by J. M. Barlog
Dwight shook his head.
“Nothing here.”
“I'm telling you she was here. She looked through the wall right at me with her black eyes.”
“Jenny, exactly where was she?” Dwight asked.
Jenny pointed to the corner to the left of the chair.
Dwight began sampling the air with a hand-held instrument the size of a calculator. His foot-long probe collected samples far enough away that it eliminated Dwight's own body as an influence on the reading.
“Nothing,” he said dejectedly, after exhausting his scan.
“Jenny, was the ghost actually in this room?” Dwight asked in the way a physician asks a patient where it hurts.
“What are we, splitting hairs now?” Warren shot in.
“Yes, I mean no. Her face appeared as if it was coming through the wall.”
Dwight retreated to his equipment, rewound the video machine and then the tape machine. While he carefully watched the screen, he listened to a playback through his headset.
“I'm sorry, I've got nothing.”
Then Dwight shifted to an oscilloscope screen while playing back the magnetic field tape. The green line of light remained perfectly horizontal.
“See Jenny, it was nothing. There's nothing to be afraid of,” Warren said, as if the lack of physical evidence made it so.
Jenny searched Dwight's eyes.
Dwight could do no more than wonder if he had erred, or if it was impossible to gain tangible proof that a ghost had inhabited this room a few minutes ago.
“I'm calling Rosenstein. Let's get you in right away to talk to him again.”
Jenny offered no resistance.
Dwight stared at his readouts, praying to see something he might have missed.
****
The leather couch in Rosentein's office was the one place Jenny felt most apprehensive about. But lying down was less painful than sitting.
Sy sat beyond her field of vision and asked her to stare at the ceiling. Whether she talked or not, and what she said, was completely up to her. He said it was best to vocalize anything that came to mind.
For ten minutes, Jenny said nothing.
Sy sat in stoic silence and made no movements to distract her.
“It's not a hallucination. I know that now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it wants to destroy me. It is bent on killing me.”
“Are you saying that is how your arm came to be burned?”
“Yes. That's what I told you before. You don't believe me.”
“Jenny, what do you think the ghost represents?”
Jenny was silent. What kind of response was he looking for?
Sy waited.
“Must it represent something?” she asked at last.
“What do you mean?”
“Can't it just be? Can't it just exist on its own?”
“Jenny, were you smoking that night?”
“I told you, I don’t smoke.”
****
Rick sat on the wooden bench outside Dwight Mackenzie's office door for ten minutes. Then he rose and paced uneasily back-and-forth amid students flowing past on their exodus out of the building. Most leveled a curious eye at a seemingly nervous man in a tie and jacket.
From the midst of the crowd, Dwight emerged and stopped at his office door, shifting a stack of books from one arm to the other.
Rick moved closer, which caused Dwight to fumble with his keys.
Dwight shot him a sidelong glance and guessed him to be an authority figure by the way he carried himself. Most likely a cop or a lawyer.
“Dwight Mackenzie?”
“What do the police want with me?” Dwight responded with his own question, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He, however, waited before starting in.
“Good guess. I'm Detective Rick Walker,” Rick said, fumbling for his next line.
Dwight gave himself a silent accolade for knowing his psychology.
“I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
“I’m very busy. I don’t have much time. Is this about Jenny Garrett?”
“You a psychic or something?” Rick said.
Dwight motioned him in with a casual wave of his free arm.
“No. What's it all about?”
“Once we're inside.”
Dwight offered Rick the chair across the desk, while he set his books on the desk between them. Afterward, Dwight slumped into his chair, and as if burdened with a great load, kicked his feet onto the corner of his desk. He lifted his glasses to sit on top of his head and vigorously rubbed his eyes.
“Okay, ready if you are.”
“I'd like to know what your involvement is with the Garretts? You family, friend, or something else?”
“Something else.”
“And exactly what something else is that?”
“I'm an investigator.”
Rick suddenly became alert.
“And you investigate what?” Rick already disliked this Mackenzie guy and figured things could only get worse.
“Paranormal phenomena.”
“Paranormal phenomena?”
“That's correct.”
“So, you're saying you investigate what with the Garretts?”
“Apparitions.”
“Ghosts?”
“If you prefer.”
“You're a ghostbuster?”
Rick drove down the urge to laugh out loud; he could see Dwight was serious.
“No. I'm saying I investigate paranormal occurrences for authenticity.”
“Okay, what paranormal occurrences are you investigating that involves the Garretts?”
“Mr. Walker, I'd like to know exactly why you're questioning me. I'm not sure it's proper that I continue to answer your questions without knowing the nature of why you're asking them.”
“Don't worry, Mr. Mackenzie, it's proper. As far as I know, there is no law of privileged communications for ghostbusters.”
“Jenny Garrett believes she being haunted.”
“Haunted? By a ghost?”
“Actually, she claims it's a ghost of herself.”
“A ghost of herself? What are you saying?”
“I'm sorry, I can see you’re having trouble with this.” Dwight became sardonic, “I'm saying Jenny Garrett came to me about three weeks ago seeking my help. She believes there is a ghost of herself haunting her.”
“And what are you doing about it?”
“I'm investigating. What are you doing?”
“I'm investigating.”
Rick was quickly tiring of Dwight's little college-boy game.
“Investigating what?” Dwight persisted.
“I'd like to stay on your investigation for the moment.”
“Why? What are you investigating that is so secret? I’ve been painfully honest with you. The least you can do is be painfully honest with me.”
“The circumstances surrounding Jenny's auto accident.”
“From what I understand, Jenny lost control of her car and went over a guard rail while coming down a hill. What's there to investigate?”
“Have you found out anything in your investigation?”
“No, have you?”
“Did you know Jenny Garrett before her accident?”
“No. And I really don't know her now. This is strictly a professional inquiry into what she may, or may not, be experiencing in that house.”
“Has Jenny spoken to you about the accident?”
“Only to say she has no memory of what happened, nor of the weeks preceding the accident. My primary concern is what Jenny believes she is experiencing at the present.”
“Which is?”
“Where am I losing you? This isn’t that difficult. An apparition of herself. She also claims that there has been physical contact between her and this spirit.”
“And you believe her?”
“Mr. Walker, I believe strong evidence exists to suggest that there is some plane of spiritual e
xistence after death. I'm just trying to find out if there exists some way of confirming that.”
“How does Warren feel about your inquiry?”
“Right now he's ambivalent. He wants to help Jenny. I understand she's also under the care of a competent psychiatrist.”
****
With a rock-steady arm, Warren helped Jenny out of the car and up the stairs to the front door. Her session with Rosenstein seemed to have plummeted her into a depressed state. There was a distance in her eyes; like she was trying to separate herself from Warren. She intimated with her eyes that somehow she had concluded that he was the bad guy in all this.
The improvement in Jenny's stride was noticeable, though she was still wobbly when it came time to climb the porch stairs. Only Warren's tight hold kept her from stumbling.
Think positive, Warren kept telling himself.
“You're definitely improving, Jenny,” he said.
“I know. I think I'm about ready to go solo up to the bedroom, don't you?”
“I think you're pushing too hard. You still have another week before Morrison said you'd be ready for any solo activity.”
“Maybe a little at a time.”
Jenny smiled.
Warren kissed her, but Jenny pulled away surprised and confused. Warren pretended not to notice.
“I love you, Jenny,” he whispered, as if he needed to hear it more than her.
Jenny tightened her fingers around his forearm. Why didn't she feel it? Why had it become so hard for her to say I love you? She realized she had only said it once since coming home. Was Warren trying to get her to say it? Maybe it was time to make love.
That very thought sent a shiver up her spine. But she resisted it. When Warren carried her to their bed, she would let him know she was ready to have him inside her again.
Warren pushed the front door open fully, extending his arm out in a chivalrous salute as Jenny entered unassisted.
“How about tea?” he asked as he hung their jackets in the foyer closet, then rummaged through his pockets for his cigarettes.
“Where's Mr. Chips? Did you leave him outside again?” Jenny asked.
Warren looked guilty.
Jenny paused at the outskirts of the living room, expecting Chips to come bounding off the sofa or, at least, run in from the kitchen.
“I made sure I let him in before we left. Here, Chips!”
“Did you lock him in his cage?”
“No. You know I wouldn't do that. Mr. Chips, come on boy. If that damn dog shit by the kitchen door, I'll...”
Warren stomped into the kitchen, feeding his anger with the thought of having to clean up another one of the dog’s foul messes.
But he found the kitchen clean and quiet, just as he had left it.
At the kitchen window, Warren scanned the breadth of the yard, suspecting he might have forgotten about the mutt and left him out in the cold. As guilt rippled down his backbone, he glanced over his shoulder to make certain Jenny was not staring at him. With so many things to juggle, Chips remained at the bottom of Warren's list of responsibilities.
Satisfied that Chips was not left outdoors, Warren put a pitcher of water into the microwave and rummaged through the cupboard for Scottish shortbread cookies. Jenny loved shortbread cookies with tea, and after her distressing visit with Rosenstein, she'd need something to brighten her up.
“Chips, are you down there?” Jenny called from the top of the basement stairs.
Nothing.
She listened with hands planted on her hips to let the dog know she was angry. But the basement door had been closed, and surely Chips would have been scratching at it if he'd been inadvertently locked down there.
“Come on, Chips. Get out here,” Warren yelled with growing concern in his voice.
“Not in the basement,” Jenny said. She shifted her search upward but remained at the base of the staircase leading up.
“Mr. Chips, you up there?”
No sound came down to her.
“Warren, did you close our bedroom door before we left?”
“No, why?”
“Because I didn't either. The door’s closed.”
Warren stood with Jenny, gazing up the staircase. The bedroom door was closed.
“I swear, I didn't close the door on the damn dog,” Warren pleaded.
Jenny felt a wave of terror sweep through her.
“Mr. Chips, are you up there?” she yelled with a melange of anger and fear in her voice.
“I'll go check.”
“No, we'll go check.”
With Warren’s help, Jenny did the stairs one at a time without incident. They stopped at the bedroom door. Warren also noticed that the door to his den was closed—he never closed that door, not even to sleep. He was hoping though, that the den door might escape Jenny's notice.
When Jenny opened the bedroom door, a rush of cold air that brushed past her on its way into the hall. The far window was wide open. Jenny refused to go in. The window curtains luffed about in the breeze and the room was frigid.
“I didn't...”
“I know,” Warren said, moving past her to the window. His chills ran to the very core of his body. And they came from other than the cold air.
Warren grabbed the window handles, stopped, and stared at the ground below. The dog’s mangled body lay sprawled in the midst of a bushy copse with a thick limb impaling the animal's neck. Its tongue hung lifelessly at full extension from its mouth.
“Jenny, don't look,” Warren said. But it was too late. Jenny was beside him, staring at the scene below.
“Mr. Chips!” she cried out, tears streaming down her face.
“Come on, Jenny, get away from the window. Don't look.”
Warren scooped her into his arms, holding her face away from the window while he closed it one-handed.
For a time, Jenny sat under a blanket on the living room sofa, sipping tea while Warren took care of Mr. Chips’s remains. He buried the dog under the sprawling elm in the garden. Chips always liked sitting under that tree and chasing the squirrels that taunted him from the safety of its limbs. It seemed only fitting he be laid to rest there.
Neither spoke when Warren returned. He reheated his tea and sat down beside Jenny. She no longer trembled, but neither would she look him in the eyes.
“Don't leave me alone in the house, Warren,” she said after a long silence.
For the first time in his thirty years, Warren truly felt the icy chills of pure terror gnawing away at his spine. And he knew in his heart this was something they could never escape by running.
****
Dwight sat in the corner of the bedroom, his mind wandering in a dozen different directions at once. The instruments surrounding him remained silent. A weak glow seeped in around the window drapes while Jenny lay curled in bed under her blanket.
Dwight flicked on his red-filtered flashlight, shining the light across the face of the bank of instruments on his flank. Nothing moved. No variations in sound, temperature or magnetic field.
The hours dragged on.
“Are you awake?” Jenny's voice rose like a beacon out of the still. Her vibrations caused a needle to scratch across a rolling sheet of paper.
“Yeah. Can't sleep?”
“No.”
“You frightened?” Dwight asked all of a sudden.
“No. Just can't sleep.”
Dwight shifted and, at the same time, switched off his flashlight. Losing the red light had little impact on the dark room. Only the outline of Jenny's form was discernible.
“You think I'm crazy?”
“No. Do you think you're crazy?”
“No.”
Dwight watched Jenny shift to face him.
“You think there's any chance you'll get something on one of your machines?”
“I hope so. But we're dealing with uncharted territory.”
Silence ensued for a long moment.
“Dwight, what's going to happen to me?”
“What do you mean?”
The pause sent bile into Dwight's throat. He knew what she wanted to know.
“I mean, even if your machine picks up something, it won't help me. Nothing can help me. I know the ghost killed Mr. Chips. I know it is bent on killing me.”
“Jenny, let's take this situation one step at a time.”
“Dwight, I don't know how long I can last. I'm terrified. This ghost or spirit isn't going to go away. It isn't going to stop, is it?”
“Jenny, can I ask you something?”
“Can it help me?”
“I don't know. Do you feel anything different in your life since the accident?”
“Different in what way?”
“I don't know. If what you're saying is true, that there is somehow a ghost of yourself haunting you, it would seem that there must be a void somewhere? Does that make sense?”
“It could. Maybe that void is my memory loss. Maybe that's why I have trouble remembering things.”
Dwight said nothing for a long moment.
Jenny considered how she had felt since leaving the hospital. There was so much different in her life that no one thing stood out over the rest.
“Anything else?”
“I...I have this feeling that there is something missing...”
“When?”
“When I'm with Warren.”
“How do you mean?”
“When we got married we were very romantic. He would excite me just holding my hand. But now I don't feel anything inside when we try to be intimate.”
Dwight thought for a moment. Her disfigurement could be the decisive factor.
“Could what you're saying be physical? I mean as a result of the accident.”
“I don't know. But I have this strange feeling that it has something to do with those two weeks out of my life that I can't remember. Maybe there was a reason why...”
Jenny stopped suddenly as a blurry image raced across her mind. She saw Warren looking at her...in a restaurant. She watched his lips move to form the words, I am happy, but she heard no voice.
“I can't feel...love. That's about the best way I can describe it.”
“But you can't find anything in your memory that might be the root cause for those feelings?”
“No. I just feel empty inside when Warren kisses me. Does that sound crazy to you?”
Dwight shifted, drawing the sides of his sleeping bag up around his shoulders as he sat cross-legged on the floor.