by Sarah Gilman
She nodded. “It’s fortunate for the motel guests that the spirit decided to go for theatrics.”
“Why’s that?”
“Judging from the article I read, they fled because of the haunting, which likely saved their lives from the fire that consumed the motel moments later.” She ground her teeth. “A few weeks ago, I would have asked myself if the spirit did that on purpose and I would have bet he didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
A minute of silence passed, and he tilted his head. “What happened a few weeks ago?”
“Well…” This was not a conversation to have with a stranger, especially a client.
“Sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”
She cleared her throat and steered around a series of potholes and a suicidal chipmunk. “Tell me about the ghost. Why is someone buried out here in the first place?”
Dutch frowned and the wind from the open window teased his brown hair. “The Hutchinson ghost is quite the legend around here. Over a hundred years ago, a logger got knocked into the river by a falling tree and fell into the gorge. Park visitors have reported numerous sightings, usually along the river below the falls, where the body is said to have been recovered.”
“Sightings? Ghosts can’t be seen, except for the most powerful individuals, who are few and far between. Ghost sightings are most often pranks.” She swallowed. They did have a strong spirit on their hands. But that strong?
He shrugged. “Local fishermen report having spoken with a young man, and out-of-state tourists have said the same thing. None of them thought they were talking to a ghost at the time.”
“If they were able to see him at all, he’d be transparent.”
“Not according to the stories. Solid as you or me. Some report shaking hands with the guy. But later, he’d disappear.”
“Hmm.” She ran her fingers over her braided hair, trying to disguise massaging a tensing muscle in her neck. “Spirits powerful enough to assume corporeal form are the rarest kind. There have only been a couple observed by exorcists in recorded history. I would say someone was playing a prank on the park visitors, but there is a spirit here, no doubt about it. That issue aside, what else happened the day the logger died?”
“What do you mean?”
“It takes a significant event or events to bind a spirit to earth. His death must’ve been horrifying to experience, yes, but neither that nor the unusual burial can be responsible for his continued presence here.”
“Nothing else happened that I know of.” Dutch glanced down and to the left, a sure sign of another lie. Or, perhaps, he was looking at her legs?
She wiped her clammy hands on her jeans. Here she was discussing her job and he hadn’t mocked her once. Could the man get any sexier? “It’s nice to be able to talk openly about my profession. Even polite people have trouble hiding their skepticism most of the time.”
He grinned, and she couldn’t avert her gaze. Good thing she was driving slowly. She forced her attention to the road and yanked her thoughts away from Dutch. She had a problem. If the Hutchinson ghost was powerful enough to assume corporeal form, he was in a good position to try to stop them from reaching the grave and binding him.
Stay on your toes, Jade.
…
They crossed a covered bridge, and Dutch directed Jade to pull over to the side of the dirt road. He climbed out of the car, pleased that his first trip in a motor vehicle would also be his last. Nauseated, he swallowed and took a deep gulp of forest air. The familiar scents of pine and rotting leaves eased him, as did the illusion of life the act of breathing in and out offered.
“Hard to believe this area was logged.” Jade walked around the car, a canvas satchel hanging from her shoulder, her face upturned to the trees.
“The Vernon Logging Company completely cleared this area of mature trees in the eighteen hundreds, but nature has a way of reclaiming the land.” He tapped his knuckles against the thick bark of a maple so large and gnarled it must have been a small sapling left by the loggers. This tree has been alive as long as I’ve been dead.
“Any relation?”
“Pardon?”
“Vernon Logging Company. Relations of yours?”
Shit. He’d given his old boss’s last name when he’d spoken on the phone with her brother. “Oh, yes. I’m a descendant.”
Not entirely a lie. In the end, the company had been more like family than his blood kin.
“This way.” He pointed out a smear of orange paint on the trunk of a pine tree. “The park maintains a rough trail. It’s not heavily traveled, but the area where the grave is located is the best place to view the falls, so a few people make the trek now and then. May I carry your bag for you?”
She adjusted the strap. “Thank you, but I’m fine, both with the bag and on the trail.”
He grinned, pleased. His experience with women wasn’t what many people would think—prim and pretty ladies in their Victorian dresses, expecting men to carry everything for them and lay coats over puddles while they sat around drinking tea. Those images were far from the whole truth, at least for Vermont women. He didn’t find anything wrong with chivalry, but life in New England was a tough one for most, and the reality had been that women worked just as hard as men to survive.
These days, many of the women who visited the park lacked the grit he found attractive in women. They complained about imperfect cell service, about bugs, about building a fire, about boredom, and everyone seemed to have allergies. What they needed was a Vermont winter without electricity or vehicles, living on the food they grew and slaughtered during the summer.
Many of the women he’d observed would complain about the difficulty of this trail. Not Jade. She stepped past him and called over her shoulder, “Are you coming?”
“Of course.” He followed her off the packed dirt of the logging road and onto the layers of rotting leaves and pine needles of the forest floor. The rough path meandered around trees and granite outcrops as it guided them downhill, the terrain steep and muddy. The river rushed over a shallow, rocky bed to their right, and the ground leveled as they got closer to the gorge.
As they progressed, Jade picked wildflowers—they were abundant in the area above the falls, far more so than the rest of the park.
“What are you doing that for?”
“They have a purpose, trust me.” A feminine gasp escaped her lips when she spotted a wild rose bush, a massive beast of a plant that grew over a rocky outcrop and up a white birch tree. Palm-sized red blooms sagged a bit under the weight of morning dew. Jade stared with a hand over her mouth.
Were roses in the woods not common? He knew of several in the vicinity. So caught up in watching her, he walked into a tree, almost losing his physical form in surprise.
“Are you all right?” She rushed toward him, stumbling a bit on loose stones.
He brushed a leaf from his hair and straightened his shoulders. “You didn’t see that.”
She paused, chuckled, and held a finger up to her mouth. “Sure. I saw nothing.”
He fought the urge to reach out, push her delicate hand away from her lips, and find out if she tasted as sweet as the sound of her laughter. If he indulged that much, he’d be tempted to suddenly forget how to find the gravesite, forget that he brought her here to end him.
He turned away. He had to stay focused.
They moved on.
“You like roses?” he asked.
“I like the woods. I’ve never seen rose bushes like that growing wild. They’re far more beautiful and alluring out here than in a pampered garden. Someone must have planted them, though. Who takes care of them?”
“I’m not sure. Not my thing.” In truth, the roses and all the other flowers had always been there. He’d first seen them when he’d been alive, working for the logging company, clearing the area. After the clear-cutting, the trees and the flowers had grown back more quickly than he would have thought possible. But he’d been a ghost at that point, leaving him much les
s of a skeptic than he’d been in life.
She kept touching trees as she passed them, holding a bouquet of flowers in one hand. “Maybe they grow on their own. Spirits as powerful as the one haunting this forest are usually associated with an abundance of the naturally occurring energies that help life thrive.”
“Energies?”
“Life feeds off more than water and sunlight and nutrients.” She lifted her chin, her lips thinned, and her voice took on a defensive tone. “Science will advance enough to identify a dozen different energies that support life, probably soon.”
“I believe you.”
She missed a beat and stammered. “You do?”
“Looking at this place, it’s hard not to. And I already believe in ghosts.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“Could the energy in question trap the spirit in this world?”
“Trap him, no. Make him strong enough to appear, have conversations with fishermen, and burn down motels? Yes.”
“I see. But how do life-strengthening energies affect him? He’s dead.”
“Souls are living things,” she said, her voice quiet, somber. “They don’t belong in this world any longer, but they are still us.”
Interesting. He was still a living thing, on some level? In his physical form, it felt that way, but he considered those feelings and sensations illusions. He was dead. His bones lay in the earth less than a half-mile away, shattered from his fall into the gorge.
Having company chased away the emptiness that usually filled his chest. He took a side trail to show her the old-growth hemlocks, a cluster of massive, five-hundred-year-old trees.
“The logging company left them so the workers had a shady place during the day.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, standing next to a trunk wider than her arm-span, staring upward.
“Yes, they are.” He stared at her, the real beauty of the spot. If only he could have a woman like this in his afterlife, he wouldn’t be in such a hurry to end it.
“How does an exorcism work? Anything like the movies?” Just last spring, the park’s outdoor theater had shown The Exorcist, giving Dutch the idea. Unlike the demon, Dutch wouldn’t fight, so the process wouldn’t be that violent, he hoped.
“Nothing like in the movies. My family is nondenominational, and clairvoyance is strong in our bloodline. We can sense spirits in our vicinity, and when we read from the text my great-grandfather wrote, we can destroy them.” Her throat worked and the humor in her expression vanished. “No theatrics involved. First I’ll bind him so he can’t escape, then I’ll read, which will erode his power until there’s nothing left. Unfortunately, it’s extremely painful for the spirit, and the stronger they are, the longer it takes.”
Dutch clenched his teeth, steeling his resolve. “May I ask why an exorcism is so severe? Is there no way to simply send a spirit on to heaven or hell or wherever it is they’re supposed to go after death?”
“Well…” She blew out a heavy sigh. “My great-grandfather, the first known clairvoyant in my family, wrote all the incantations we use, giving us a variety of tricks. Binding, exorcism, stripping a spirit of its will and commanding it like a puppet, etcetera. There are even passages that allow us to inflict pain on the spirit for as long as we want, with no purpose except to draw out the torture.”
She rubbed her face and continued. “A spirit killed my great-grandmother. My great-grandfather began writing exorcisms the next day. He never bothered to develop an incantation that would help a ghost move on. In his journal, he stated they didn’t deserve such mercy, that earth-bound spirits were inherently evil. Considering the number of malicious spirits that roam the earth, every generation has subscribed to his teachings without much question. It does seem that the majority spirits go insane and turn violent if stuck in this world.”
“I see.” Dutch shivered. The grief-stricken exorcist had been a bigot to judge all spirits in such a condemning way, but he hadn’t been far off the mark. The few other spirits Dutch had run into had been reservoirs of malice, intent on playing deadly games with the living. Thankfully, they’d all had such a low power level that the humans had noticed only cold drafts and strange noises, at most.
“I hate it,” she bit out. “It’s torture and forever destroys a human soul, yet we perform them at the drop of a hat.” She lifted a hand to her forehead. “Sorry. I’m… I can’t believe how much I don’t want to do this!”
He blinked, touched her arm, and pulled her to a stop. “What are you talking about?”
She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. “I believe we perform too many exorcisms without being certain the spirit deserves such an end. For years, I’ve been researching, trying to write an incantation that would send spirits on to the next world without hurting them, to heaven or hell or wherever they’re supposed to go, like you say. I’ve failed so far. Recently, a spirit I thought was innocent tricked me, and my beliefs got an innocent woman killed.” She nodded and straightened her spine. “So… Let’s get going.”
He stared after her as she strode off ahead. Someone had been killed? “What?”
She stopped but didn’t turn. Her shoulders slumped.
“How’d she die?”
“The ghost I refused to exorcise,” she said, spitting the words.
Dutch rejoined her and reached out to touch her arm, but she took a step back.
“I need to finish this job,” she said, her voice firm but bitter. “If I don’t do my job again, people will get hurt or killed.”
“You were trying to find a better way to do that job,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care.
“It didn’t work.” She resumed walking. “I wish it had, but it didn’t.”
“It was worth the attempt. You didn’t kill that woman. You gave a spirit a second chance and he chose what to do with it.”
“I enabled him. By not exorcising him, I gave him the opportunity.”
“Bull. Every person you meet on the street could hurt someone someday. It’s not your fault if you think better of them.”
She stared at him, her arms folded. “Thanks.” She paused. “I’m sorry to act so unprofessional. I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
“I’m the one who is sorry. The last thing I want to do is add to your troubles.” He swallowed the desire to assure her that he’d never hurt anyone, that she could walk away guilt-free. But he needed this. He couldn’t continue enduring decade after lonely decade. She was his salvation. “Why do you do this if it bothers you so much?”
“It’s my job.” She smiled, though her chin trembled. “It’s my responsibility to protect people from violent spirits. I could leave and get a normal career as a normal person, but if things in the exorcist community are going to change, I need to be there, pushing for that change. If I keep researching, writing new incantations, maybe I’ll find the best solution for both the living and the deceased.”
He touched her hand. “I’m sure you’ll succeed.”
“Thank you.” She stared at their hands for a moment, then met his gaze. “Would you like to get dinner?”
He blinked. “Dinner?”
Color rose to her cheeks. “I’m asking you out to dinner. I know we just met, but—”
“I’d love to have dinner with you.” He tightened his grip on her hand and stroked her wrist with his thumb. “But… I’m sorry. I won’t be available.”
“Oh.” Her smile faltered.
“The grave is just up here.” He hurried forward before she could question him. Ahead, mist from the falls thickened the air and sunlight filtered through the thinning trees. “Watch your step. The rocks are wet and slimy.”
They approached the falls. After the burial over a century ago, he’d avoided the gravesite the way most people avoided angry grizzly bears. The water cascaded a hundred feet into the gorge, surrounded by rocks covered in bright green mosses and ferns.
He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out. Part of him w
anted to convince her to call this off so he could take her to dinner. But he would be a fool. A selfish fool. He wasn’t alive. What did he have to offer her?
Nothing.
And now it was time to leave this existence.
Chapter Three
Jade stepped with care across a moist ledge and peered into the gorge. The roar of the water cascading over the rocks and pummeling the bottom filled her ears. The cool mist thickened the air and condensed on her skin. A shudder shook her body—not from the chill, but from the mental image of the spirit’s death. “This is where he fell?”
“Yes.” Dutch motioned her to join him where he stood a couple yards away.
A solitary stone reposed at the base of a gigantic American elm. The roots had crowded the little monument and forced it to lean at a sharp angle to the side. Despite the thick layer of moss that grew in patches on the slate, the inscription remained readable.
DERRICK HUTCHINSON
DIED MAY 23, 1890
AGED 24 YEARS
“Why is there no birth date?”
“I guess the loggers who buried him didn’t know exactly when he was born.”
She ran her fingers over the chilly, damp stone. “No proper cemetery burial? No family?”
“I don’t know. I guess that information is lost to history.” Dutch backed a few feet away, a frown on his face, his arms folded.
“This really bothers you?”
He shrugged. “Naw.”
What a terrible liar. She grinned inwardly. “Dutch.” She stood and took his hand, pleased that he didn’t pull away. “Thank you for showing me the way out here.”
“No problem. It was a pleasure to meet you, Jade Clarence.” He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, sending her heart rate into a frenzy. The smile faded from his face as he released her. “I should get going.”
“Huh?”
“I assume you don’t want an audience.”
“I don’t mind, actually.”
He smiled, but the expression chilled her. His eyes seemed sad all of a sudden. “Sorry. I have someplace I need to go.” He paused. “Take care, Jade.”