Key to Conspiracy

by Talia Gryphon

  Helmut paused and looked over the crowd. Intense interest from his students and the Inspectors. Her friends, Jenna and the Shifter Pavel looked unimpressed. They’d seen the show before. What worried him a bit was the Spiritualists, who didn’t seem impressed or concerned about where they were or what benefit Gillian could be to them tonight.

  “I know most of you think you know why you’re here. For those who do not know the history of this place, allow me to enlighten you with a brief rundown. It may give you insight as to how you want to proceed, and what you can expect once we enter this place.”

  Helmut had a marvelous speaking voice for a Human. His accent was the softer German of his Austrian heritage rather than the harsher sounding syllables of Germany. He’d learned English from a British teacher so his tone held traces of aristocratic Brit. Smooth, melodic, soft-spoken generally, the outstanding lecturer and teacher had his little audience in the palm of his hand in moments. Even Gillian enjoyed hearing him again and, though she knew the story, was intrigued by his telling of the tale.

  The houses on this particular row had been built over an ancient plague pit. During the years the Black Plague had ravaged Britain, beginning in 1348, death had been so rampant that entire families, even smaller villages, were completely wiped out of Human life, sometimes within a single day.

  London was a burgeoning city even then. When the Black Death descended and killed off a full third of the population, there were few who were brave enough to tend to the sick and dying. Fewer still who would prepare and transport the bodies for individual burial. Huge, deep pits were dug in the spongy turf, away from the main populated areas of town. The dead were brought, stacked like cordwood on carts and unceremoniously dumped into the gaping maw of the earth, taking their pestilence with them.

  Unfortunately for some, there were no modern medical procedures to ensure that all who went into the pits were truly deceased. Some were so catatonic with the illness that they gave the appearance of death to the fourteenth-century peasant eye. Assuming the lifelessness of the victims and wanting the bodies cleared out quickly before they began to rot or the rats to feed, the still living were occasionally and accidentally mingled with the dead. The unfortunate person awoke then, sick, weak, confused, in the mud, blood, festering wounds and stench, surrounded by the bodies of their friends, families and townsfolk. Too weak or sick to crawl out of their living grave, with no one who would respond to their pitiful cries for help, they were left to the horror of death amid the decaying bodies of the plague victims.

  Ghosts generally begin as the result of extreme trauma or extreme emotion at the time of death. Every now and then there is a Curse involved or invoked, but generally Ghosts are the product of the deepest, most primitive emotional responses in a Human being at the moment of death. Since there were so many victims buried in the immediate area, Ghosts were plentiful and thought to be the spiritual impetus which caused the hauntings along Berkeley Square.

  There was the eighteenth-century nobleman, Lord Clermont, in Number Forty-four, the older gentleman waiting eternally for his daughter’s return in Number Fifty-three and the odd plague Ghost that would rise and scare the shit out of the occasional tenant from time to time. Quiet, mournful Ghosts, all of them.

  Number Fifty was a little different. Its legend began along with the rest, after the row was built in the 1700s. What started as a family home quickly became a nightmare. No one knew how the first Ghost came about, but a girl of three or four had been seen weeping and wringing her hands in the upper levels. The story was, she had been frightened to death in the nursery.

  A young woman named Adeline fell to her death from one of the upper-story windows, fleeing the incestuous advances of her uncle, a formerly gentle, kind person who suddenly seemed like a man possessed. Perhaps he was. Adeline’s Ghost often hung from the window ledge, screaming in horror, replicating her fall, night after night.

  One man kept his insane brother locked in the uppermost room at the top of the house. The man eventually died in that room, his jaws open in a soundless scream, his face white as a sheet.

  A chambermaid and a knighted gentleman both died after spending the night in that room. The woman, after being pulled from it, shrieking; her mind shattered, she died days later in a mental institution. The knight died in the room, firing his pistol at some unknown horror. A sailor dashed downstairs, throwing himself out of a window to impale himself on the wrought-iron fence in his terror-stricken state to get away from whatever it was that inhabited the upper stories of Number Fifty Berkeley Square. All of them were now eternal residents of the Dickens-style location.

  The current tenants, Maggs Brothers, were used-book dealers. They had obtained the lease and the house over fifty years ago. Their employee contract had a paragraph not found in any other agreement between employer and employee. It stated that the employee must agree to never, under any circumstances, even during the bright light of day, be alone in the building and to never, ever, attempt to open the door to the uppermost room, enter it or use it even for storage. Sign it after your interview and you could work there. Refuse and Maggs Brothers would just as soon you found employment elsewhere.

  Gillian’s hand tightened slightly on Helmut’s as he swiftly told the tale of Number Fifty. She was claustrophobic and hated thinking of anyone being buried alive in a plague pit. Likewise, she didn’t like so many innocent people being victimized by what appeared to be a malignant, intelligent presence. Ghosts couldn’t directly cause physical harm to anyone, but scaring the life out of a person was definitely in their repertoire.

  Reading her tension easily, Helmut turned and looked down at her. “Now you all understand why we asked the esteemed Dr. Key to join us. Gillian? Will you walk with the Spiritualists? They wish to assist the known spirits into the next transition of their lives. We have the permission of the owners to be here and to attempt this. They would like their building to be cleansed if it is possible to do so.”

  She looked hard at him, understanding what he wanted from her. Yes, it was a dangerous request but he had faith in her. No, he wasn’t overstepping their friendship. Helmut wanted everyone safe. If the Spiritualists were determined to do this and had asked for his help, it was a prime opportunity for his graduate class to come along, observe and see what they were getting into with their own careers. He knew if anyone could pinpoint the moment anything nasty came after them out of that upper-level room, it was her.

  “Sure. Love to. Let me just disarm myself . . .” The sarcasm in her voice was apparent only to Helmut and Jenna.

  Inspectors McNeill and Jardin took her gun, her knife, and her garrote, wordlessly and wide-eyed. They hadn’t even known she was still armed. Pavel smirked to himself. He had. He could smell the gun oil and the silver.

  “You coming?” Gillian turned back to Helmut with a wry smile.

  “Of course, I would never ask anyone to do what I am not willing to do.” He winked at her then swept his arm in front to indicate that she should lead.

  “Listen up,” Gill barked in her Marine Captain voice, making the Spiritualists and students jump from the whip crack of command in her tone. “My . . . friends . . . er . . . staff ”—she chose her words carefully so they would follow her directions to the letter—“will follow directly behind me.”

  At least she hoped they would. A nod from Jenna and Pavel confirmed her request. “Do not, for any reason, touch me or distract me. I have to focus on what I’m doing in there. With all the paranormal activity in this vicinity, I have to pay very close attention or I could misread something and put us all in danger because I didn’t notice the ‘right’ something. Is that clear?”

  Patiently she waited, looking over the group, meeting eyes with as many as she could and seeing them all nodding in agreement. “Do exactly what Helmut tells you, what my staff tells you, and if I begin to speak, yell or issue an order, do exactly what I tell you. If you see me run, run. Do not ask questions at that point, do not linger. If th
ere is something in there that can scare me and my crew, you do not want to find out what it is.”

  Without waiting for further confirmation, Gillian turned and ran into a tall Human man in a Mack. “Cronus’s balls! Do not ever do that again!”

  The man looked sheepish but extended his hand, which held a key. “I’m from the bookseller, miss. I’m supposed to let you in then lock up when you leave.”

  “You are not going inside, is that understood?” Gillian said bluntly.

  “But I must—” the poor man tried to continue.

  “No. No civilians, no nonpractitioners, no one goes in that house who does not have some element of training in the Paramortal or supernatural. Not at night, not tonight, not now.”

  He nodded blankly but turned and proceeded up the walkway to the door. The lock clicked open and Gillian waved him back. She stood on the threshold, focusing her empathy and preventing anyone from going around her into the house. When she felt she was ready, she walked in. The rest of them could only follow. Hopefully it would be a mission of mercy for the trapped spirits and not an expedition into a portal of the Abyss.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE first thing she did was flick on the light in the foyer. Gods above, it was practically reeking of metaphysical energy inside. Power skated over her empathy and raised the hair on her neck and arms. What the hell had Helmut gotten them into?

  “Why did you do that?” one of the Spiritualists wanted to know.

  “What?”

  “Turn on the light. Isn’t it supposed to be dark? Ghosts like the dark, don’t they?”

  “You’ve been watching too many horror movies,” Gillian told him. “Ghosts don’t require darkness to scare the shit out of you.”

  “Oh.” The Spiritualist blanched a little and fell back with the others.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Jenna was at her elbow.

  “I hope so. Helmut probably assumed that Inspector Dickhead would tell me where we were going so I’d have time to prepare for this better.” Gillian was looking around the foyer, up toward the stairs, into the rooms off to the sides.

  “Tell him, sweetie,” Jenna urged her. “They can reschedule this for another night or later, when you’ve had time.”

  “I can’t feel anything really nasty at the moment, while there is a lot of activity. There haven’t been any big incidents in years. Maybe whatever the thing was, went dormant.”

  She ignored Jenna’s well-intended suggestion. She hadn’t told the absolute truth. There was something nasty in this vicinity all right. It was there. Just on the edge of her empathy. They weren’t on its radar yet. Gill hoped they would stay out of its attention range.

  “We’d like to start with the Ghost of the little girl, Dr. Key,” the male Spiritualist who’d spoken earlier informed her.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Richard.”

  “Well, Richard, we will start where the Ghosts want you to start. Unless, that is, you’ve got a brazier, willow oil and incense under your robes somewhere and you know the little girl’s true name. Otherwise you will risk calling the Big Bad Thing that apparently runs this ectoplasmic enclosure.”

  She started up the stairs without waiting for his response, noticing as she got to the first landing that Helmut was right behind her, followed by Jenna and Pavel. The rest of them filed slowly up, some of them following her lead and flicking on lights in the rooms adjoining the foyer and the stairwell.

  The sound of crying started before she felt anything. At the back of the line trooping up the stairs, one of the Spiritualist women gave a happy squeak.

  “That’s her! She’s waiting for us to help her into the light, finally!”

  “Hey!” Gillian hissed down toward her, and was completely ignored.

  Helmut saw the look on her face and the vigorous shake of her head and stepped in. “Miss? Er . . . Nutmeg?”

  The girl looked up toward him. “Yes, Professor Gerhardt?”

  “Gillian is advising against calling out suddenly and loudly, my dear. Remember, she cannot afford to be distracted if we attract any unwanted attention from the yet-unseen occupants,” Helmut said, not unkindly but firmly.

  “Nutmeg?” Jenna, Gillian and Pavel chorused together in a not so quiet stage whisper.

  It drew a sharp gesture to stop from Helmut, who glared at them and moved farther up the stairs toward Gillian. “It is her chosen name in her group,” he whispered.

  “Nutmeg?” they chorused again, more quietly but also more incredulously.

  “Just. Go. On,” Helmut bit out in his most polite voice.

  “For Hell’s sake, Helmut, coven names?” Gillian was now officially annoyed. “What is this? Amateur Hour at the Abyss?”

  She poked him in the shoulder, speaking in what might be interpreted as a conspiratorial voice. “Make no mistake, there is something very unpleasant, very close by. I do not want to be trying to lug body bags out of here if they wake it up by being poser dorks!”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t feel anything nasty!” Jenna grabbed her arm.

  Gill shook her off, focusing on Helmut for the moment. He interrupted her next sentence.

  “You did not feel anything and now you do?” His deep blue eyes bored into her.

  “Actually I felt something when we pulled up. Sorry, Jenna, I didn’t want to scare you,” she admitted to her friend then turned back to Helmut, who was still below her on the stairs.

  “This whole area is an ectoplasmic, spirit-ridden plague pit, for the love of Hathor! And you’re bringing those devoutly dumb do-gooders in here? We should have a coven all right, a coven of real experienced Wiccans and Spiritualists, probably even a Voudoun or two with a protective circle around the whole block!”

  “Now, Schatzi, there are several of them who are ‘real,’ as you call them in their group,” Helmut admonished her. “We are only supposed to be observing, after all. They are not my responsibility, nor yours. And please lower your voice, it does carry so.”

  “Helmut.” Gillian sighed, speaking more quietly so as not to alarm the rest of the gang, “They may be here of their own free will, have signed waivers in their hands in case of Death by Booing, plus twenty percent off coupons for dry cleaning when they shit themselves in fright if what Goes Bump in the Night comes after us, but right now, as the Empath you asked to oversee this, they are very much my responsibility. I don’t want anyone killed!”

  Whatever Helmut might have answered was obliterated by excited squeeing and pointing from the Spiritualist group, gasps from the graduate students and an “Oh shit” from Inspector McNeill. Watching everyone’s eyes widen made Gillian turn to see the diminutive form of a tiny girl on the landing behind her. The child was fully formed in Technicolor but transparent, wringing her hands, with tears rolling freely down her cheeks.

  Frowning, Gill watched her closely. Her empathy should have spiked with the Ghost’s arrival, especially so close to her. Something wasn’t right. This was less like a Ghost and more like a shade—the impression or imprint of a spirit rather than the emotional energy a Ghost gave off.

  Warning bells were going off in Gill’s head. Something should be obvious to her but wasn’t. Shit, she was tired, aggravated, she missed Aleksei . . . No . . . She was not going to go there.

  Frowning, she focused her scattering thoughts. They were in an unknown dangerous situation that she suspected Helmut, with all his academic genius, had vastly underrated. All these people. Her eyes glanced back, at the line moving up the stairs, following her blindly. Responsible for them was what she was, no matter what her former teacher said.

  Unconsciously she straightened her shoulders a little. Responsible. Accountable. In Charge. Fuck. This was a bad idea to begin with and it was getting worse by the moment. She could feel the aura of every single person, Human or not, who followed her. She could feel the presence of regional Ghosts looming at the edge of her empathy; she could feel something really, really nasty, lurking, wait
ing, anticipating . . . poised and ready to pounce. An involuntary shiver went down her spine. She hoped no one noticed. No one did.

  She was halfway up to the second landing, Helmut, Jenna, Pavel, right behind her. The Spiritualists and grad students trailed down the stairs but Brant and Claire were about two thirds of the way up to the first landing, pushing their way through to where she and Helmut were. Typical cops. They run in when everyone else runs out. Gillian couldn’t fault their bravery but now wasn’t the time for heroics. Taking a quick head count, she realized there were missing people. Where the hell were those two Spiritualists? Richard and what was the girl’s name? Cinnamon? No, Nutmeg . . . Where was Nutmeg?

  Why couldn’t she feel the child’s spirit? What wasn’t she remembering? A Ghost . . . with no feeling of spirit, no emotional overflow . . . blank, like a slate, empty like a mannequin . . . a shell . . . a decoy. Decoy. A decoy was a lure. A lure was . . . Bait.

  Oh. Shit.

  “Son of a bitch!” Gillian went pale as she tried to think, yell orders, move and act all at once.

  “Gillian?” Jenna’s eyes were wide and puzzled.

  “Get out of here! It’s a trap!” Gillian snapped, spinning Jenna around and into Pavel, who kept his feet only by virtue of Lycanthrope reflexes.

  “Helmut, get them out of here, now! That little girl Ghost is nothing more than bait, and we are the fish!”

  He didn’t ask how she knew. Gillian’s horrified look, and the fact that she was leaning over the upper railing shouting at the others, gave him a clue that this was not a good time for a chat.

  “Everyone, please proceed quickly down the stairs and back to the street, do not panic . . .” Helmut was saying in an oh-so-rational tone.