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

by Noel Hynd

  Annette looked at it with fascination and wonder, mixed with a little shock.

  No one ever cleaned behind the bed, Henry conveyed. It’s been there for years. Everyone has missed it.

  He saw the thought successfully arrive within Annette’s head.

  And she took it for her own.

  Perfect, Henry reasoned again. Perfect again.

  Annette lay the sword on the bed and went about her business.

  Henry drifted downward through the house.

  Annette found all the items she had come to the house for and departed.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  No more than six hundred yards away, in the open field where Beth DiMarco had died, a local building contractor used a small steam shovel to break the surface of the earth. The gasoline-powered shovel clawed up an area twenty by twenty feet. Then, carefully, a team of auxiliary police officers with spades, rakes and hand shovels prowled deeper into the earth.

  Two hours came and went. Then three. Noon arrived and passed. The excavation occurred directly below where Mary Beth had huddled into a sleeping bag with her boyfriend… and died before the next morning.

  Toward three-thirty in the afternoon, Brooks’ shovel struck wood. At first he thought he’d hit a long box—a makeshift coffin—and he was certain that he had found the bones, some of them, anyway—of Henry Flaherty. But the wood, when he and another policeman moved it, turned out to be a rotting dresser top abandoned many years earlier. They pulled it out of the earth and kept digging.

  More time passed. More work went into the dig. They were four feet beneath the earth’s surface when they hit what they wanted, even though they didn’t recognize it at first.

  One of the diggers, a woman, came upon a long strip of discarded canvas, rolled up and about eight feet in length. It obstructed her shovel and she asked for help pulling it out of the ground. It was only when Brooks saw it coming up, saw its length and shape, that he dropped his own shovel and walked over.

  “Want to unroll it?” he offered.

  The female volunteer shook her head. She passed on the honor.

  “Someone give me a hand with it,” Brooks said next.

  Someone did.

  They pulled the canvas to a bare plot of grass. Brooks took the lead in unrolling it. Whatever the contents of the canvas, it had acquired earth and water over the years. It wasn’t pretty. Brooks pushed away the dirt and the package took a shape. He found that it had been tied in three places, which told him immediately that this wasn’t something that had been simply thrown into a hole. It definitely had contained something when it went into the ground.

  Brooks cut the ropes and started to bend back the canvas. Several of the auxiliaries gathered around. Others preferred not to. The scent of tobacco smoke that wafted to Brooks as he dug deeper into the canvas came from Lieutenant Agannis, who watched without speaking.

  Mostly dirt, as Brooks unwrapped the final layer. He pushed his hands through the soil. Through the rot. Then he found bones.

  The human skeleton contained in the bag was not immediately recognizable as one. Brooks saw no fragments of clothing and assumed that those who executed Henry Flaherty would indeed have removed anything as identifiable as a suit or a shirt or a belt. If they’d gone to the trouble to remove Henry’s head, then surely they would have removed his clothing.

  The bones were in a pile within the canvas and not at all a disorderly pile, considering that they had rested there for nearly three-quarters of a century. Something important, of course, was missing.

  “Good God protect us,” intoned Agannis. “So that’s him, huh? That’s the missing man? From nineteen forty-three?”

  “That’s his bones, Lieutenant,” Brooks said. “One part of him, in other words. And, if you look, you’ll see that this collection is incomplete.”

  “Yeah. No head.”

  “No head,” said Brooks.

  Some of the diggers jockeyed for a closer look. Others wanted no look at all.

  “Do we keep searching here?” Agannis asked. “Timmy, this is your party. You call the shots.”

  “We can give the place a tumble before we fill the earth in again,” Brooks said. “But I think I know of another location that’s going to be more promising.” He paused without explaining. “Do you have any objection if we get him buried again right away?” Brooks asked.

  “Me? Why should I?”

  “I’ve got George Osaro waiting. We’ve acquired a coffin. I think,” Brooks said respectfully, “that we should get on with it as soon as possible. Before nightfall.”

  Agannis looked at him strangely. “Well, it is a body, I suppose,” Agannis said on second thought. “We got the normal procedures. Medical Examiner and all that crap.”

  “Want to take a chance of another airplane spinning out?” Brooks asked.

  “No.”

  “Then let’s move on it right away.”

  The remains were removed by police van to the hospital office of Dr. Herbert Youmans. The medical examiner pronounced “John Doe” dead. It was one of the doctor’s easier findings.

  “This, uh, ties in to all this funny business that’s been going on?” Youmans asked Brooks.

  “Remember our talk the day you were fishing?” Brooks asked. “You mentioned two different worlds existing inches apart from each other?”

  Youmans nodded.

  “Someday I’ll tell you all about it,” Brooks said. “You’ll be fascinated.”

  “I’m sure,” the doctor answered.

  For all of Henry’s inquiries about rosewood as opposed to pine, he drew the latter. A simple pine coffin had been purchased for his remains and delivered to Reverend Osaro’s church that afternoon. Grave diggers had readied a spot in the far corner of the big cemetery that overlooked the windmill. The spot gave Brooks some pause. It was the same plot in which he had stood when he invaded Henry’s plane. Henry would be buried, if he was successfully buried, in the spot that his spirit had designated for Annette.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  It was six in the evening when Brooks used Annette’s key to unlock the back door of 17 Cort Street. He wished to proceed by himself. He locked the door behind him and turned on no lights on the main floor.

  Brooks opened the door to the basement and flicked on the cellar lights. He carried a shovel in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. He looked down the cellar steps and felt the aura of menace before him.

  He waited to hear the voice of Henry Flaherty. But the voice didn’t come.

  Brooks walked down the steps and stood on the cement floor. He looked to the spot where Emmet Hughes’ body had been discovered and he cringed. This place still had a deathly aura to it. And yet, Brooks knew he had only one good method of purging the house.

  Bury Henry. All of him. In a cemetery where his spirit could rest.

  Brooks moved across the cellar floor. He looked around and tried to sense the presence of whatever spirits were there. Specifically, Henry’s. He couldn’t find him.

  Brooks turned his attention to the earthen section of the basement floor. There was little doubt in his mind that Henry’s skull had been planted there by those who executed him. Mrs. Ritter had indicated as much. Or at least her spirit had. Brooks pushed the shovel into the dirt. The dirt had a high clay content and was very damp. He turned over one shovel full of it. Subliminally, he thought he heard a distant groan. Or a warning. Or an admonition to go. Then there was another as he pulled up a second bunch of earth and clay. But he kept working. The digging was slow, the ground resistant. Through the one high window in the cellar he could see daylight dying. Evening turned to night. Brooks worked carefully. He went down and searched a foot at a time, then another six inches, then another six after that.

  When, he wondered, would he find it?

  He continued to work well into evening, unaware of the long dark shadow that lurked occasionally behind him. Every few minutes, Brooks would feel something, turn and look. But each time, Henry had va
nished at the moment Brooks turned and scanned. Henry had it all worked out for this day. No one would lay him to rest quite so easily.

  Brooks continued to dig. He found nothing. Above him the cellar door slowly moved closed, guided by a dark but unseen hand.

  It latched securely and Brooks remained unaware. Then the door locked.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Annette was annoyed. She had removed two shopping bags filled with items that she needed from 17 Cort Street. She had carefully packed the bags, so she thought, and took them to Brooks’ cottage. Then, that evening when she opened them, two pieces of jewelry were missing. So was a blouse. She would have to go back. Yet she was certain she had put them in the bag. She shook her head and wondered how she could have been so unmindful.

  Brooks was in the cellar digging when she arrived. He never heard her. And as he had walked over from the nearby field, there was no car for her to see.

  She unlocked the door from the outside and walked upstairs. The house was still creepy at night. Annette wished to be in and out as quickly as possible. She went to her bedroom and prowled for the missing objects. Where could they be? How had she failed to take them?

  She found the jewelry on the floor, both pieces. And the blouse? It was right in plain sight, draped over a chair. Annette felt a little spasm of fear. Who was playing tricks on her? She thought of how all this had begun. A woman in white. Poltergeist tricks. Objects moving around. Annette’s mind began to work overtime.

  Henry, invisible, stood behind her.

  “Nothing to fear. Just take your items and calmly go,” Henry whispered.

  Annette sensed the notion. Where were these thoughts coming from? Well, at least they were reassuring.

  “Darn,” she said.

  When she examined the blouse she noticed that there was some soil on one sleeve. Almost like a handprint. She sat down on the bed, next to the sword, and tried to brush the soil away.

  In the basement, Brooks recoiled and cursed in horror.

  He had what he wanted and what repelled him most, both at the same time. He had found Henry Flaherty’s skull. It had been buried with nothing around it, just thrown into the earth five feet beneath the house. Brooks felt the urge to vomit and suppressed it.

  He had seen much worse in contemporary times in San Jose. But there was something particularly macabre about this.

  Brooks suppressed a shudder. Wearing rubber gloves now, he reached into the earth around the head. He worked the dirt away from it. He cupped his fingers around it and gently pulled. Behind him, a long, dark shadow was apparent, not far from the master switch to the electricity for 17 Cort Street.

  Brooks loosened the skull from where it had rested for six and a half decades. He gently eased it upward. It came loose from the ground.

  There had been a heavy amount of slaked lime in the soil beneath the house. Probably a gardener had once used this area to dump discarded chemicals.

  Lime would have eaten into the flesh and skull and destroyed it. Slaked lime worked differently. It acted as a preservative. Some of the hair remained on Henry’s head. Bits of the skin. Parts of the eyes, hardened and solidified like leather.

  The teeth were intact. The face—Henry’s face!—was recognizable.

  Upstairs, a terrible thought was upon Annette.

  “Another demon! Rising from your basement! You must defend yourself!”

  She looked up, alarmed. Oh, these thoughts! What was getting into her head? What demon?

  In the basement, Brooks unraveled a set of newspapers. He lay the head out. He could barely bring himself to look at it. He raised his eyes to the window in the cellar. There was a moon, but night had long since fallen.

  He looked back to the head. He gazed at the sunken eye sockets and seemed to be held by them for several seconds. It was the last image that Brooks saw.

  The power in the house went out. And something in the dark threw up a fistful of dirt into Brooks’ face and eyes.

  He cursed violently and stood. His eyes burned. He couldn’t see his enemy, but he knew who it was. He slashed at the darkness with his arm. One thought overrode all others. He wanted to get out of the house.

  Upstairs, Annette was almost beset with panic. She stood and uttered a short startled scream when the lights failed. But the voice reassured her.

  “No, no, no!” it said. “Nothing to fear. Heaven and all Goodness Is with you! But you must slay the demon!”

  She didn’t know what that meant, or where these thoughts were coming from. But they seemed warm and re-assuring. Then two other thoughts were upon her. The demon in the basement. And the sword on her bed.

  She reached to the sword and unsheathed it, hardly knowing what she was doing. Her heart kicked in her chest.

  “Yes! That would be good! Bring the sword!”

  The inner voice guided her and emboldened her. Then she heard the thumping downstairs. Her heart kicked even harder.

  “Go downstairs. Bring your weapon. Defend your home from evil and you will be rid of it forever!”

  She hesitated.

  “Annette, be a brave girl! You know what you have to do!”

  Downstairs, Brooks had found his way to the top of the cellar steps. His eyes burned. He had hit his head on a low beam in crossing the cellar. He banged at the door.

  He wondered how it had closed. Then he knew. He hit it with his fist, trying to dislodge it. He didn’t scream or yell. He knew it would be pointless.

  Above, Annette heard this all the more clearly.

  The cellar again! The focal point for all the terror in her home. Her courage rallied. Yes, indeed. She would do what the guiding voice told her. This time, she would exorcise—and execute!—her own demons. Slowly, with the sword in her hands, she descended the stairs from the second floor to the main.

  The knocking remained at the cellar door. The thumping.

  “The demon is at hand!” the voice within her said. “You must decapitate it like the last one. Then you will be free!”

  Yes, Annette thought. Surely the voice was telling her what to do. It wouldn’t be pleasant. But surely God had sent her the sword for exactly this purpose. At least strike at this half-physical half-spiritual presence. Don’t let it loose!

  On the other side of the cellar door, Tim Brooks had lost his patience. No one was home. No one was within earshot. He hit at the door repeatedly to try to get it to move. It budged only barely. But he was convinced he could knock it open. He would have to put his shoulder to it. He would have to knock it through.

  Or maybe, he thought further, he would draw his gun and fire a bullet through the latch area, hoping to dislodge the heavy good. That seemed like a good idea.

  On tiptoes, terrified, Annette came into her kitchen, holding the sword aloft. Holding it in an upright position so that she could slash downward upon whatever was in the cellar.

  Terror filled her. She wished Tim were present to do this for her. She stood not far from where the demon banged upward at the cellar door. It was trying to break through. In the darkness. She could barely see.

  She opened her mouth to scream at it.

  “No!” the voice cautioned. “No! Silence on your part! Don’t warn it! Don’t let the enemy know you’re there.”

  The voice was right. She held silent, all except for the pounding of her heart. The overt fear had risen to her throat now.

  “A huge demonic form will come through the door in seconds,” the voice told her. “It will resemble a human. But it will be low. Bent over. Bestial. Strike down on it. A savage blow to the back of its neck with the blade. As hard as you can! As hard as you have ever hit anything in your life! Just do it!”

  “Oh, God,” she prayed. “Give me the force. Give me the force to hit it accurately.”

  “Don’t fear,” the voice told her. “I will guide your blade. I will see that it ends on the demon’s neck. And I will give you the strength to kill with one blow!”

  From within, Brooks continued t
o put his shoulder to the door. He hit it hard. The door nearly left its hinges. One or two more blows, he reasoned. One or two more hard hits and he’d be through!

  “Don’t fear, Annette. You will shy him! You will kill him! In moments, he will be dead on your floor! What a prize for you! A trophy for a lifetime!”

  Brooks pounded the door. One hinge came loose. Fantastic! Finally! The old woodwork was giving way in this cursed house.

  “Be ready, my sweet!” Henry told Annette. “Strike from behind its neck. Then for good measure plunge the blade through his back and into his heart when he falls!

  Annette poised herself by the side of the door. As soon as it opened… as soon as anybody hurtled through… she would strike!

  She raised the sword high above her head. She held it with d her strength, ready to slash downward in the darkness. Ready to defend her home with every ounce of anger she could muster.

  Brooks hit the door and it flew from its hinges. The woodwork crashed forward into the kitchen. Brooks drew a breath.

  He saw light from the kitchen window and…

  A scream! A primal hideous scream! A woman’s cry of terror filled the air and Brooks turned away from it as the sword came down inches in front of him.

  Annette’s body lunged forward, following the sword. His eyes still smarted, but he could see that much. She raised the sword again and Brooks burst forward, knocking the weapon from her hand, screaming her name.

  “Annie! Annie! Annie!”

  She cried hysterically until she realized that the arms around her, the force restraining her, was a human one. Not an alien one. Not a ghostly one.

  Tim!

  She collapsed into tears, almost fainting. He held her tightly for several minutes until calm approached again.

  “I nearly killed you,” she cried. “I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive me? I nearly killed you!”

  “You weren’t even close,” he said, trying to coax a reassuring smile from her. Another mingling of a lie with truth.