GHOSTS: 2014 edition (THE GHOST STORIES OF NOEL HYND # 1)

by Noel Hynd

  “I’m just surprised, that’s all,” Brooks said apologetically. “We’ve known each other for nearly five years and you’ve never uttered a word about this.”

  “Why would I? You never expressed interest in the subject.” Osaro turned to unlock his car, but Brooks placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, stopping him. “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”

  “You implied as much.”

  “I didn’t mean to. Okay? I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” Osaro said, accepting the apology. He winked good-naturedly. “Hey, I know how it is. If you haven’t experienced it, if you haven’t seen it firsthand, it’s tough to believe.” Osaro paused and motioned back toward the church.

  “The people you heard that evening, Tim,” he continued. “My panelists. All of them were skeptics, too. Same as yourself. Every one of them. Then each of them arrived at a point. They could no longer deny the reality of what they had seen or what they had experienced.” Osaro sighed. “And I didn’t mean to bite your head off for asking a few questions. This particular subject matter gets me on edge sometimes, too.”

  “What’s this ‘gift’ of yours got to do with Doctor Friedman’s house?” Brooks pressed.

  Brooks stepped aside and allowed Osaro to open the driver’s door to the van. Osaro climbed in.

  “Well, that’s kind of the point,” Reverend Osaro said. “You asked me if I believed the doctor’s story.” He closed the door and rolled down the window. “Well, hell, man. I went over to Milk Street, myself. And I do not care to go back. Whew! That place is… is…” He searched for an accurate word.

  “Is what?” Brooks asked.

  “It’s to be avoided, my man. There’s something nasty there. Exactly the way Doctor Friedman represented it. I could feel it.”

  “Then why don’t you go back and find out what the ‘something’ is? Might be interesting.”

  Osaro looked at his friend and hunched his shoulders.

  “I simply said I could feel these presences,” Osaro answered. “I said nothing about wishing to strike up lasting relationships, particularly with the malevolent ones.”

  Brooks thought about it. “Think I’d be able to feel this malevolent ‘something’ if I went over?”

  The Plymouth’s front window was fully open. Osaro started the ignition and looked quizzically at his friend from the shade of the car’s interior.

  “Why on earth would you want to?”

  “Let’s say I’m curious.”

  “That’s a lousy reason.”

  “What’s the address?”

  Osaro looked at his friend with disappointment. “I’m going to do you a favor,” Osaro said. “I’m not going to tell you.” Osaro put the Voyager in gear. The vehicle lurched forward, but Brooks kept his hand on the side mirror.

  “I just have one final question,” Brooks said.

  “Shoot,” Osaro said.

  “These people such as your panelists,” Brooks said. “The skeptics turned believers. What happens? They get transformed overnight by what they’ve seen?”

  Osaro smiled and shook his head.

  “There’s an earlier point,” Osaro said. “It’s when they begin to reexamine their earlier posture of doubt. It’s like a religious conversion, actually. One set of beliefs gives way to doubts. Then a new set of beliefs rolls in, sort of like a light fog or, more accurately, like a fog lifting, so you start to see what was right in front of you but which defied your perception before. See, that’s the key to spiritualism. And it can go hand in hand with your faith. But first you have to let the idea meander into your head. Then it makes itself at home. Once it’s comfortably ensconced in there, it usually never leaves. And only then can you understand or accept the paranormal.”

  Osaro paused.

  “Once you’ve accepted the idea that the paranormal exists,” Osaro said, “then you can accept anything that follows.”

  “And how do you know when you’re at that point?” Brooks asked. “The reexamination point, I mean?”

  Osaro laughed. “It’s funny. The individual never realizes it himself or herself. But to me it’s very clear.”

  “How?”

  “The party in question usually comes around unexpectedly and starts sniffing around the subject. Asks a lot of questions and makes a lot of vague disclaimers and pronouncements. That means the period has set in during which the individual is ready to believe.” Osaro paused and grinned. “Such as yourself this Sabbath morning, Tim. Obviously. You’re ready to develop the senses that I already have. You just have to open your mind to them. “

  Brooks considered it, then retreated. “Oh, that’s a lot of nonsense,” he said. “I’m not ready to believe any of this.”

  Osaro laughed and shook his head.

  “That’s what you think,” the minister said, grinning to emphasize his point. “Tim! You wouldn’t be here asking questions if you weren’t in the reexamination stage.”

  Brooks let the remark pass unanswered, as if it hadn’t found its mark, which it had.

  “What did you see?” Osaro asked. “What did you experience?”

  “I neither saw nor experienced anything,” Brooks said. He was aware that his response sounded defensive.

  “Well, whatever,” Osaro said airily. “Have it your way. See you on the basketball court, huh?”

  “On the court,” Brooks agreed.

  Brooks stepped back from the van. Osaro gave him a wink and the vehicle moved forward, leaving Tim Brooks standing alone. Another branch rustled above his head.

  Brooks watched the van pull away. Until now, Brooks had thought his friend to be a man of reason and good sense. Yet there had been something within Osaro’s manner this morning that was deeply disturbing. As the battered Voyager disappeared, Brooks felt a sense of foreboding creep upon him. He tried hard to dispel it, but failed.

  It was as if in discussing these very subjects—of ghosts, of spirits, of the afterlife, of the supernatural—Brooks had conferred credibility upon them. And with credibility, he knew, they acquired a reality of their own.

  Osaro’s words echoed. “Once you’ve accepted the idea that the paranormal exists, then you can accept anything that follows.” And, “You just have to open your mind to it.”

  This, from a clergyman of reason and good sense.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Late that same afternoon transpired one of those unavoidable summer tragedies. Or at least, that’s what it appeared to be. A seventeen-year-old boy named Bruce Markley and two friends were swimming in the deep choppy water between Surfside and Cisco beach. This was an isolated stretch of shoreline at an off-hour. There were never any lifeguards in the area. Markley was visiting from Ontario. His two friends were Nantucket natives.

  Without any warning, as is usually the case, a wall of sand collapsed beneath the tide about a hundred yards offshore. The underwater shift caused a riptide, sweeping westward. Strong rips occurred in this area about a dozen times per summer. Regular swimmers were aware of them and knew that when they combined with an erratic undertow, they could be dangerous.

  The local boys knew how to survive the rip. They stayed with it, let it carry them under for a moment, then bobbed to the surface and rode it for several hundred feet. Neither had ever been caught in a rip before and the experience was harrowing, but they were experienced swimmers who had always held in their mind how to react if the time came. When the time did come, they didn’t panic. Minutes later, with the tide normal again, they made their way to shore.

  It was only then, when they were safe, that a sense of dread was upon them. Bruce was missing. They looked back along the surface of the water and couldn’t find him. Still, they didn’t panic.

  The stronger of the two swimmers swam out to look for the Canadian. The other youth ran for help. At the nearest house, the latter boy called the police. Tim Brooks was one of the officers who responded. When Markley was still not located, a Coast Guard helicopter flew in from the rescue station at Br
ant Point, cruised low over the water, and joined the hunt. The search took two and a half hours. And by the time Markley’s body was located down current at Cisco, bobbing beneath the surface about fifty feet offshore, he had long since drowned. He had made, lifesaving crews speculated, the classic mistake of an inexperienced ocean swimmer caught in a riptide. He had used all his energy in a futile effort to fight the current and swim to shore. In doing so, he had expended his strength. He had then drowned in the undertow.

  Brooks was one of the officers who helped pull the body to shore. Medical technicians attempted immediate CPR as well as electric shock to try to revive Bruce Markley. Both efforts failed. Dr. Herbert Youmans, the regular medical examiner, would pronounce Markley dead an hour later at Nantucket Cottage Hospital.

  Tragic and regrettable as the death was, the incident gave greater pause to Tim Brooks than anyone else. Markley’s corpse was pulled from the water toward dusk. The rescue teams worked by floodlight, and the latter can sometimes cast strange, horrific shadows. So Brooks wasn’t entirely sure of what he had seen. But he did know that he had caught one quick glimpse of the boy’s white, waterlogged lifeless face before the CPR was attempted and before his body was whisked to an ambulance.

  Brooks read something in the boy’s expression that he didn’t like. It was a trace of extra terror. Not just the I’m-drowning-oh-my-God-please-save-me! type of terror. Something extra. Something which had an echo from the twisted, contorted death mask worn by Beth DiMarco.

  “Crazy! You’re imagining this!” Brooks told himself.

  “No, you’re not!” came an answering thought a moment later. Brooks froze. A deep chill gripped him so fiercely that he physically shuddered. He didn’t think he had subconsciously responded to his own question. No, he had distinctly heard that other intrusive voice again, communicating with him from God-knew-where, just as it had at the scene of Beth’s death.

  More thoughts rolled upon him. This time, his own: Bruce Markley had seen something horrendous out in the water in the moments before he died. Yes! Even out in the water! No one on this island is safe!

  The voice answered again.

  “Right!” it croaked.

  Brooks waited for more. But nothing more came. He watched the ambulance take the boy away. At the same time, he tried to convince himself how foolish his instincts had become.

  Here he was, in all rationality, trying to make a link between the murder of a girl in town and an accidental drowning of a boy at one of the beaches.

  Was there a link? If so, where?

  Brooks waited for the bizarre internal voice to tell him more. He asked specific questions. He wanted specific answers. But the inner voice—mischievous, elusive and taunting—had fallen silent.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Through Wednesday afternoon, the humidity built on Nantucket Island. Then toward four P.M. the sky darkened and the trees shook with a wicked wind. The most violent July weather conditions in anyone’s memory followed. It was a knockout punch of a storm, walloping the island with thunder and lightning much like a hurricane.

  Then, as quickly as it had hit, it was gone again, the wind subsiding, the rain abating and the sky lightening to a beautifully clear evening. Annette loved a walk after a storm. Her only regret after this one was that she didn’t have anyone with whom to share it. Had there been a man in her life, she would have propped him up onto his feet, pushed him out the door and placed her hand in his. And off they would have gone, listening to wet leaves click and whisper above their heads as they walked.

  She thought about this feeling as she left her house. She wondered. What were these stirrings within her? Was she finally ready to find someone new? Was she ready to fall in love again?

  Or was she experiencing loneliness on a moody rainy afternoon?

  As she walked from Cort Street, she took no specific path.

  Yet something directed her toward Vestal Street.

  It hadn’t been her intention to walk anywhere near the Mid Island Convalescent Home. It just happened. Annette realized that she was near the retirement facility when she recognized the building. It was only a few blocks from Cort Street so it was no surprise when she rounded a corner and recognized the old structure.

  She approached it and was struck with a second happenstance. The only person she knew at Mid Island, Helen Ritter, was seated on the front porch, gently rocking.

  Annette walked past and looked up.

  The old woman nodded and raised a frail hand in recognition.

  A tangle of white hair framed her face.

  “Hello,” Annette said.

  “How are you, dearie?” asked Mrs. Ritter.

  Annette stopped. “You weren’t out during the storm, were you?” she asked.

  The old woman cupped a hand near her ear and asked for Annette to repeat. Annette came closer and did.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” Mrs. Ritter said emphatically. “Sakes alive, no!” She laughed. “I was inside. More sensible there, isn’t it? Storms can be beautiful. But I don’t care for them.” Her voice had an occasional creak, like an old house. Graciously, Annette said she felt much the same way. Then Mrs. Ritter asked if Annette would care to sit for a moment, indicating a ladder-back chair beside her. Having no excuse, and not ready yet to return to Cort Street, Annette accepted the invitation.

  The old woman rocked gently. A slight breeze, one of the last from the storm, swept across the porch.

  “Where do I know you from?” Mrs. Ritter asked after several moments of thought.

  Annette reminded her.

  “Ah,” the old woman said, still gently rocking in her chair. ‘Yes.” A Pause. “Of course. Timmy brought you by.” She pondered it for several more seconds. “You didn’t do this to me, did you, dearie?” Mrs. Ritter finally asked. With shrewd pinkish eyes, she watched the younger woman.

  “Do what to you?”

  Mrs. Ritter raised her brows and grimaced. “Have me locked up, of course,” she said. “Have me imprisoned.” Her gaze traveled across the porch and found an inquisitive sparrow on a railing opposite her. Then the bird flew off.

  “I’m not allowed to leave this property anymore,” Mrs. Ritter said. “Not unless I have my own escort. A chaperon, it would be. And at my age!” She shook her head, and made a tisking sound, as if to suggest shame on someone, if not everyone.

  Annette felt a pang of guilt. If she had never said anything about a nighttime disturbance, suspicion would never have landed on Mrs. Ritter.

  “I’m sorry. But I didn’t say anything to the staff here,” Annette said. “But I’m sure everyone is concerned with your safety. I’m sure… “

  “I’m locked up! I’m a prisoner here,” she said again. “All alone. No real family. My students were my family. My little dunderheads,” she said with a trailing laugh. “Well, they’re all grown now. Still my family, but I’m not theirs.”

  Helen Ritter thought about it some more. “Not much more left for me now. Except to wait for my final time and place.” Another pause, then. “A funny thing, isn’t it? You lead a good life. Then they put you away in a jail like this. You have all the time in the world and yet not very much time at all. Isn’t that strange?”

  She said this so routinely that Annette had no idea how to respond.

  So Mrs. Ritter assessed the younger woman in an awkward silence, one that she eventually broke, herself.

  “Death’s antechamber,” Mrs. Ritter said. “That’s what this assisted living place is. It’s the last place you go to before you go to your final place.”

  Annette didn’t know how to respond. So she remained quiet.

  “Well, it’s done, anyway. So why did you come to see me to start with?” Mrs. Ritter asked.

  “Someone was coming into my house at night,” Annette confessed. “The first time, it appeared to be an older woman. She scared me.”

  “Ahhh,” Mrs. Ritter said. Her tone bordered between exasperation and understanding. “And Timmy Brooks thought it was
me?”

  “No, he never said that. He wanted me to meet you just in case it was.”

  “Did the woman look like me?”

  Annette looked at her. “Only remotely.”

  “So what do you think, dearie?” Mrs. Ritter asked softly, turning and looking her full in the face. “Was it me?”

  “I know it wasn’t you,” Annette said. “I saw the woman who was in my room. And then I saw another woman, a younger woman, downstairs. Neither one was you.”

  As she glanced away, a new expression took hold of Mrs. Ritter, one of vindication. “Then why can’t I go for a walk by myself?” she asked

  “I don’t know. That’s not something I have any influence upon.”

  “Where do you live, dearie?” Mrs. Ritter asked.

  “Seventeen Cort Street.”

  “Oh.” There was recognition. “That house.”

  “You know it?”

  “Very well.”

  “Ever been in it?”

  “Long, long ago. I used to know the occupants.” A smile played at the comer of the old woman’s lips. “But I used to know everyone.”

  “Who owned it?”

  Mrs. Ritter gazed off. She befuddled Annette. From moment to moment, she was either sharp as a tack or she hazily drifted into her own sphere, not even hearing questions that were posed to her. It was as if Mrs. Ritter inhabited two worlds: one outside her and one deeply within her. She looked back to Annette.

  “Who owned Seventeen Cort Street?” Annette repeated.

  “Yes. I know you do,” Mrs. Ritter said, misunderstanding, either intentionally or otherwise. “It’s a lovely house.” She paused. “Do you have some time today? Will you come upstairs with me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if…”

  The old woman’s hand settled on Annette’s. It was very cold. The iciness of the touch came as such a surprise that Annette recoiled slightly. But Mrs. Ritter now seemed very sharp again, her gaze settling very firmly into Annette’s eyes.

  “Of course you can,” Mrs. Ritter insisted. “The question is only whether you’re willing to or not. Now, say yes. I’ve something to show you that’s very important.”