Ghost Huntress 5 - The Discovery

by Gibson, Marley

  "I'm supposed to lead you somewhere, but I just don't know where yet. I'm going to poke around town and I'll let you know." She pauses for a moment, and I fear she might disappear on me. Then she adds, "I know one thing. I've got to even the score."

  What score? What are you talking about?

  Her finger pointing, Farah says, "I want to get even with the damned doll."

  Doll? Are you telling me Xander the Doll caused this?

  "Oh yeah," she starts. "I was driving just fine—okay, I was speeding a little bit—and that thing appeared out of nowhere right in front of my car. That's why I swerved. I thought it was a real little kid and there was no way I was going to mow down a child. Then I heard the creepy thing laughing at me before I slammed into that tree."

  I've heard the laughter too, I tell her.

  "He completely messed me up. It's bad enough that my precious Jetta is going to the scrap pile, but I missed the recital on Saturday and now..." She spreads out her hands. "Well, now I'm like this."

  I'm so sorry you died, Farah. I told you to write the apology letter to Xander.

  "Yeah, Steph and Court did it and forged my name. I couldn't be bothered with it because I didn't believe it. But, Kendall, I saw and heard him. He took pleasure in killing me! I want to see him pay."

  I nod my head vehemently at her. I do too. He's hurt too many people. This has to end.

  Farah smiles at me. "So you'll help me, right? I mean, like, you're really psychic and all. You'll know how to fix this, won't you?"

  Her beautiful eyes implore me.

  How can I not help?

  I don't care what anyone else thinks or believes about this evil, enchanted devil of a doll. I'm going after him. And I'm going to make sure he never harms anyone again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  PATRICK AND I WALK back to the house after the service, leaving Becca and Celia to fend for themselves. It's not that I don't want to share Farah's visit with them ... just not right now. I need to let it soak in.

  "I shouldn't be surprised that Farah came to you," Patrick says.

  I nod. "Could you hear me talking to her?"

  "Only your side of the convo, strangely enough."

  We cross Delmonico Street and walk over to Main in silence. Patrick swings our joined hands back and forth as I kick a rock along our path. The sun shines hot overhead, and I'm starting to sweat in my funeral clothes. All I want to do is strip down to shorts and a tank and lie under the ceiling fan in my room and ... not think.

  But I have to think. Farah Lewis is stuck in some sort of limbo because she has to lead me somewhere, and I need to help her find peace.

  We walk into my yard, go past my mother's flower garden, and step up onto the front porch. I take a seat on the swing, and Patrick sits next to me.

  "What does she want you to do?" Patrick asks.

  "She wants to get even with Xander the Doll."

  Patrick sighs hard. "Him again?"

  "Yep. She saw him and that's what caused her to swerve." I fill Patrick in on everything Farah said to me during the service.

  Patrick's brown eyes darken and he glowers a bit. "We've got to help her cross."

  "Tell me something I don't know. There's even more. She says she can't leave until she helps me. That there's someplace I have to be shown." I rub my head. "I'm so confused, Patrick."

  "We'll figure it out together," he says.

  Tilting forward, I prop my elbows on my thighs and squiggle my hands into my hair, rubbing hard at the temples with my thumbs. "I've never experienced anything like this. A cursed doll that's wreaking havoc? I mean, how do you fight something like that?"

  "You've got to get to the core of his existence," Patrick says.

  "And how do I do that?"

  "With Farah's help, like she said."

  I shake my head and feel the tears coming again. "Farah was so talented and had such a promising future. I don't get how to justify the death of a person like that."

  Patrick rubs my neck. "Everything happens for a reason."

  I groan. "Everyone keeps telling me that. What is the reason, though?"

  "I don't know, babe. I just don't." His eyes get all serious and he gazes at me thoughtfully. "What I do know is that with our combined talents and abilities, we can fix this. Remember everything that Oliver and the counselors taught us at the retreat. We have to research and explore and investigate and use our senses and deductive reasoning to get to the heart of this matter and then figure out how we're supposed to help." He takes a deep breath. "Kendall, not only do we have to help Farah pass, we have to help whatever or whoever is possessing Xander the Doll. We have to help the Farnsworth family. The pain is obviously deep and intense and it's been here too long."

  Sitting up, I swivel on the swing to get a good look at the guy I've fallen so hard for. His kind eyes, his strong chin, chiseled nose, and firm lips. I move my hands over his cheeks and jaw and pull him toward me, needing to feel life flowing.

  His kiss is soft and sweet, healing and therapeutic. I kiss him back with all the emotion I can muster up, relishing the feel of him underneath my fingertips.

  "I'm crazy about you, Kendall," he says at last.

  My heart pounds away like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode with my newfound love for him. "Ditto, Patrick. You've changed my life. You understand me. We're alike."

  "We're meant to be," he says and then kisses me again.

  I pull back moments later, but not in a bad way. This isn't the most opportune time to ask this, but I have to.

  "Say ... will you go to my prom with me? It's in a few weeks and hopefully we'll have all of this Xander crap solved and I'll have my DNA test results and you can be with the new Kendall Moorehead."

  The corner of his mouth lifts. "I kinda like the current Kendall Moorehead."

  "You know what I mean," I say, smiling.

  Patrick picks up my right hand and kisses the top, then turns it over and presses a kiss to my palm. I'm going to melt here on the spot. "I'd be honored to come to the prom with you."

  We make out a little while longer and then Patrick forces himself to leave.

  "I've got to get home. School tomorrow, you know? But I'll be here Friday afternoon. You and Celia see what you can do to get us in that Farnsworth House for a real investigation. It's the key to everything, I just know it."

  I throw myself onto him, hugging him with all my might. He hugs me back and plants one last kiss on me.

  I wait until his car pulls out of the drive and disappears up the road. I need to collapse on my bed for the rest of the day. Yeah, yeah ... I should work on that paper for Mr. Rorek, but there's still time. Up in my room, I remove Buckley and Eleanor from the pile of clothes on the floor and dig out my DKNY tank top and black shorts. I'm about to fling myself on the bed and curl up with the kitties when I realize I have unread e-mail on my computer screen.

  "Oh God, please not the haunted-sandwich man." I walk over and scroll the mouse to see mail from none other than Taylor Tillson. It doesn't look like a forwarded joke; it seems more personal. I sit down in the chair and click to open the message.

  My dearest Kendall!

  Bonjour or neenjit dôonch 'yáa, as the native Alaskans say in their Gwich'in language. I'm sooooooooo sorry I've been so out of touch. I think of you, Celia, and Becca almost every day. Life is crazy here. Dad works all the time and I'm on my own a lot. I'm still into my photography and really need to set up a website for it. The beauty of the nature here is phenomenal. I actually got a picture of a bald eagle ripping a fish right out of the water. Oh, mon dieu!

  I'm writing because Ryan called me and asked me to come back for the prom and go with him. Right ... like I can afford a plane ticket all the way across the United States for a corsage, dinner, and a few dances? LOL! The real problem, though, is that I've fallen hard for a guy here. He's a little older than we are—okay, he's nineteen!—and il est très magnifique! He's working part-time with my dad at the park, but he's go
ing to be backpacking in Europe all summer. I'm trying to get Dad to let me go with him. Who knows how that will turn out.

  I've really fallen for Benjamin—that's his name. And he is so into me. So I don't think it would be appropriate for me to go to the prom with Ryan. I sort of feel like I'm doing Ryan wrong, but we had to break up, you know, when I left Radisson. Same as you and Jason.

  Speaking of which ... he's an ass.

  He hasn't e-mailed you, has he? He keeps asking me if I've heard from you and I tell him to get a life and contact you himself. I will tell you—and I feel no loyalty to Mr. Overprotective—but he hangs out regularly with this chick at school. Her name is Zelda. Not even kidding you. Who names their kid Zelda in this day and age? I think her parents had a thing for F. Scott Fitzgerald or something. But he and Zelda are pretty much inseparable. I know you guys called it quits; however, I'm still pissed at him for not coming out and telling you about Zelda. They go to the movies all the time, she drives him home from school in her SUV—yes, she has an Escalade, hello, gas guzzzzzzzler—and they are just joined at the hip.

  I didn't tell you that to hurt you, mon arnie. I see pics of a devilishly cute guy on your Facebook page. Who's he? New boyfriend? I need deets!

  I hope you've moved on from Jason. I hope you're not pining away for him, because, Kendall, he's not worth it. He's my brother, my twin, and I love him, but he's a guy. I don't want you hurting over him. I want to know that you're happy and doing your ghost-hunting thing—which I miss almost as much as I miss you girls—and taking care of Kendall.

  I promise to be better about staying in touch. As you know, it's hard fitting into a new place. But Taylor Elizabeth Tillson is doing her best. Don't you worry about me. Je vais très bien.

  Write back when you can. And hey, if Dad will let me do the backpack thing this summer, maybe you can come along? Get out of Radisson? Let's talk.

  Love you like a sister!

  Taylor

  I can totally hear Taylor's voice as I'm reading and rereading this e-mail. Glad to see that living in the frozen tundra hasn't changed her. And Jason? Well, I suppose that for him, change was inevitable. He moved on. I moved on. I'm in love with Patrick. And he's ... well, he's hanging with Zelda. Funny, I always thought I'd be going to the RHS prom on Jason Tillson's arm. Now, my thoughts turn to dancing under the balloon ceiling and twinkling lights with Patrick Lynn. It's the next best thing to heaven.

  First, though, I have to help Farah Lewis get to heaven and her final resting place and put the legend of Xander the Doll to rest once and for all.

  It seems like forever until Friday afternoon rolls around again. School isn't the same. How could it be when such a popular member of the campus royalty is no longer with us? A flier announcing Farah's opera recital still hangs on a locker in a tormenting reminder that her voice is silenced forever. Students wander around the halls laughing less and feeling a little bit numb. I can read the thoughts of so many people...

  A freshman: Why her?

  One of the motorcycle guys: Did she have a seat belt on?

  A junior: I heard she was speeding.

  The janitor: Someone said she was on drugs. All of these kids are on drugs.

  A sophomore: I can't believe that happened here in Radisson.

  A fellow student: Farah and I were best friends in elementary school. I'm going to miss her so much.

  A teacher: How do we talk to the kids about this?

  Time will heal the emotional wounds and shock at Radisson High. However, my ghost-huntress team is taking action to stop Xander the Doll from causing more chaos.

  Patrick's back in Radisson. He drops his stuff off at Father Mass's and then comes over to my house. Celia, Becca, and Shelby-Nichole arrive and we all head over to the Radisson Historical Society as planned.

  Mr. Pfeiffer opens the office door on the third buzzer ring. "Oh, it's you all again."

  "Yes, sir," Celia says politely. "We'd like to talk to you about doing an investigation here."

  He starts to close the door, but Becca puts her booted foot in the way. "Really, Mr. Pfeiffer. We've got too much weird shit going on in Radisson since Xander the Doll made his appearance at the county fair. I really think you should hear us out."

  Sweat drips down his bald head, and he bites his bottom lip. Then he moves aside and grudgingly lets us in. We file past him into the great room, where we all sit on the antique furniture.

  Louis Pfeiffer nervously moves about, twisting his hands together.

  This man knows a lot more than he's saying.

  I'm sensing it too, Patrick says to me.

  "Please, Mr. Pfeiffer. Help us," I say, practically begging.

  He lets out a long sigh. "You kids are going to cause nothing but trouble. I told the historical society board that we shouldn't have brought Xander out of the house. But no one listens to me. They thought it would get us some attention and bring in some donors to help us fix this place," he says.

  Celia cocks her head. "I believe Mega-Mart gave a sizable donation to Farnsworth House."

  "Yes, it did indeed. And that's the only reason I'm allowing you in here again," he notes.

  Celia's ready to play hardball. "Mega-Mart is prepared to contribute more if you're willing to help us."

  Wow ... a little extortion in small-town America. Okay, whatever works. I can see the dollar signs spinning in Mr. Pfeiffer's eyes.

  "Look, Mr. Pfeiffer. I'm not going to candy-coat this," I say. "Four people—all our friends—have had heinous things happen to them since meeting Xander the Doll and taking pictures of him. One even died."

  "Oh, that young cheerleader," he says, shaking his head. "Such a sad story. Driving too fast like that. A tragedy and a waste."

  "Yes, it was," I say. "One that could have been prevented had we known more about this curse that surrounds Xander the Doll."

  His eyes shift around as if he's covering something up.

  He is covering something up, Patrick says to me.

  I've never seen a person sweat like this.

  He needs to pop a salt tablet ... geesh!

  I stand and advance on the curator. "Mr. Pfeiffer, you said this place needs to be fixed. What did you mean by that?"

  He hesitates for a moment. "The board doesn't want me talking about it."

  "Why isn't this place open to the public?" Patrick asks.

  "Again, that's the board's decision, not mine," the older man says.

  Patrick slices his eyes over to me. This is personal for him. Push him, Kendall. He'll break.

  "This doesn't make sense," I shout in frustration. "This has gone too far. I'm not trying to be disrespectful. There's something you're not telling us. A secret you're hiding that may cause more people to get hurt. Do you want that on your head, Mr. Pfeiffer? Do you want your children to know what you're doing?"

  He lowers his eyes to the ground and begins pacing the room. "How do you know about my children?"

  "I'm psychic, remember." Although I'm not picking up anything more specific, this may get him to talk. "Don't you want them to be proud of what you're doing here?"

  His bottom lip quivers. "I don't know what to say. I'm just the caretaker. I have been for twelve years, since the board sought me out. I do what I'm told. I obey orders. I'm fifty-seven years old and I enjoy the steady paycheck from the board so my son can go to college at UGA and so I can have health insurance to cover my daughter's diabetes supplies."

  "We're sorry about your daughter, Mr. Pfeiffer. Our friends the Lewises lost their daughter. Possibly because of Xander. Now, you know plenty about the history of this house and the family, and if you'll allow us to investigate and research, perhaps we can prevent another tragedy from occurring."

  He drags his sleeve across his forehead to mop up the perspiration. "All right. I'll tell you what I know. The board is one person. It's the lone Farnsworth survivor. Her name is Abigail, and she's Robert Townsend Farnsworth's granddaughter. She lives in a nursing home in Macon and is ve
ry old and frail. Abigail made a deathbed promise to her father, Robert's son, that she'd always take care of Xander and he would always live in this house. However, when the economy crashed, a lot of the family's investments disappeared nearly overnight. The only way Abigail could keep the house was to donate it to the city as a tax shelter with the stipulations that the board control the day-to-day operations and that the city of Radisson wouldn't change anything about the building, disperse any of its contents, or open it to the public to judge. To get around the agreement and to raise some money, the historical society came up with the traveling exhibit, but Xander would return home to his room each and every night. That was, until weird things started happening, so we stopped the exhibit for a few years."

  "Why bring him out now?"

  "The county fair offered a nice donation for the exhibit and we couldn't turn it down."

  Becca lowers the voice recorder that she's been using to capture the story. Celia cuts her eyes over to me; I sigh. "What do you think is going on here, Mr. Pfeiffer?"

  "What do you believe is at play here?" Patrick asks.

  The man holds up his hands. "I don't know. I don't want to know. I don't mess with anything and it doesn't mess with me." Fear resonates in his glassy eyes. More than fear. I sense a near panic from him. Dread is painted over his face from jowly cheek to jowly cheek, and for a moment, I believe he might cry. "Look, you're just kids. You don't have the responsibilities in life that I do. I do what I'm told; I collect my paycheck and go home every night. Xander, or whatever, leaves me be."

  I swallow down my aggravation when I listen to the tremor in Mr. Pfeiffer's voice. Stepping forward, I put my hand gently on his arm. "We can help. If Xander is possessed by a spirit, we can help set it free and put it on its path to redemption and peace."

  My fingers tingle with an unknown touch. My heart rate triples, and the psychic headache begins ticking away at me. Bits and pieces of time flash before me with vivid images that spark more curiosity than answers. A woman dancing around a fire. A boy crying in the blackness of his room. A whip striking skin, the color of it indiscernible. The fireworks of memories shift and I'm back in my dream ... dark ... dank ... the tang of wet earth fills my nostrils. The shadows of many lost souls dancing around in confusion.