Dark & Disorderly

by Bernita Harris

  Ignoring the charging mother, I framed the name in my mind and stretched out my arms, crossed my wrists so my broad bracelets of inlaid silver connected, curled my thumbs and pointed my fingers like prongs to an outlet, and touched.

  For a brief instant, images that made me gag crowded my mind. Then they were gone like the closing of a door—to be replaced by a sense of presence and a malefic intent beyond the usual winking net of formatted electrons. This entity was Sluagh-strong and intended to fight. I entered a surreal world where color faded and shapes silhouetted negative black against a gray background. Black rectangles and slate trapezoids, knife-edged tetrahedrons, reeled and clashed in my inner vision, swung at me like a spinning triskele of swords. The pulsing image of a coiled conduit leading away and back to a roiling abyss warned me in time. I jerked my wrists apart. A flash of circuits on instant overload flared, and the circuit of bonded ions blasted into nothing.

  Color returned to the world. Shuddering with residual muscle effects, I staggered against the tree to keep from falling down. Trees sometimes helped ground and dissipate the energy surge, but I may have overloaded this one. I swear I left a smoking imprint on the damp bark. I would have liked to turn and—with my back to it—slide down the tree trunk. Then I would just sit until my vision returned to normal and the quivering stopped.

  I had been dangerously hasty and clumsy. The result was painful. With the children nearby, I’d been nearly criminally careless. No wonder the woman was yelling at me.

  The little one looked up, smeared dirt and nose drip across his face with one arm and pointed with his sword. “Bad man gone,” he said. “Good.” Blue eyes inspected me solemnly. “Shining Lady,” he added.

  Twisting out from under his mother’s hands, he dropped down on his grubby knees to continue his excavations. The other kid, busy orchestrating a crash and smash of his fleet of tiny cars, didn’t even look up. The little girl had stopped her spiral dance and was swinging now in natural arcs.

  “And don’t you dare touch my kids,” the mother finished off her tirade, tears glistening on her cheeks. The normal reaction, as if I were some sort of soul sucker or a daoine-sith who stole away children. I was used to it, but it still left me feeling like a garbage and shit collector.

  This time though, she had every right to complain. Maybe I should never have done it with the children so close, but the need to wipe him out, obliterate him, make him as if he had never been, so he would no longer whisper in the night and prey on children, had been overwhelming.

  I shook my head, shoved my card at her and got myself back to my car. There, I checked off the requisite sections of the work order form, signed it and shoved a copy in the unit mailbox. Social services could deal with the details and I would recommend follow-up. For all the times I wondered if the stresses of my job were worth it, elimination of ghosts like these kept me going.

  When I drove past the town hall on the way to the museum, I saw the flag at half-mast.

  I sat in my car in the small museum parking lot and cried again. Partly for Bobby, partly for Bobby’s family, partly for me. Bobby was one of the few people who had wished me well. Partly from the stress of the malignancy I had just touched, but mostly from guilt, loneliness and sheer, gut-knotting fear.

  13.

  Before the tinkle from the string of antique sleigh bells announcing my entrance subsided, a thin, black-haired woman slid out the open door marked Office and posed dramatically in front of it.

  She was not, definitely not, the elderly curator I had encountered a year ago regarding several relics the museum had acquired, relics that included a haunted axe from a sensational turn-of-the-century murder case.

  I should have quizzed Ted for background. Between the “girls” at the front desk at city hall and his wife, who was a member of one of the museum’s supporting societies—as well as about every other committee going—he heard all the dirt. Ted had mentioned a power struggle of some sort at the museum. This cougar must be the winner. I glanced down at the requisition. Ms. Chestnut-Jones.

  “We’re not open to the public until two o’clock.”

  I waved my clipboard at her. “I’m not public. Are you in charge? I have a request for investigation of unusual psychic activity—”

  “Oh. Yes. So you’re one of the…” Plucked eyebrows elevated, as she priced my outfit down to its last exorbitant penny. “And you are…?”

  I told her. She looked me over with a kind of avid disdain, one little finger brushing at the corner of her mouth as she registered my name. I took sour pleasure in noting that her elegant purple suit and matching heels clashed with her muddy aura.

  “Very well. Come this way.”

  She led me through the rooms, past the usual spinning wheels, cradles, churns and period costumes in limp lace and wool. I carefully avoided—and did not mention—the shade of a young woman in a green Kinsale cloak from County Cork hovering protectively near a cradle. There were too few nice ghosts as it was.

  We passed a display case of Indian artifacts containing the usual collection of beads, baskets and flints, some rather dubious slate implements and a rather fine effigy clay pipe. She paused at the next case. In addition to a few tintypes, it displayed yellowed documents writ in faded copperplate and adorned with frayed ribbons and wax seals. Several items were obviously absent, their outlines clear on the green baize.

  “There,” she said, waving a perfect mauve manicure, “a sketch map from the early 1800s went missing, with letters and two historical deeds. The case hasn’t been unlocked in years. We have no key.”

  I doubted that—just as I doubted teleportation. The currents of hyper-energy were lacking. I bent and examined the plain brass escutcheon of the lock. No obvious scratches, but I could probably spring it with the shanks of my hair clasp. Or with any old trunk key, since these locks were fairly standard.

  “Did you report the theft to the police?”

  I had to ask, since there’d had been no mention of a police report in the file. I didn’t want to waste time and energy on an incident that had a likely and discoverable human cause, nor on one under active investigation.

  “No…because the papers were discovered the next day, on top of pieces of a little secretary desk in one of our most popular exhibits, but that wasn’t the end of it!”

  She pressed two fingers on the double crease between her brows. “And the next day they were moved again! I gathered them up and took them to my office. I distinctly remember putting them carefully in the filing cabinet before I left for the day. The next morning there they were in a pile on top of my desk. There they were. Obviously, the work of some disturbed spirit!”

  Uh-huh. Made a good story.

  “What kind of damage? Have any other items been moved about?”

  “The exhibit was trashed. Items strewn about. Drawers from another fine old kneehole desk were smashed. Some of our precious old books and journals had their covers torn. Mutilated.”

  “May I see the section where the damage occurred?”

  We wound around a military display of sabers and muskets, uniforms and medals. She walked with her chin on her shoulder as if it were necessary to keep me in her peripheral vision at all times.

  “Here.” She swept past a pair of three-foot vases containing pampas grass. “I planned the exhibit to re-create a study one might find in a prosperous, mid-Victorian era dwelling. So many generous donations from our prominent families have languished in storage for far too long.”

  She paused to run a hand along the back of a red plush sofa and then moved to adjust a floral painting of fat, impossible roses on a rickety and leprous bamboo easel. She further re-arranged a collection of figurines, rampant cupids and baubles on the mantelpiece, darting glances at me all the while.

  “These weren’t damaged, fortunately. And we were able to restore the exhibit and sustain, from other material in storage, the period atmosphere.”

  I thought the atmosphere more resembled a period whore
house parlor.

  She waited, brushing at the rings on both hands, while I looked around. Nothing tickled either my senses or my sight. In fact, the sections of the museum I had been in seemed relatively clear of haunting influences and certainly of any of the peripatetic type. More a pervading sense of quietude than anything, which I thought was nice.

  “So the damage was confined to a single incident? Have there been any other…um…unusual activities? Smells, disturbances, noises?”

  “The lights in this section flickered continuously for several days!”

  Screwed loose to create that effect, possibly. An old trick. I glanced at the ceiling lights. Vintage fluorescent. Old wiring and old fixtures quite frequently came in for a lot of paranormal blame.

  “But they don’t now.”

  “We replaced all the tubes.”

  I followed her back to the foyer and into her office, where I borrowed the edge of her desk to scribble down my conclusions about the lack of psychokinetic evidence. She said she’d locked the restless documents in the old safe, so I didn’t ask to see them.

  “Well,” she said, “what do you intend to do? Do you require anything to cleanse the museum?”

  I did not roll my eyes. I wanted to.

  “Ma’am, I can see no evidence of a poltergeist, nor any malignant energies connected to what you have shown me. Perhaps you should review your security system, as this appears to resemble common vandalism attempting to disguise itself as a paranormal occurrence. I’m reasonably sure a human agent is responsible.”

  Her mouth turned down. She so wanted to blame the spooks. Perhaps she hoped to match or trump the former curator. The number of visitors to the museum had increased sharply after the publicity over the axe exorcism.

  I thought privately that the event could have happened just as well on some quiet afternoon before closing by some impatient genealogist or historian. The damage to the exhibit, if it had indeed occurred as implied, sounded like someone looking for papers in false drawers, hidden compartments and book bindings. But I could excuse her. Lots of people leaped to a paranormal cause for any and every untoward incident these days, and sometimes they had good reason.

  Something nagged at me. I flipped through the file and found it. A separate item dated several days later after the first request.

  “There’s mention here in my file of ‘curse stones.’ What are they and what connection do they have with the perambulating documents? Or was this a separate incident?”

  “They were a collection. Five stones in all, the size of Victorian parlor croquet balls, though certainly not as attractive. They were presented to the museum by someone from the folklore society. They looked like just common river rocks to me, with a little polish. Crude and insignificant.”

  She riffled through a card index and then cursorily through a filing cabinet. She slammed the drawer shut and brushed three fingers across her brow.

  “I’ve been trying since I took over this appointment to bring this place up-to-date, computerize our records and donations, and modernize. I can’t seem to find the original information, but he claimed that shanty Irish immigrants brought the idea with them. They were used for ill-wishing, ‘bad cess’ stones, chalked and left on the doorstep of enemies and on graves.”

  No curse runs forever. Had these stones once rested at the foot of the St. Claire grave on Cemetery Hill?

  “Should you come across that report in the course of your…er…reorganization, I would like to see a copy of it. And they are missing? When? And where were these stones displayed?”

  The other side of her mouth turned down.

  “They weren’t. Displayed, that is. And I don’t know exactly when they disappeared, but I noticed they were gone just after the vandalism. There has been so much to re-organize. They were kept here. In that basket.”

  She pointed. The split-willow trug basket on the floor now held a brick and a couple of flatirons. The curse stones apparently had done service as a doorstop. They could have “walked”—been taken, or even tossed out—at any time. She’d as much as admitted she’d added the item to give her request weight. But I was glad she had. They intrigued me. I had the vague sense of linkage between these Irish elements.

  I gave her a copy of the form and had her sign mine as a precaution. I suggested in the future she make a police call her first option.

  The phone rang. I drifted toward the door and waited. I still had a question. Two, really.

  I could tell it was a male at the other end, by the way her voice changed like litmus paper, and then changed again as she confirmed I was still within earshot.

  “Well! Yes, she’s still here.” She stopped smoothing her sleek coiffure and told me that a Sergeant Thresher requested I attend my residence. ASAP.

  I ignored her eyebrows and said I would. I’d planned to stop by the house anyway to get some burn cream. My wrists hurt.

  “By the way, I should have asked earlier…do the maps and documents refer to any particular event in local history or were they just the usual type of sporadic family records?” Intent on reading energies I hadn’t bothered reading the printed cards identifying the exhibits.

  “Strange,” she said.

  “I’m sure it seems so,” I replied, politely. If I didn’t get out of here, I’d talk like her the rest of the day.

  “No. That was the name. The Strange family records.”

  Oh, shit.

  14.

  Because of that creepy coincidence, I forgot to ask her if the museum possessed any querns, any mortars and pestles. Many curses originated from the survival relationship of food and fertility. Maybe the curse stones had been innocently re-allocated to an agricultural exhibit by some helpful soul. Maybe I was an idiot to think that.

  Nathan had boasted that some of his family artifacts and papers were in the museum. If the museum’s migratory documents involved the history of Nathan’s family, I could only assume some fortune hunter was on the prowl again in pursuit of documentary “evidence” and clues about the buried gold legend. If that were the case, Dumbarton could discourage them.

  I remembered how excited he’d been over the possibility of “buried treasure” on his inheritance and how angry and disappointed he’d been over my response. Of course, sometimes legends of that sort have a basis in fact, but stories grow. I wasn’t a gold dowser.

  Outside, I dutifully checked over my car; that is, I peered underneath to see if anything was dripping, like brake fluid, and felt very silly doing it. I understood cars about the same way I understood quantum physics. Actually, I understood quantum physics better, at least in terms of a possible explanation for the appearance of entities and the alternate realities of matter and such.

  The black SUV, parked and empty, dominated my driveway. I squeezed the compact in beside it and gave my horn a short bleat before I got out.

  Johnny Thresher strolled around the side of the house carrying a white paper bag marked Big Burger. Beside him appeared Dumbarton, very solid, tail wagging, loping along like a regular dog. I didn’t know what to make of Dummy’s visibility and worked to keep my eyebrows level.

  “I have that warrant,” Johnny said by way of greeting. He handed it over. I tucked it under my arm. The phone call to the museum had implied urgency. I could see no sign of any breakthrough news in his manner.

  Dumbarton followed us in, something he had never done before. Maybe it was the delicious, greasy smell of French fries. I shucked my coat, led them to the kitchen, plugged in the kettle and offered Johnny a plate. He’d discarded the police windbreaker and wore the black leather jacket and jeans from last night. I wondered why the mufti. He still looked like a cop.

  Dumbarton flopped panting under the table, his black muzzle testing the air currents hopefully.

  “One’s for you,” Johnny said, pulling a foil-wrapped hamburger out of the bag. “You don’t eat enough. Probably why you passed out last night.” He extracted a carton of fries, tipped some beside the hamburger
and went to lean his bulk against the cupboard by the kitchen door. Back to a wall, out of view of the kitchen window, his automatic positioning went with his boots.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the threatening letters?” His tone was friendly, conversational.

  I paused in the middle of my rummage through the junk drawer for the tube of analgesic cream and stared at him with my mouth ajar. He’d brought lunch, a warrant and a complaint. Everything except the warrant surprised me.

  “What would be the point?”

  “Fingerprints.”

  “Fingerprints have to be on file to mean anything, Sergeant, even a civilian like me knows that much. I’ve gotten a few letters each time some haunting is featured in the media. If I’m called in to deal with it, the case gets rehashed and my exorcism often gets reported as part of a follow-up. Hate mail comes with the territory. That sort of sneak abuse always does. Nothing new or unusual about nasty letters. One gets used to it.”

  The latest clutch of vicious letters, some disguised as sympathy cards, I’d turned in to Bobby. No doubt he’d made notes about them, and Thresher had checked the files.

  I found the tube. Pushing back my sleeves, I added, “Nathan’s death was in the papers, so, of course, I got the usual diatribes and accusations.

  “Oooh.” I couldn’t help a little moan when I unclasped my bracelets.

  Johnny’s shoulders came away from the door in a lunge. I shrank back and raised my fists in automatic cross-armed defense. He grabbed my hands and I yelped and tried to twist away. Instant, automatic panic. Instant, automatic knee. Johnny turned sideways to avoid it. Dumbarton growled and lurched to his feet.

  “Lillie, relax. Hold still,” Johnny said. “Down, dog, I’m not going to hurt her.”