realized the adrenaline—and skepticism—coursing through me weren’t part of the cocktail this experiment needed. So I slowly backed away towards the stairs.

  Eldritch eyed me with blatant distrust.

  “Just give it another go,” I said as I continued my quiet, backward exit from the platform. “And I suggest you put your hands on top of the iCube.”

  Triana surveyed all the cables and wires attached to her and asked, “Are you sure that’s a wise thing to do?”

  I stopped and reconsidered my retreat and marched back to stand between them. “Here,” I said, putting my hand on top of the cube. “Put your hand over mine, and once you’re more comfortable, I’ll back away.”

  After another moment’s thought, Triana complied, and Eldritch laid his hand on top of hers.

  “Now what do we do?” she asked.

  “Release your mind,” Eldritch said. “Don’t think. Don’t listen. Just breathe.”

  I paused and took a breath, preparing to step away, and when I glanced up, Franco was standing right there.

  I blinked—quite a few times—expecting him to be a figment of my mind. But he stayed right there like flesh and blood. Olive-skinned with thick black eyebrows, looking back at me, rubbing his close-cropped beard and dressed in something smart yet casual that he’d have worn to work.

  He looked better than I remembered. Neater. Younger. And . . . alive.

  My mouth hung open, frozen like the rest of me.

  “Where are you?” my mind managed to ask. Was he floating around the ionosphere? In somebody’s basement? In some kind of “Heaven?”

  “Bro, there’s no telling space or time here.” His lips didn’t move, and yet I heard him loud and clear.

  “I can hear him,” Triana said.

  The moment she spoke, Franco’s image dimmed and quivered.

  “Hang in there, mate.” I kept my eyes on him, afraid he’d disappear.

  “He’s repeating everything he said earlier,” she said. “But now I understand every word. He’s saying . . .”

  Eldritch joined in, and they spoke the next words in unison. “. . . tell her to look under the floor. Inside our room. The money is for her and our son.”

  They were still communicating with Thomas? My heart thudded a strong, confused, excited rhythm. Why can’t they see you?

  Franco shook his head, pointed a finger upwards, and twirled a circle in the air.

  “What does that mean?” I asked out loud, without meaning to.

  “It means he’s unaware of the passage of time,” Eldritch said. “He doesn’t know it’s been decades since his death.”

  “No.” “No!” “Niet.” “Non.” “No!” The speakers echoed denial in a dozen
different Verdabulary voices.

  “Oh, this is too much to bear,” Triana said and pulled her hand off the iCube.

  Like a bubble that burst, Franco disappeared.

  “What are you doing?” I cried. “He’s not finished.”

  “I’m afraid he is,” Triana said. “I felt his pain. His fear of leaving behind the people he loves. It’s too cruel to keep having him relive it.”

  “But you didn’t see . . . everything.” I tapped on the iCube. “We need to reconnect.”

  “I saw enough. Thomas is too far gone, Bram. That fragment is all that’s left of him. He’s no longer equipped to care for anything else.”

  “Then we must set this part of him free,” Eldritch said, “so that he may be whole again.”

  “No, wait,” I said, my breathing gone frantic. “You need to keep him talking. I need to think.”

  “Think of what?” Triana asked.

  A circle in the air. What did Franco mean? I raised my own finger and twirled it around as I tried to decipher it.

  “You want us to go around?” she asked.

  I glanced at her, thought about it, then shook my head.

  “Try again?” she asked. “You want us to try again?”

  That made some sense. “I suppose? No matter what, we need more answers.” I placed my hand back on the iCube. “For Torula.”

  Triana sighed and nodded then laid her hand on mine.

  I glanced back to where Franco had appeared just a while ago, but there was no sign of him. Then I heard a child’s giggle, and Triana sucked in her breath.

  Inside the chamber, the hyperwill image had changed to that of a little boy flying a kite—a boy with dark hair who strongly resembled Truth.

  Eldritch spoke in a cold, imposing voice. His real voice. “The boy is this woman’s child. Leave him alone. Your actions are hurting people.”

  The hyperwill answered through the Verdabulary. “Please help. Tell her. Both of them.” Then a blurry image of a woman in a long flowing dress appeared next to the boy. She looked towards us, and a cold jolt ran through me at the sight of her blue-violet eyes.

  Holy Mother of Jesus.