by Ian Rogers
Charles gave her a sidelong look and kicked her foot under the table. Sally couldn’t help it. She had an impish side to her personality that seemed to embody that age-old maxim, the one that said you can dress them up, but you can’t take them out. She liked to think that was part of the reason she had been recruited. Besides her other, less tangible qualities.
A slight breeze blew across the table and rustled the papers in front of the psychic. “The spirits are with us,” she said.
Or someone left a window open, Sally thought.
Charles was watching her intently. He shifted in his seat and the object in his pocket bumped against his groin. He groaned inwardly.
The psychic closed her eyes, picked up the pen, and began to draw a series of loops. When she came to the end of the page, she dropped down to the next line and began again, as neat and orderly as the copy from a teletype machine.
Sally had witnessed automatic writing on a few other occasions, and recognized this kind of behaviour. Drawing loops was a sort of psychic holding pattern; it was supposed to keep the writer in a trance-like state until they began to receive messages from The Other Side. The supernatural equivalent of a secretary taking dictation from her boss.
With her eyes still firmly shut, the psychic began to speak.
“I am addressing the entities residing in this house. If you are with us tonight, please give us a sign.”
The house was silent for a long moment. Then, from somewhere close by, there came a loud thump. It sounded as if something heavy—like a sandbag, for instance—had been dropped on the floor.
“Good,” the psychic said, satisfied. The pen in her hand continued to execute an endless series of barrel rolls.
She’s certainly the tidiest automatic writer I’ve ever seen, Sally thought. Much neater than the one who used crayons and construction paper.
“Please identify yourself,” the psychic said. “Tell us your name.”
They all watched as the pen jerked in the psychic’s hand, dropping down to the bottom of the page. It spun around in a double-loop and made a cursive letter B. This was followed by an R . . . I . . . T . . .
“Jesus . . .” Ted muttered.
Dawn crammed a fist against her mouth, stifling a cry.
Charles and Sally stared expressionlessly.
The psychic seemed oblivious to what her hand was doing; her eyes were still closed and her brow was wrinkled in deep concentration. Her hand paused for a moment, then began again, writing with a flourish, leaping from one perfectly executed letter to the next. It was like watching a spider spin a web in fast-forward.
When she was finished, the psychic dropped the pen and let out a gasping breath. The others at the table leaned over to read the final message. Charles shot Sally another sidelong glance, while Ted and Dawn looked on with matching expressions of consternation.
Charles looked up from the piece of paper to the psychic’s own startled face and said, “If this is some sort of joke, Ms. Morningside, I don’t think anyone at this table finds it very funny.”
Four pairs of eyes bored into the psychic. She seemed to shrink under their collective glare. In her voluminous orange sarong, she looked like a gas planet undergoing some catastrophic gravitational implosion.
Finally, she looked down at the words on the paper. Her eyes sprang open and she gave out a small squeak.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “I . . . I . . .”
“I think your work is done here,” Ted said, rising out of his chair. “Please leave.”
The psychic’s chubby cheeks turned red again, out of embarrassment this time rather than anger. “N-no! This isn’t right. I’ve . . . I’ve consulted on dozens of police cases—police cases! Hundreds of them! I have an eighty-five percent accuracy rating!”
Whatever that means, Sally thought.
The psychic looked at Sally again as if Sally had spoken aloud. “It’s not my fault,” she protested. “There was interference. Yes, interference!” She latched onto the word like a drowning woman latching onto a life preserver. “Interference from the house!”
The psychic reached out to Dawn, but Charles was suddenly there, gripping the psychic’s upper arm and lifting her out of her chair. She tried to pull away and the strap of her sarong slipped off her shoulder. Her chair screeched across the hardwood floor and fell over.
“You heard Mr. Weston—your work here is done.” With his free hand, Charles picked up Morningside’s satchel-bag. The psychic glowered at them each in turn as he directed her toward the door.
“Sneaks!” she hissed. “You’re all a bunch of dirty, rotten sneaks!”
“Thank you for coming out tonight, Ms. Morningside,” Charles said as he stuck the psychic’s bag in her hand and ushered her out the door. “Your insight was most educational. Good night.”
The psychic opened her mouth to reply, but Charles had already closed the door on her. He went back into the dining room, experiencing a momentary sensation of déjà vu as he saw Sally standing over Dawn and patting her hand. The difference was that Sally was the real deal.
“I’m so embarrassed,” Dawn fretted. “I can’t believe I brought that woman here, into my parents’ house! I feel like I’ve polluted this place.”
This place was polluted long before your parents moved in, Charles wanted to say, but didn’t.
“You had questions,” Sally said, “and that woman claimed to have the answers. There’s nothing embarrassing about wanting to know the truth.”
Dawn wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded reluctantly.
“But sometimes you have to come to terms with the fact that the truth may not be altogether satisfying.”
Dawn looked up at her with rheumy eyes. “What truth?” she asked.
“That there is no mystery.” Sally gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “As much as you might hate to admit it, your parents were the victims of a terrible accident. But accidents don’t have reasons; they just happen.”
“But I’ve heard stories about this house,” Dawn said. “I’ve heard—”
Sally squeezed Dawn’s hand again, cutting off the other woman’s words. “I know,” she said. “We’ve heard them, too. That’s why we’re here, remember? Every neighbourhood has its haunted house, the one where bad things happened, the one kids cross the street to avoid. Even in a place like Rosedale. But they’re just stories. There are no secrets here, no hidden truths, and no answers.” She picked up both of Dawn’s hands and placed them in her lap. “You don’t need to like it. It’s a shitty deal. But you need to try and accept it.”
Dawn nodded, but it was a perfunctory gesture. She wasn’t going to be accepting this, not today or tomorrow, maybe not ever.
“I need some air,” she said, springing out of her chair and almost knocking it over. “I’m going for a walk. Then I want to leave this place and never come back again.”
Sally nodded and looked over at Ted. He stepped forward, took his sister’s arm, and led her outside.
When they were gone, Sally took out the psychic’s business card. “Tanyanka? Is that Russian?”
Charles said, “If she’s Russian then I’m Winnie the Pooh.”
Sally tore the business card in half and dropped it on the floor.
Charles wandered over to the table and turned the pile of papers around so he could read the psychic’s message.
“Britney Spears?” he said dubiously.
Sally shrugged. “Projecting at that woman was like throwing rocks at the side of a barn.”
“She gave you a look.”
Sally shrugged. “I goosed her,” she said. “To see if she was a receiver.”
“Was she?”
Sally tilted her head from side to side. “Yes and no.”
“Yes and no?” Charles said, pretending incredulity. “The psychic is giving me a yes-and-no answer? What a scam!”
“Fuck you,” Sally said amiably.
“So was she?”
“Eighty-seven percent of the world’s population are receivers, Charles. But less than point-zero-one percent are tried-and-true psychic. This particular woman was a receiver, of that I have no doubt, but beyond that, it’s hard to say. I suspect she has something, or else I wouldn’t have been able to influence her automatic writing. But she doesn’t have much, and she doesn’t know how to use it.”
“An unschooled talent,” Charles said, staring thoughtfully out the window at the darkening street. “Is it worth informing the Group?”
“Couldn’t hurt to put her on the watch list,” Sally said, “but she’s too old to train. You’ve got to get them when they’re young.” She fluttered her eyes coquettishly.
“That just leaves the house, then.” Charles went out to the foyer. He looked down the central hall to the kitchen, then up the stairs to the second floor. “Do you pick up anything?”
“Nope,” Sally replied. “Safe as houses.” She raised her eyebrows devilishly, but Charles ignored the comment. One time she had asked him if his sense of humour had been surgically removed as a child. Charles had looked at her blankly and said he would have to get back to her on that one.
“But I probably wouldn’t feel anything anyway,” she went on. “These places have triggers, right? Something that sets them off and makes them go all Amityville on people?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Charles said. “Things are winding down. No one’s going to live here ever again.”
“No one should have been living here in the first place.”
“Check.” He went over to the window to see if Ted and Dawn were coming back, but the street was deserted. The arc-sodium streetlights had come on, washing Ashley Avenue in a sickly jaundice colour. “Matters are being corrected as we speak. The agent who sold the house to the Westons will be found.”
Sally pictured an overweight, unshaven man in a piss-yellow suit with dark circles under his eyes and sweat stains under his arms. A man on the run . . . and with good reason.
“They’re going to string that bastard up by his balls when they find him,” Charles said. “For starters.”
“If they find him.”
“They will,” Charles said confidently. “They put the snoops on him, and they’ve never come back empty-handed.”
Sally hugged herself, thinking of the snoops but not picturing them. She had never seen them and never wanted to.
“So you don’t pick up anything?” Charles asked. “From the house?”
Sally placed her hands against the small of her back and stretched. “I don’t know,” she said. “I could take a quick look around before we leave.”
“No way,” Charles said firmly. “Once the Westons get back I’m locking the door and we’re out of here. And if we never see the inside of this place again, we should count ourselves lucky.”
“Come on,” Sally cajoled, “this is one of the Eight. I’ve never been in one before. Have you?”
“No.” Charles licked his lips. “There’s a reason no one lives in any of these places. You’d do well to remember that this is not a house. It’s a slaughterhouse masquerading as a house.”
Sally wandered into the living room. It had been decorated in a style she thought of as “Toronto Trendy.” Imitation antique wood furniture, Robert Bateman prints on the walls, and an honest-to-goodness wood-burning fireplace that looked as if it had never been used. A living room straight out of the Country Living section of the Pottery Barn catalogue. Designed for those who had not spent any significant amount of time in cottage country but who wanted visitors to their home to think they did.
“I can’t see the harm in taking a quick walk around. I won’t touch anything.”
Charles shot her a look. “If you knew what this place was capable of you’d know how stupid you sound right now.” He pursed his lips. “This house has been empty for over sixty years. Exactly one day—” he raised his index finger “—after the Westons moved in, they were killed.”
“I’m not talking about moving in. I’m just talking about a quick tour.”
Charles paced back and forth in the foyer. Through the leaded glass panes in the front door, he saw Ted Weston standing out on the porch.
“They’re back,” he said brusquely. “I’m going outside to have a quick smoke and get rid of them. Why don’t you come out with us?”
“No thanks,” Sally said. “Nicotine screws with my biorhythms.”
“Bullshit,” Charles said, and opened the door. “Make it quick. And don’t touch anything.”
Sally gave him a two-fingered salute and went up the stairs.
3
When Charles stepped outside, Ted was sitting on the porch steps and smoking a cigarette. He had taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.
“I’m worn out,” he said, scrubbing one hand down the side of his face. “It’s official.”
“It’s allowed,” Charles said, sitting down next to him. He produced a gilt cigarette case from an inside pocket, took out a cigarette, tamped it. “You have my permission.”
“Thanks.” Ted produced a lighter and lit Charles’s cigarette. Then he leaned back on his elbows and let out a deep sigh. “What a day.”
Charles looked around for Dawn but didn’t see her.
“She wanted to be alone,” Ted said by way of explanation.
Charles stood up and went down the steps to the flagstone path. He found himself conscious of making direct contact with the house and avoided it whenever possible.
“Heading out tonight?” he asked.
“Eleven-fifteen back to Calgary,” Ted said, exhaling smoke. “Would’ve left this morning if Dawn wasn’t so set on hiring that so-called psychic.”
“That was her idea?” Charles asked.
Ted looked slightly offended. “Sure wasn’t mine. But it’s not her fault. Not entirely. The neighbours were on her the moment we got here. Whispering about haunted houses and spooks.”
Charles put his hand in his pocket. “Why do you think she was so quick to believe it?”
Ted held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and stared at the smouldering tip. “Your partner got it exactly right, Mr. Courtney. What happened to my parents was an accident—a strange, fluky accident—but an accident nonetheless. I can accept that, but Dawn can’t. Or won’t.”
“But why blame the house?” Charles wondered. “Of all the possible explanations she could have gone with, why pick one with a rather unbelievable angle?”
Ted shrugged. “Because they had just moved into it, I guess. We both thought it was kind of strange, how fast they sold the old place and bought this one.”
“A house in this neighbourhood is usually considered a steal,” Charles offered. “They don’t come up that often.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured, too. But the thing is, they didn’t even tell us they were looking. They never said a word to us, and Dawn and my mother talked on the phone every Sunday. Last week Dawn calls me and says our parents got a sweet deal on a house in Rosedale. They closed escrow in a week. Before I became a criminal lawyer, I used to deal in real estate law, and I never heard of anyone closing escrow in a week.”
Charles said, “It’s strange but not completely unheard of.”
“I know,” Ted said, “and that’s why I’m willing to accept what happened. I don’t like it, but I’m not about to blame their deaths on ghosts.” He gave Charles a long, steady look. “Of course, that doesn’t exactly explain why you’re here, though.”
“It doesn’t?”
“You said you came to protect the reputation of the neighbourhood. You don’t want some psychic-for-hire going to the newspapers saying a house in Rosedale is not only haunted but responsible for the deaths of two people who were living there at the time. But if that’s true, then why was it the neighbours who put Dawn onto the idea in the first place? Wouldn’t it have been in their own best interests to keep their m
ouths shut?”
Charles looked down at his shoes, pretending to give the matter serious thought. “I think some people can’t help but talk. Tongues like to wag.”
Ted continued to look at Charles with that steady look in his eyes. “You might be right,” he said finally. “The fact remains that only two people know what really happened in that house, and both of them are dead. I don’t like that either, but that’s the way it is.”
Charles smoked his cigarette and said nothing.
They heard the clicking of Dawn’s shoes as she came down the sidewalk. She stepped up to the front gate, but didn’t pass through it. “Ready?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Ted turned to Charles and offered his hand. “Thank you for stopping by. Good luck with your investigation.”
“Have a good flight,” Charles said.
He watched them drive off. When they were out of sight, he took the object out of his pocket.
It was an old, scuffed baseball. Part of the red waxed stitching had come loose and a flap of the nicotine-coloured rawhide hung loose. To Charles it looked like the dried scalp of a shrunken head. The letters T.R.T., faint but still legible, were printed on the side in childish block letters.
The baseball had come from the Mereville Group’s private collection of paranormal artefacts. It had been found in the house after the Group took ownership in 1944. Jimmy Dumfreys, one of the whiz kids in R&D, the same Jimmy who called 17 Ashley Avenue the great white shark of haunted houses, thought it might be an “apport”—a solid object which seemingly appears out of nowhere. Its significance, if it had one, was unknown. Charles had signed it out that morning, and it was due back by midnight. If it wasn’t returned, the snoops would be paying him a visit.
Right after they caught up with Dustin Haney.
Haney was the real estate agent who had sold the house to the Westons. Except Haney was no more a real estate agent than Charles and Sally were insurance investigators. They all worked for the Mereville Group—on the surface an ordinary multinational insurance company, below the surface a clandestine organization with interests in paranormal research. In addition to their various projects and investigations, the Group was also the caretaker of a handful of properties that were known collectively as “the Eight.” Over the years, with the assistance of individuals on the city council, they had managed to keep the properties secure, maintained, and off the real estate markets. The house on Ashley Avenue was not the most dangerous of the Eight (that honour belonged to an old fish-processing plant on Lake Shore Boulevard), but it was certainly the most attractive. As the operative in charge of visiting the house on a weekly basis and making sure it hadn’t “gone Amityville” on anyone (to use Sally’s phraseology), Haney would have been familiar with the neighbourhood and known how valuable the property would be to a couple who didn’t know its dark and bloody history.