Toby shrugged. “Chalk it up to outside interference and we move on. Maybe we burn this house down and then salt the ground the ashes fall upon.”
“How about we don't?”
The doorbell rang and Ian went to answer it.
Pulling the door open, Ian came face to face with an older woman elegantly attired in a red and black suit, her blonde hair twisted up and piled on top of her head. She reached up to remove her glasses with one hand while offering the other to Ian. She looked so nice, Ian suddenly felt self-conscious in his t-shirt emblazoned with the Marines logo.
“Perhaps you were expecting someone more along the lines of Tangina from Poltergeist,” she said with a wry smirk and a wink. “I hope I don't disappoint you. It's okay. Most people have the same expectation.”
Grasping her hand, Ian felt a grounding effect—a feeling of utter calm emanating from her. “Of course not. Welcome to my home.” Releasing her hand, he stepped back and gestured with one hand. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you,” she said as she stepped over the threshold. “I'm presuming you are Ian.”
Part of Ian wanted to ask if she was psychic, shouldn't she already know, but instead said, “Yes, Ian.”
“I'm Davida Monroe. I hope we can be on a first name basis.” She slowly turned in a circle as she looked straight up at the ceiling. “Let me start off by saying I'm not psychic.” She ceased the slow spin and looked at him as if she suspected what he'd thought. “I do not divine the future or read palms or give lucky numbers so you can play the lottery. Also, I hesitate to label myself a medium.”
Her confession somewhat confused Ian. “Okay,” he said, slowly drawing out the two syllable word.
“Instead, I prefer to think of myself as a person who is sensitive to the energies, the presences, of entities most people would call ghosts or spirits,” Davida explained.
“Okay,” Ian reiterated because he didn't know what else to say.
Davida smiled. “I understand how confusing it all sounds. Let me say this: there is an entity here, specifically a female, and she exhibits quite the dichotomous nature—from one extreme end of the spectrum to the other. A Chimera quality to her emotional reactions.”
Ian snapped his fingers. He understood what she was describing, having been on the receiving end of both of those extremes. “I wanted to describe it the same way—my experiences with her, I mean. Almost as if she's two distinct people. Why do you think she's like that?”
“I don't know; I hope she reveals the explanation to me.” Davida adjusted the stone-studded brooch on her lapel. “But I must give you a warning: sometimes I don't get the big answer for which you are looking. A lot of times, the best I can do is fill in some of the blanks and answer some of your questions. It all depends on the spirits state of mind, whether or not they feel like providing answers and details.”
Ian realized he must have had an odd look on his face because Davida said, “Perhaps we could sit and discuss this further. Take a moment to talk about my first impressions. Feelings.”
“Yes, the living room is this way.” Ian looked for Toby, but his friend had made himself scarce. “Please, have a seat.”
After they'd sat, Ian remembered his manners and offered his guest a drink.
“Maybe later,” she said, and then continued explaining about ghosts. “Spirits are actually in charge of the communication. Meaning, if they don't want to chat, then we don't get any interaction, any information. I hope the spirit here will be cooperative.”
“So do I. Because I'd very much like to know what's going on. For instance—”
Holding up a hand, Davida asked him to stop. “I don't like to know much before we begin. That way any information I receive is from the entity or the area.”
“Understood.” Ian watched the medium as she looked toward the ceiling again. “There isn't much I know about the house; I pretty much have a complete lack of knowledge concerning the history of the house.”
Waving away his words, Davida said, “I feel her walking, pacing. Back and forth upstairs. Her anxiety level is elevated, but I can't tell if it's because of my presence or if she is reliving a moment from her living existence.” Davida held a fist to her heart and looked Ian in the eyes. “There is both fear and anger; she's afraid of something happening, but she's also very angry with someone—angry with a lot of people. She feels she's been deeply betrayed, and that is a very powerful feeling.”
Closing her eyes, she took a breath, held it, and then slowly exhaled. She opened her eyes. “It's quite strange, experiencing her maelstrom of emotion.”
“I imagine so,” Ian didn't know what else to say. His curiosity was getting the best of him. “What else? Is she still upstairs?”
Nodding, Davida said, “I wish you could hear her footsteps the way I do. She has fear and anger, yes, but there is an underlying sadness, as well.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “What's bizarre is the feeling I get from her—not necessarily revenge. She feels she was wronged, severely wronged through no fault of her own and the thought of...making it right, for lack of better words, has consumed her.”
“I've experienced some of that, I think,” Ian said. “I've gotten the feeling she's obsessed with the idea of vengeance. I've described 'Never Forgive. Never Forget' to you and you will see one example for yourself upstairs.”
Tilting her head a little to one side, Davida said, “How about we talk about another experience you've had with a spirit.”
“I'm not sure—”
“From way back when you were a child. Tell me about the white-haired man.”
Without realizing, Ian stood up. “How on earth did you know about him? I've never told anyone outside of my immediate family. Not even Toby knows.” She didn't have enough time to research his family, travel to them, and blackmail or beat the information out of them. So she must really be a sensitive.
“I'm picking up he was a close relative, but you didn't know him very well.”
“Correct,” Ian said as he sat back down. “My paternal grandfather who died shortly after I was born, six months almost to the day.” This was new and weird for Ian. He wished Toby would come downstairs and be moral support.
“And you were named after him,” she said. It wasn't a question. “That's why he feels the bond with you, why he looks after you, checks in on you from time to time. Have you felt his presence since you've gotten older?”
“No. I remember seeing him as a child, as far back as I can remember up until right before my teens. Then nothing after.” No sightings, not even the feeling the spirit of his grandfather was near.
“While I don't necessarily feel his presence now, I know he's been around you throughout much of your life, up to and including recently. I feel he has watched over you; and even though you may not know it now, he is still around you.”
“Maybe that's why I've always been fascinated with the subject of ghosts. My favorite books and movies have always been about ghosts or haunted houses.”
“Quite possibly,” Davida said.
“Maybe that's why I was drawn to this house. Because she was here and needed help. My help.”
“Forget about trying to understand why you were drawn to this house. Instead, let's try to communicate with her to gather more information, to see if we can help her rest. She needs to move on, not only because you said on the phone, things have escalated to the point where you don't believe you will be able to continue living here otherwise. She has to move on because that's the next step; it's not the natural order of things for anyone to linger after death.”
Gathering his thoughts, Ian was silent for a few seconds, and then he spoke. “I've done research on different types of hauntings or ghosts for my writing. You don't think there's a chance this situation is a strong case of place or residual memory—where whatever happened back then is imprinted on the house and is replayed over and over, like a recording?”
“I don't believe that to be the case here, any more t
han I believe two time frames in the space-time continuum are overlapping.” Adjusting her lapel, Davida gave Ian time to digest what she'd just said. “No, I strongly feel her spiritual presence here, in the house with you. She resists my attempts at contact. For now. She may come around and it may turn out like I said earlier—we may not get the answers to your questions.
“Have you given thought to how you will handle the situation if we cannot uncover the answers you seek?” Davida asked Ian.
He nodded. “I promised my best friend, Toby, and myself I'd move out and not look back. To continue living here without putting the situation to rest is asking for trouble. I feel she is amping up her game and my life will eventually be in danger.”
“I can't say you're wrong in your assumption of being in danger.” Davida paused and held up a finger, a sign for him to be quiet. She closed her eyes and tilted her head. When she opened her eyes again, she asked, “Do you frequently hear piano music?”
Ian's eyes widened. “Yes. I've heard it many times, as has Toby.”
“I hear it now. Very clearly. And I am assuming you don't actually have a piano?”
“No, I don't. But there was an old, rotting one in the house before I cleaned it out and began the reno.” Ian's heartbeat accelerated. Davida really was quickly picking up on things. He felt exhilarated to be finally receiving validation from an outside source. Toby's opinion counted, but this was different because it came from a medium. Ian needed that.
“This is why I always tell people to only give me the barest, most basic information. I need to be able to sense for myself. As we discussed, if I have any questions, I'll ask you.” Davida stood up and, with a single, liquid movement, removed her jacket. “Shall we have a walk-through of the house?”
Walking from room to room downstairs, Davida said she felt a heaviness in the area, a feeling she could not explain without contact from the spirit.
Ian crossed his fingers.
“Usually, I can pick up information even without the assistance of the spirit, but this situation has flummoxed me,” she said, coming to a stop at the base of the staircase. “Shall we continue upstairs and see if the circumstances change?”
Being upstairs led to more of the same. Nothing. As exhilarated as Ian had felt moments before, he felt deflated now.
“You must understand this can happen,” Davida explained as they came back downstairs. “I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel as if it's all a figment of your imagination. Because it's not.”
Smiling, Ian tried not to let his disappointment show. “I do understand; I thank you for coming out and giving it your best shot.”
Back in the living room, Davida put her jacket back on and retrieved her purse. “I'm as chagrined as you, if not a little more; I've never been blocked like this before. If you want to me come back and try again or if you have any further questions, don't hesitate to call me.”
Ian thanked her and walked her to the door.
Stepping over the threshold, Davida turned and gave him some final advice. “Should you wish to have a team of investigators in to attempt to uncover more information, please make sure you perform due diligence. Ask for references and speak to those references. Check the team's credentials. Unfortunately, I've seen cases where, shall we say, less experienced investigators—” she used her fingers to make air quotes “—have come in, provoked the spirit in order to get the desired result—the evidence—and then left the homeowner to deal with the aftermath.”
Ian appreciated the warning and told her so. “I still have some thinking to do, but I know what eventually has to happen.”
He shut the door and turned around. He stood and just looked around.
Toby had obviously heard the door shut and made his presence known. “Well?” he asked as he came down the stairs. “What did she tell you?”
“Not as much as I wanted to know,” Ian said, the disappointment obvious in his voice as he filled Toby in on what had happened. “On the up side, she confirmed there is a spirit here.”
“Big deal. I confirmed that much,” Toby said. “And the spirit communicated with you. Maybe she just didn't like Davida.
“Yeah. I guess. But the decision has been made for me,” Ian said. “I can't fight or help the spirit if I don't get any of the info I need. It just bites. I want to know what had happened all those years ago.”
Twenty
Later, Ian got what he wished for. She showed him while he slept. More than that, she bared her soul to him in an attempt to make him understand.
At some point, the rift opened and Ian stepped through it—not literally, she showed him in a dream—back through time and into the house’s past. Before him the scene played out. Coming from town, not a mob bearing torches and pitchforks, the small group of men crept instead of stomping up the driveway. Driven by self-righteousness and selfish fear—and Ian wondered how the hell he knew that—the men, frightened as they may be, had come to lay blame and judgment upon the guilty, regardless of actual guilt or innocence. Even the birds in the trees had gone silent. From inside the house, Ian saw them through the front window, and it terrified him. Grimacing, he felt sick, knowing the secret was about to be revealed to him. Horrible images came to mind. If they came into the house, would they be able to see him? Jerking back from the window as the men came closer, Ian spun around and looked for a place to hide, just in case he would be as visible to them as they were to him. Kicking and pounding the door, the men demanded to be let in. Letting them in the house would lead to something horrific; he instinctively understood that. Murder was what this horde had in mind and Ian knew it. New tendrils of terror wrapped around his spine. Obviously, he needed to witness this, or the house or the old woman would’ve never sent him back to this time. Pure terror gripped him tightly, even though he knew deep in his mind nothing would or could happen to him—he was only here to hear the testimony from the past. Quietly, he stood in the corner. Rather than running screaming back through the rift, away from whatever was about to transpire, Ian fought his flight response and forced himself to stay. Shadows pooled around him, caressing him softly. Then the front door burst inward. Until that moment, Ian wasn’t sure what was unfolding in front of him. Very soon, he felt certain, he would witness the death of the woman who haunted him. Waiting was pure agony—like waiting for his own execution. Excruciating to experience. Yet utterly compelling; he could not tear his eyes away. Zombies bursting through the front door would have scared him less than this mob of zealots, hell-bent on vengeance or whatever it was they used to feed their fanaticism.
See, she instructed him, her voice coming from nowhere specifically, yet seemingly from everywhere at once. Know.
This was her in what seemed to Ian a rare lucid, sane moment giving him the all-important answer to the question he’d been asking. And he understood he was in the scene but he was not of the scene—he wasn’t a physical being for the people to see, to touch.
They didn’t just falsely accuse and kill me, her voice echoed in his head, although that is sinful enough unto itself. They tried to completely erase my existence—make it as if I’d never existed.
“Horrific. I can’t even begin to imagine,” Ian said to her. “But you have to let go, move on. Or else you will never have any peace.”
Damnatio memoriae. Expect me to forgive. Implore me to forget. Never.
Her voice went silent but Ian still felt her presence with him as he watched the scene unfold.
All heaviness lifted. He felt her rage subside. The air cooled and a floral scent filled the air.
Her spirit appeared before Ian and he demanded an answer from her. “Am I supposed to be the instrument of your Grand Guignol revenge on those who entombed you?”
They are all long gone, well beyond my reach.
“You move back and forth between betrayed and bewildered and deformed, demented, and depraved.”
Wouldn't you? After what they did! I was a healer. At one time or another, every one of them had c
ome to me for help.
“And they repaid your kindness with murder.”
Sadness flooded from her eyes; Ian saw the sane, gentleness inside her. They trapped me here. I could not pass on. Imprisoned, I confess madness crept into me. Holding out her hand as if to grasp his, she said, Forgive me for what I've done in those moments.
How could he not?
Find me. Release me. Allow me to be free before the madness grips me again.
Ian promised he would do so, since she'd shown him where her body was hidden away. The swirling began and dizziness hit. He closed his eyes tight.
~ ~ ~
After she showed Ian what had happened decades ago, he returned to the present as he woke. Crawling out of bed and throwing on clothes, he sought out Toby and explained everything he'd seen and been told.
“All those jars of stuff in the kitchen we saw when you gave me the first tour,” Toby said, “those were the ingredients for her potions and things.” He snapped his fingers. “And maybe it was her who knocked the jar out of the cabinet, the one that busted all over the floor, in an attempt to get your attention.”
Ian nodded. “She was a healer. People came from all around to ask for her help, which she always gave freely, whether or not they could pay her anything for her services.”
Toby had a strained look on his face. “Like I can't tell where this story is heading. As if it hasn't happened innumerable times down through history, in places all around the planet.” He wiped his hand across his mouth, as if he'd tasted something nasty. “Makes me sick to think about the innocents burned by the 'cleansing' fire and killed by other horrible means.”
“I agree.”
“So, why did the people of the town turn on her?” Toby asked. “There had to have been one hell of reason for them to attempt to wipe out the memory of her existence, to pretend she never was. That speaks to intense hatred, fear, or deep remorse.”
“An outbreak that killed so many people. From what she described of the symptoms—coughing up blood, severe chest pains, the fever, chills, deadly weakness—I'm assuming it was what they used to call Consumption, the wasting away disease.”
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