by Ann Charles
“What am I doing down here, Cornelius?”
“I need you to help me clear a channel.” He reached to the side and the overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life.
“If this is something to do with a malevolent ghost, I’m not interested.”
“I believe you will find this especially intriguing.” He took a step backward into the room.
“Is what you’re talking about alive or dead?”
Another step. “That is yet to be determined.”
“Can it hurt me?”
“Psychologically speaking …” He paused, stroking his pointy goatee as he thought. He shrugged. “We would have to read your fortune for that answer.”
“Cornelius,” I warned.
“Quit being such a fussbudget and come along.” He turned his back on me and walked out of view.
I hesitated for a moment longer and then joined him in the room. Tall cabinets and shelves lined the walls, the same as the last time I’d been in here. Plato, the mothballed ancestor of Socrates the mule, had been moved to the far corner, a tarp covering most of his worn form. Several stacked filing boxes leaned against his back hindquarter. A rack of what looked like framed art pieces blocked him from going forward.
“Close the door behind you,” Cornelius ordered.
As much as I didn’t want to, I did as told and then headed over to where he stood. A couple of steps away from him, I stopped short.
In the center of the room was a circle drawn on the concrete in the same white chalk I’d seen used upstairs on walls and the floor to note measured lengths. In the middle of the circle sat another candle, this one fatter and made of black wax. The candle flame was lit and burning steadily.
What had he told me was the difference between a white candle and a black one the other night in the Sugarloaf Building? White candles were for cleansing, if I remembered right, and black candles were for protection. So, what did we need protection from in this room? When I’d been in here before with Doc, he hadn’t picked up the scent of any ghosts.
While the sight of a circle and candle had me reluctant to go any farther, the item that lay on the floor next to the candle made me want to race back home and lock the door behind me.
“Cornelius, why is there a pair of handcuffs in that circle?”
He stepped carefully over the chalk line, bending to pick up the item in question. “These aren’t handcuffs. They’re a tethering device.”
“No, those are most definitely handcuffs.” And I was most definitely allergic to them, especially after Cooper had unrightfully cuffed me and hauled me to jail, a bone of contention I hadn’t let go of even though we were managing to share space in a room these days without hissing and growling … at least not too much.
“I assure you, their purpose is to tether. Without the Tall Medium here to guide us, we need to have a secure connection.” He stepped out of the circle and walked past me, shutting off the lights.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight, I listened for the sound of anything in here other than the two of us. The good news was that it appeared we were alone. The bad news was that he returned with the cuffs still in hand and motioned me to follow him into the circle.
I resisted, holding my ground. “Guide us where?”
“We will know that answer after we begin.”
I shook my head. Every hair on the back of my neck was rising up in rebellion, pitchforks and shovels at the ready. “Cornelius, you need to explain why I’m here in clear, non-cryptic speak or I’m hitting the road.”
His lips pursed as he nodded. “How interesting. The prickly detective told me you would be averse to this. I was unaware that he had the psychic ability to read thoughts as well as see apparitions.”
The prickly … “You mean Cooper?” Cooper had a hand in this séance setup?
“Do you know any other bristly, ghost-seeing grumbletonian who solves crimes for a living?”
I grinned. “I dare you to call him that to his face.”
“And risk being bitten? I’d rather not.”
“Are those Cooper’s handcuffs?”
“Yes.” He pulled a familiar-looking walkie-talkie from his back pocket. “The detective dropped this off as well, but we don’t need it for this particular undertaking.” He placed it on the floor outside the circle.
But we need handcuffs? I frowned, still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that Cooper had been here before me today. It wasn’t like him to be so cooperative when it came to playing with ghosts.
“Why was Cooper here?” I asked.
“To see.”
“To see what?”
He looked at me as if I’d recently fallen off the turnip truck. “To see ghosts. Why else would he stop by?”
“Maybe you two are bosom buddies now for all I know.”
“Not yet, but he’s warming up to me,” he said with a wink and then waved me closer. “Join me in the circle, Violet, but don’t step on the line.”
I held back. “I’m allergic.”
“To chalk?”
“No, to handcuffs. Being shackled makes me foam at the mouth.” When he stared at me as if a daisy had just sprouted from the top of my head, I added, “I thought Cooper told you I have an aversion to handcuffs.”
“That is incorrect. He informed me that this was your day off and you were being, and I quote, ‘a bit of an ass’ about helping others in need.”
I harrumphed. “Cooper’s the ass.”
“Donkeys aside, we need to do a bit of eavesdropping while the voices are still audible.” He lowered into a cross-legged sitting position and patted the concrete next to him. “This shouldn’t take long, if everything goes right.”
What voices? “And what if this goes wrong?”
“Then it will not be going right, of course.” He patted the floor again. “Come now. Don’t be shy, channeler. You need to clear the airwaves for us.”
I moved closer, hesitating at the edge of the circle. “Shouldn’t we wait for Doc to be safe?”
“If I’m hearing the voices correctly, the presence of the Tall Medium could be a grave mistake.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant “grave” as in super serious or “grave” as in having to do with the no-longer-living.
He held my stare, all jesting aside. “Trust me.”
Trust a man who was hearing voices in the walls of his hotel? I shrugged. I’d witnessed crazier shit. I crossed into the circle and sat down next to him.
He took the handcuffs and secured one around his wrist, offering me the other.
“Show me the key first.” I wasn’t going to spend the remainder of my day off shackled to him because he hadn’t thought ahead about how to get uncuffed.
He pulled a small key out of his pocket. When I tried to swipe it, he pulled back, closing his fist over it.
“It is imperative that I hold onto it.”
I frowned. “Why you and not me?”
“Because you tend to wander during séances. This way you’ll have to drag me along.”
“Like an anchor.”
“Precisely. The Tall Medium has warned me repeatedly never to let you wander without a tether.”
“You mean Doc knows what we’re about to do?” If so, why didn’t he call me and give me a heads-up?
“Absolutely not. If he did, he’d insist on being here.”
“But that’s a bad thing,” I clarified, because usually Doc was a good person to have on hand when I messed around with channeling ghosts and whatnot.
“Yes, as I specified before. Did you hit your head on the way over?”
“No, but I wish I had. I sort of feel like we’re dabbling where we shouldn’t here and I want to make sure I’ll still be breathing when we’re finished.”
“As I said before, trust me.” He grabbed my wrist and locked the other handcuff around it. “Now quit delaying. We must get started.”
“Because of the voices?”
“Because I have a meeting wit
h my general contractor in approximately thirty-seven minutes.”
I huffed at him.
“Are you trying to blow my house down?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Your shoulders are very tense. It appears you took the wrong kind of bath.”
I knew how to take a dang bath. “The water was hot.”
“Did you use enough magnesium salt?”
I glared at him. “I’m done talking about baths with you.”
“Great. We’ll get started before time runs out.”
“For your contractor.”
“For the Tall Medium.”
I sobered. “What have you been hearing?”
He pointed at the black candle. “Listen for yourself.”
I watched the candle flame flicker for a few breaths, listening, feeling Cornelius shift and squirm since my wrist was cuffed to his. I heard a few muffled bangs overhead, praying none of the construction crew came down and found us in here fooling around with ghosts.
When my circle partner stilled again, I whispered, “Am I supposed to picture one flame or two this time?”
He lifted his hand between us. In his palm was a small dark mound of what looked like pepper, but I couldn’t tell for sure what it was in the candlelight.
“What’s that?”
“Cedar ashes.”
“What do they do?”
“Protect you.”
“From what?” And how?
“Not what, whom. Now close your eyes.”
I closed them, wondering how a pile of ashes in his hand could protect me.
A poof of air hit my face. I jerked back and sucked in a breath, smelling wood ash and something slightly fetid. My nose tickled. I reached up and scratched it, my fingers brushing over grit. What the heck? Did the big goose just blow those ashes in my face?
I took another breath and my nose itched again, on the inside this time. I wiggled it, but the itch spread into my sinuses, triggering a sneeze.
And then another.
And then another.
When I sniffed and caught my breath, a ringing racket filled my head. I winced, wondering what was going on overhead. Was the construction crew hammering on a huge brass bell?
The ringing grew louder, making my head rattle. I tried to plug my ears, but it did no good. The ringing volume increased, sending a stab of pain through my skull. I had to get out of here before my head cracked in half!
“Cornelius!” I tried to yell above the commotion. “I need to go!”
I tried to open my eyes but my eyelids wouldn’t budge. I tried again, but still I couldn’t lift them. It was like they were glued shut.
I pushed to my feet, blindly panicking, trying to make my escape, but something tugged on my wrist and yanked me back down. I shifted to my knees and tried to rise again, but another tug dragged me back onto my butt.
The ringing faded, the pain in my skull easing. I sat huddled into myself, struggling to think beyond my pounding heart and head, waiting for the racket to grow deafening again.
But it didn’t. Instead, I heard a voice speaking far off in a loud whisper. It was too far to really comprehend what was being said, though.
“Who’s there?” I asked, clambering back onto my knees.
“Violet, sit still,” Cornelius insisted, tugging me back down. “You must stay in the circle.”
Of course, the dang handcuffs. In my dark-filled panic, I’d forgotten he was tethered to me. Relieved that I wasn’t alone, I did as told, scooting closer to him.
“Where are we?” I whispered.
“On the other side of the wall,” he replied just as quietly.
“Why did you blow that stuff in my face?”
“To seal your eyes shut so you couldn’t rely on them to see and to clear your ears so you could hear.”
“Yeah, well, it stinks.”
“Next time I’ll mix it with rosehips and jasmine essence.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“No. Now be quiet and listen.”
I sat with my lips pinched, resisting the urge to wipe away the grit on my face with the back of my sleeve. All around me, murmuring voices swirled closer, first encircling us, then bearing down on us, trying to breach the circle. At least that was what it felt like. I struggled to make out what was being said, but there were too many voices. So much that it merged into waves of hisses.
“What am I listening for in particular?” I asked.
“You will know when you focus enough to hear it.”
I listened some more, getting nowhere. “Focus on what, though?”
“The Tall Medium.”
Oh, that was easy. I thought of Doc. His dark eyes, the smile warming his face when he walked in the door, the feel of his whiskers on my neck, the sound of …
A familiar voice came through to me above the rest.
I leaned forward, trying to single it out, thinking I’d heard it wrong.
Nope, there it was again.
What was it saying, though? I focused, straining my ears.
The words seemed louder this time: Listen, Killer, I know you are hell on wheels.
I sat back, my heart thudding. Had I heard that right?
I focused and listened again, catching more of it this time: Listen, Killer, I know you are hell on wheels in other realms, but ghosts are my specialty.
My memory stepped forward, trying to locate the source of that line and stamp it with a time and place.
It was at the old Hessler house, wasn’t it? Alone in the dark. Only not really alone. Standing at the base of the stairwell.
No, wait! It was prior to that. Back at the start of the séance in the root cellar. We’d been preparing to free Cornelius from the hold of the ghost of Wilda Hessler. Before Cornelius and I had gone under, Doc had pulled me aside and given me a pep talk, saying that very line to me.
But why was I hearing it here? Were the voices spurring it in my memory?
Through the whispers another high-pitched, chanting voice caught my attention. This one gave me chills.
Violet, the one that I love.
Violet, the one that I love.
Violet, the one that I love.
I shivered clear to my toes.
Wilda’s ghost had repeated those lines previously on numerous occasions, including right here in this very hotel.
Cornelius leaned toward me. “Do you hear?”
“Yes. That little bitch is back.”
“No, you’re not listening.”
“What do you mean?”
“Stop fighting it, take a deep breath, clear the channel. Really listen.”
I tried to relax my shoulders and fine-tuned the dial of my internal spirit box. The words kept repeating, but then something happened. Something that made me hold my breath and really focus. And listen.
The voice repeating the words was changing, slowing down, the timbre deepening. I exhaled and drew in a full breath clear to the bottom of my lungs, holding on to it.
Then I heard it. The line was the same as before, but this time it wasn’t coming from a little bratty girl bent on destroying everything good around her. This time the voice speaking the words was the same one that had guided me through terror-filled darkness more than once. The one that usually soothed me when I fretted and warmed me when my feet were icicles.
Violet, the one that I love.
It was Doc speaking now.
Why was I hearing him repeat those dreadful words over and over?
“You hear it now?” Cornelius asked.
“Yes. I hear him.”
“Good. That makes two of us. Now hold on. We need to leave before it finds you.”
Before what found me? My arm jerked hard, and then I was being dragged forward across the cold, hard floor.
“Open your eyes, Violet,” Cornelius said at full volume.
I couldn’t because of the … I opened my eyes.
We were still in the storeroom, only no longer in the circle wi
th the lit candle. I sighed in relief and sat up, brushing my sleeve down my face.
After a soft clink, my wrist was free.
Cornelius hit the lights.
“Why was Doc repeating Wilda’s favorite line over and over?” I asked him as he returned and held out his hand to help me up.
“That wasn’t the Tall Medium you heard.” He hauled me to my feet.
“Yes, it was. Believe me, I know Doc’s voice well.”
“It might have sounded like him, but it was not.”
I brushed off my backside. “Then who was I hearing?”
“A mimic.”
I frowned at him. “You mean someone was mimicking Doc’s voice?”
“I believe so.”
“Who?”
“The answer to that I have yet to decipher, but if I were to guess, I’d say it was the changeling we were hearing.”
By “changeling,” he meant Wilda’s poor twin who suffered from a birth deformity that left her limbs and face contorted. Wilda’s mother, Mrs. Hessler, would dress the disabled girl up in a clown costume whenever she took the child out in public in order to hide her from public scrutiny. This was for Mrs. Hessler’s benefit, of course, not the child’s, being her family had owned the local jewelry store and was flush with money. Society couldn’t know their family was anything but perfect.
Cornelius’s and Doc’s theory was that the changeling had been manipulating Wilda’s ghost for decades. Now it appeared it was up to something new from the sounds of what we’d just heard.
I grimaced. “The changeling, huh? That’s creepy.”
“Unsettling, for sure, but I fear the why is more worrisome than the who.”
Okay, I’d bite. “Why do you think the changeling was mimicking Doc’s voice?”
“I’m not positive, but one hypothesis is that it heard him speak that night in the root cellar before we detached Wilda from me.”
If his guess was correct, then it not only heard Doc talk, but it eavesdropped on the private pep talk he’d given me.
“So, you think this changeling is practicing voices?” To what end? Was it like the lidérc in some way, which tried to use replication of a recently deceased loved one as a lure?
He shrugged. “Another hypothesis is that it’s trying to locate the owner of that voice once again, practicing to keep the tones fresh in its ectoplasmic memory.”