by Noel Hynd
“Well, first off,” he answered, “I think what we’re talking about exists on at least two discernible levels. First there’s the spirit world. Human souls. The psyche of men and women which still seem to drift across our level of living.” He paused. “Nantucket seems to be a unique little patch of the world. Difficult to leave. Perhaps that’s why we might have a population of worldly spirits—benign, wandering, migratory souls who simply don’t leave.”
Osaro shrugged and looked his friend in the eye.
“‘Ghosts,’ some people would call these,” Osaro explained, “though I don’t care for the term, as you know.”
“Uh huh,” said Brooks. For some reason, he felt a strange tingle as the subject misted out into the open.
“Then there’s the rest of the nether world,” Osaro said respectfully. “The stuff that the bishop is always trying to hang on me. The stuff I wouldn’t dare go near. The occult. Black masses. The cabala. Demonology.”
“Why wouldn’t you go near it?”
“First off, the lunatic asylums of this country are filled with people who have messed around with it too much. I struggle to keep it balanced, myself.”
Brooks fidgeted with his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Fine so far,” he said. “Keep talking.”
“Second,” George Osaro said, “it seems to me that there’s an awful lot we don’t know about the human spirit. Where it comes from. More importantly: where it goes. Perhaps every earthly death gives birth to a thousand new lives.” He continued to weigh his thoughts. “It also seems as though we know very little about reality. What it really is. How many dimensions it has. Are there three? Four? Ten? Six million? The same number as there are angels dancing on the head of a pin? And what are the full reaches of each of these realities, Tim? Got a guess?”
Osaro drew a breath and sipped his tea, about which he had almost forgotten. “I’m used to being pulled in two different spiritual directions, Tim. See, I’m Japanese, but I’m American. I’m a very devout Christian, but I’ve studied Shinto. I’m a true believer, but I harbor grave doubts.” He looked at his friend. “Are you following me?” he asked.
“I asked what scares you,” Brooks answered.
“I’m trying to draw an analogy. Try to stay on my wavelength with this, all right?”
“All right.”
“I sometimes think that we have a foot on at least two different planes: the reality we know and at least one other reality that we sometimes sense, but may not be entirely capable of understanding. That’s what I meant about being Japanese but also being an American. Or being a believer and a doubter. Both of those forces are within all of us. Now, sometimes we are very firmly planted in the reality we expect to be in. Regular, normal, everyday life, right?”
“Right.”
“But then there’s the other region. Sometimes that other door opens up. That other reality is staring us right in the face. We try to dismiss it, but it’s there and we’re looking right at it. Then we make all these excuses about why we didn’t really see it or can’t really believe it. But, oh brother, it’s there, isn’t it? We know because we’ve gotten a glimpse of it. The realm of those no longer living with us. ‘The dead,’ if you wish. ‘Spirits,’ as I prefer. We know it’s there. But most of us just can’t fathom it. See, the difference between Mary Rovere, Leon Kane, Doctor Friedman and the rest of the world is that those people stopped rejecting what they had experienced. Instead, they embraced it. Now they believe.”
“Why does it scare you?” Brooks asked.
“Only part of it does. But doesn’t it scare you?”
Brooks shrugged.
“Come on. Answer me,” Osaro insisted good-naturedly. “I answered you.”
“If I decided that I believed in it,” Brooks said, “then, yes. It would scare me.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s… It’s an unknown. It’s…”
“Exactly! Suddenly a dark window is drawn up. The mysterious door opens. You might see some familiar faces. Spirits of those you know, maybe. A wonderful grandparent you loved long ago as a child. A young friend who died of illness seven years ago. But travel beyond that, Tim. Take the next logical step, and bang! You may be looking into a horrible chasm. A big black inexplicable void. No maps, no points of reference, and not much literature which is of any use. Boy, oh boy!” The minister shook his head. “That’s not intimidating?”
“But, for the sake of argument,” Brooks continued, “if you believe in God and Christ…”
“That’s the upside,” Osaro said, taking up the argument. “The reassuring part. But then you have to believe in Hell and the Devil as well, don’t you? If there’s an afterlife for Good, then why wouldn’t there be one for Evil, too? And when you contact that alternative parallel universe, what are we dealing with? Benevolent familiar spirits? Or the satanic ones? If we don’t know immediately, might we be better off just leaving it alone? How do we know that those forces on the other side of the void will leave us alone once we’ve made contact?”
Osaro posed his questions quickly, as if he had spent many hours on the various points. Then he tried to answer them. “You heard what Doctor Friedman had to say,” Osaro said, almost angrily. “You and I can’t explain what was going on in that house. Nor can anyone else. So let’s face it. There was some malevolent presence there. And its will was in opposition to the human presence.”
Two weeks earlier, Brooks might have suggested that Dr. Friedman had been having an elaborate joke at everyone’s expense. But Brooks had seen the wreckage of Annette Carlson’s china cabinet. He had seen—or thought he had seen—the misty black cloud that had seemed to try to take on the configuration of a large man. So the thought didn’t occur to him.
Instead, very slowly, very ominously, at the back of his neck he felt something like hands. Icy hands. Cold as mortality, lightly touching. He brushed at the base of his neck and the touch was gone. He supposed it had been some quirky draft. Yet he noticed that his palms were moistening, too.
“…and, of course, being a Christian is a matter of faith,” Osaro continued, as Brooks tuned back in. “So there’s always another darker possibility. Something even more horrible.”
“What’s that?”
“As a Christian, one could always be wrong. Perhaps none of our theology works at all. Maybe Buddha was right and Jesus was wrong. Maybe I should forget the Ten Commandments and embrace the ‘eightfold noble path.’”
Brooks felt uncomfortable. Osaro studied his friend carefully. He must have sensed Brooks’ reactions because he made an abrupt attempt to change the conversation.
“Oh, for heaven’ sakes,” the minister said. “What are we talking about? I can’t believe you came here to mess around with this. Why are you here, Tim? Have the collection plates been audited? Am I being arrested?”
“There’s a house on this island,” Brooks said steadily. “I need you to visit it with me. Soon. Then tell me what you think.”
“About what?”
A momentary pause, then Brooks answered. “It’s a disturbed place. There’s something in it.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you? For someone who was a doubter less than a week ago.”
“I have my reasons.”
“I guess so.” Then, pondering the request, Osaro backtracked.
“What sort of ‘something?’ “
“Same as Doctor Friedman’s,” Brooks answered.
The clergyman thought about it for a few more seconds.
“Which house?” he finally asked.
“Seventeen Cort Street.”
Osaro frowned and tried to place the address. “That’s not one that I’ve ever heard about,” he said pensively. “Must be something new.” Then he frowned and asked, “Isn’t that over near where some movie actress just moved in?”
“That’s the house. An older couple owned the place for years. A Mr. and Mrs. Shipley.”
“Of course,” Osaro said. “They’re parishioners here. They
still live on the island.”
“They sold Seventeen Court Street and bought a smaller place farther out of town,” said Brooks, who had that morning researched the property’s ownership as well as any history of disturbances. “The transaction was in May of this year.”
There was another moment’s hesitation from the pastor. Then Osaro’s mood changed. “Oh, these Hollywood people!” he growled. “They’re worse than the rude New Yorkers. What’s this girl want? Publicity?”
“No. I don’t think so,” Brooks answered.
“What’s her name again?” Osaro asked.
“Annette Carlson. She’s well known.”
Reverend Osaro thought he’d heard the name. But he didn’t go to many movies, he confessed, and wouldn’t have recognized her. So he considered the request for several additional seconds.
“Well, I’ve never heard of any problem at that address,” he concluded skeptically. “Let me tell you. There are old houses around Nantucket, plenty of them, with spiritual inhabitants. There’s no doubt in my mind. But it’s always the same houses. And the same spirits, even though they might take a decade or two off between appearances. We don’t just hatch out new ones. See what I mean? That’s what makes it credible. Generation after generation, people see the same things. They get the same feelings.”
Brooks told him about the two sightings of a woman in white. Or two different women in white, if one took the view that it was an older woman the first time and someone bearing a resemblance to the late Mary Elizabeth DiMarco the second. And then there had been the appearance of Mrs. Ritter a few hours after she had died. And finally, ominously, Brooks told about the china cabinet.
“I saw the damage myself,” Brooks said. “I don’t think five strong men could have thrown that cabinet and smashed it like that.” He stopped short of mentioning the black presence. Osaro listened intently and without interrupting.
“So maybe she just gave the china cabinet one big yank from the top,” Osaro suggested. “I’ve seen some clever frauds from time to time. You’d be surprised.”
“The cabinet was bolted to the wall, George. Two antique iron bolts, torn completely out of the woodwork. Ripped loose right at that moment by something very, very strong. We were in the next room, George, and no one else was in the house.”
Osaro’s skepticism softened. “Is she living there now? This actress?” he asked.
“She’s checked into a guest house,” Brooks said. “Doesn’t want to stay in the house again alone. Not just yet. I don’t know that she’ll even go back to it. She’s talking about selling and going back to California.”
Osaro pursed his lips. “That scared, huh?”
“Legitimately.”
Osaro sighed. He glanced again at his desk.
“You heard what I told you, right? How the blasted diocese is on my pale yellow butt about this stuff already?”
Brooks nodded. “This is not church property we’re going to,” the policeman said. “You’re on your own time and it’s private. No one has to know. We’re not going to take pictures and we don’t have to send the bishop an invitation.”
Osaro wavered. He smiled wanly, unconvinced. He sighed with displeasure and ran his hand through his hair.
“No. I can’t do it,” he said softly.
“Come on, George,” Brooks continued. “Just come over and get a feel of the place. You said you had this gift. Well, I want to know what you think is there. That’s all. I promise. Sniff around the address once, then you’re out of it.”
“This isn’t crackpot stuff, is it?” Osaro asked, wavering slightly. “You’re absolutely sure?”
Brooks sighed and revealed what he had held back until that moment. He told about the black vision in the house, as well as the figure that he sensed, or saw, or thought he had seen, at the time of his nightmare.
Osaro’s eyes locked, stunned, upon his friend. When Brooks finished his explanation, Osaro waited several seconds to let everything sink in before he answered.
“So you saw something, Timmy?” Osaro asked. “Something evil?”
“Yes. I did.”
“Then the answer is ‘no’ more than ever,” Osaro finally said.
“Why?”
“First, I’m not in a position right now to flagrantly disobey Bishop Albright. But second, and much more importantly, I have no desire to help raise a malevolent spirit.”
“How would you help raise it?”
“By doing battle with it! Fight with one of these and you’ll lose every time! Plus, you strengthen it through conflict.”
“Please?”
“Tim, I told you!” Osaro said angrily. “This is the occult! This is demonology! This is exactly the stuff I don’t touch!” Osaro was impassioned. “Whatever this spirit wants, let it run its course. Let it have its way and go back to whatever sphere of reality it came from. Trust me! That’s the only path.”
“All right,” Brooks finally said with a sigh. He rose to leave. “I can’t make you help.”
“I’m sorry,” Osaro said. “Right now, I feel like my hands have been tied.”
Brooks nodded in disappointment. “There’s one other thing,” he said. “It’s been bothering me since I sat down here fifteen minutes ago.”
“Yes?”
“You were at your desk writing when I arrived. Never looked up, greeted me by name, but claimed you hadn’t been out of your study for an hour. You can’t see the parking lot from where you’re sitting, but you knew I was coming. How?”
“Telepathic powers,” Osaro said. His tone was carefully measured so that Brooks had to guess whether he was teasing or not. “I developed them at seminary.”
“Bull!” Brooks said. “The only thing you developed in three years at seminary was a two-handed jump shot. And not even a very good one.”
Osaro grinned. “You’re the detective. What do you think?”
“You were lying when you said you hadn’t left the room. You saw me coming from the window in the kitchen. That’s where you made your tea, which was hot when I sat down. You heard the footsteps of a man approaching your office. All of your volunteers are women. So you guessed the footsteps were mine.”
Osaro leaned back in his chair. He raised his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively. “Very good!” said Osaro. “You’re absolutely right.”
Brooks smiled.
“But you know what, Tim?” Osaro said quickly and soberly. “Everything else I said? You know. About those levels of reality? The different planes? The afterlife? The malevolent spirits?”
“Yeah?”
“Take it in dead earnest, my friend. I meant every word of it. Particularly,” he concluded, “the part about a door opening to the unknown. And the part about being scared.”
“I think you’re being a bit dire,” Brooks said.
“Think so?” “Yes.”
“Do you know how this particular door to the unknown got opened?” Osaro asked.
Brooks thought about it, then shook his head.
“Then you won’t know how to close it, either,” Osaro said. “Timmy, do everyone on this island a favor. Drop this. Bum the house down if you have to. Just don’t mess around with what you can’t control or understand.”
“George, we’re not living in the Middle Ages.”
“Thank God for that! But I do have a bit of knowledge about what we’re talking about. Okay? So see if you can take someone else’s advice for a change.”
“You’re reacting as if I’m bringing demons up from Hell, itself, Parson. And that if I don’t watch what I do, they’ll come up one by one in all their evil and blackness and take over our island.”
Osaro saw nothing amusing about Brooks’ remark. He pursed his lips. His gaze settled deeply into Brooks’ eyes.
“Let’s put it this way,” Osaro answered. “First there was one at Doctor Friedman’s house on Milk Street. Now there’s one at the Carlson home on Cort Street. So as a matter of fact, Tim, you’re right. What you descri
bed: a whole legion of them invading this wealthy, beautiful isolated island we call Nantucket, provoked by something bent out of shape in their universe. So, well, yes. That is exactly what I fear.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Brooks was back in his Jeep a few minutes later, replaying the long conversation with George Osaro in his mind. Then, when Brooks returned to police headquarters, a surprise waited for him. Dr. Herbert Youmans, the island’s regular medical examiner, had stopped by. When Youmans had learned that Brooks was out, he left no message. Only a business card on Brooks’ desk.
“Did he say what he wanted?” Brooks asked the receptionist.
“He said it was nothing urgent,” she said with a shrug. Tim Brooks gazed at Youmans’ card. The medical examiner rarely came by the police station. Of late, he had been particularly scarce. Lieutenant Agannis seemed bent upon phasing him out in favor of a brigade of younger and, in Brooks’ opinion, less reliable physicians. So the doctor had probably cruised through very quickly.
Dr. Youmans was semiretired and barely worked twenty hours a week. Brooks picked up a telephone and called the doctor’s office number. His nurse said he was out.
When Brooks called Youmans’ home, his wife revealed that the doctor had gone fishing.
“Blue fish off Smith’s Point this time,” she ranted. “And guess who gets to clean ’em. Not Herb! I feel like I work in a seafood store I’ve cleaned so many darned fish this last week.”
“Please tell him I called,” was the detective’s only message. Brooks gazed at the pathologist’s card again, as if it might tell him something by itself. It didn’t. Seconds later his phone rang. A woman in Siasconset had reported some malicious vandalism in the library of her house and wanted the police to take a look. By the luck of the draw, Timothy Brooks was the detective assigned to the case.
He drove out to the woman’s home and parked in her driveway.
She was waiting outside for him.
Her name was Mrs. Thelma Lewis. She was a widow in her sixties and was deeply frightened. Brooks did what he could to settle her. Then she showed him what had happened. And, like the day when Timothy Brooks had been led to the massacred ducks, his initial reaction was one of revulsion.