by Bill Myers
Krissi looked up and nodded in gratitude as Julie handed her a tissue to wipe her mouth. With Philip on one side and Julie on the other, they helped Krissi back to the car. Ryan turned and followed.
“Ryan …” Becka tugged at his arm as they walked. “There’s a little girl up there — I’m sure of it. Don’t we want to see if she needs help?” They arrived at the car, and Julie and Philip helped Krissi into the back.
“Ryan?” Becka repeated. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” He opened the passenger door for her, then finally answered.
He was clearly unnerved. “You know the person that was murdered there? The one who’s supposed to be haunting the place?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a little girl.”
Chapter 2
2:04 p.m.
Just tell me how you can be so sure,” Ryan said as the surf washed up and swirled around their bare feet. The water was chilly, but it was still a great afternoon for walking on the beach … especially for Becka … especially with Ryan. Muttly ran ahead, barking and attacking the foam bubbles with all of his puppy fury.
Ryan continued. “People have been saying that house is haunted for years, and now you come along and say it’s just a hoax?”
Becka shook her head. “That’s not what I’m saying. I believe there’s something there. Absolutely. I just don’t think it’s the ghost of some little girl.”
“But you saw her,” Ryan insisted. “You above all people should believe — ”
“I saw something, yes. Maybe it was only a reflection. I don’t know, maybe it was just the housekeeper.” Ryan snorted. “Come on, Beck. That was no housekeeper.” Becka knew he was right. She also knew it was time to shoot straight with him. But how to begin? She watched Muttly.
The foam he’d been chasing was suddenly being sucked out to sea. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop the little guy from pursuing it. He ran after the foam, barking for all he was worth, until he looked up and saw a giant wall of water towering above him.
He tried to turn, but it was too late. The water crashed down on him, twirling and tumbling him like a stuffed toy, until it finally threw him back up on the beach. He coughed and snorted, looking around all confused.
Becka tried not to laugh. “Ohhh, poor Muttly.” She slapped her leg. “Come here, boy, come on.” The dog leaped to his feet and bounded toward her as if nothing had happened. She knelt down and patted him a few times until he spotted another clump of foam and raced off for another attack.
Becka rose and took a deep breath. “Ryan … you’ve been reading the Bible we gave you, right?”
He nodded. “Pretty good stuff.”
“Have you run across the part that says if we’re away from the body then we’re at home with the Lord?”
Ryan frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that once we die, we go straight to be with the Lord. No stopovers at haunted houses. No guest appearances at séances or with Ouija boards. Just death. Then God and judgment.”
“So what you’re saying is … ?”
“That could not have been a little girl’s spirit.”
“Beck — ” there was the slightest trace of impatience in his voice — “how can you deny what you saw with your own eyes?”
“I can only go by what the Bible says.”
Ryan picked up a stone to skip. It was obvious he didn’t want this to become their first argument. “Look, the Bible makes a lot of sense — especially what it says about Jesus and stuff. But
… I mean, it doesn’t have to be a hundred percent right about everything.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Ryan paused, trying to put his thoughts into words. “Well … it was a long time ago.”
“But if we can’t believe what it says about everything, how can we believe what it says about anything?” He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came.
Becka reached for his hand, making it clear that she wasn’t trying to preach. A while back he had started to read the New Testament. Every once in a while they talked about God and Jesus, but it was never a forced thing. Usually Ryan would just have a question, and Becka would do her best to come up with an answer.
But now … now they were entering an area in which she definitely had more experience. You don’t grow up in the remote Amazon jungles around natives practicing voodoo and witchcraft without learning something about the darker side of the supernatural. Then of course there were the more recent attacks from the Society. Both she and Scott had learned a lot. Becka took a deep breath and tried again. “Ryan … I believe what I saw in the window was not a person.”
Ryan nodded. “Agreed.”
“But it was not some departed spirit, either.”
“Then what?”
“My best guess? It was a demon.”
Ryan threw her a look.
She shrugged. “That’s exactly what we ran into when Scott was fighting the Society’s Ouija board. He thought it was our dad talking to him, but it was nothing more than some demon pretending to be him. My dad’s in heaven with God.” Ryan looked out over the water. He didn’t agree, but he didn’t disagree, either. “And … what exactly do you mean by
‘demon’?”
“Angels that got thrown out of heaven when they followed Satan.”
Ryan looked at her like she had to be joking.
She wasn’t.
They walked in silence a long moment, neither sure what the other was thinking. Finally Ryan spoke. “But … if you saw a little girl in the window, and it was the same little girl others have been seeing for years, and if a little girl was murdered in that house …”
“But how do we know?” Becka asked. Ryan looked at her and she continued. “Isn’t it just like what you were saying about the Bible? If it happened so long ago, how do we know anybody was even murdered there?”
“That’s completely different.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Ryan repeated. “Well, because … because it is, that’s why.”
Becka grinned. She had him and he knew it. He frowned, then slowed to a stop. “There is one way, though … one way to find out.”
She searched his face. “How’s that?”
“Come on.” He turned and pulled her toward the car as he called over his shoulder, “Let’s go, Muttly! Come on, fella.” The dog gave a couple of yaps, then raced after them.
“Ryan, where are we going? … Ryan?”
He gave her a smile. “It’s time you and I do a little ghost hunting.”
**********
2:30 p.m.
Darryl, Scott’s nerdy friend, approached Cornelius’s perch and began teasing the parrot with his finger. Cornelius bobbed up and down, giving an occasional CRUAWK or SQUAWK of irritation. Darryl paid little attention. “So you really want to get even with the Society?” his voice squeaked. Darryl’s voice always squeaked. Today it sounded like part squealing tires and part fingernails on a blackboard.
“Absolutely,” Scott said as he plopped on his bed and began cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth. “I’m tired of being their punching bag. I don’t know what the Ascension Lady is up to with her séance stuff, but it’s time for a little ‘eye for an eye.’ ”
Darryl gave a loud sniff and continued teasing Cornelius.
“How’re you going to do it?”
Scott cracked another sunflower seed. “Uh, Darryl, I wouldn’t be doing that to Cornelius if I were you. He packs a pretty mean bite.”
Darryl shrugged and repeated the question. “How’re you going to get even?”
“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. The surest revenge is to go for the leader.”
“You mean Brooke?”
Scott shook his head. “She’s pretty much out of the picture since the kidnapping. I’m talking the Ascension Lady.” Darryl’s eyes widened in surprise. “Priscilla Bantini?” Scott nodded.
Darryl gave a nervous sniff. “I don’t know. She’s pretty heavy-duty.”<
br />
“So much the better.” Scott cracked another seed.
“But … I mean, she knows stuff.”
“You’re saying she’s psychic?”
“For starters, yeah. How can you pull off something on someone who knows everything?”
“I’m not sure.” He reached for another handful of seeds. “The trick is to find a weakness.”
“Good luck.” Darryl pushed up his glasses. “Between her psychic abilities, her magic potions, and her astrology charts, she’s got everything pretty well covered.”
“Astrology charts?” Scott stopped cracking the seeds. “She’s an astrology nut?”
“The biggest. She claims it’s her ‘insight to the future.’ ”
“So what does she use? Books and charts and stuff?” Darryl turned back to Cornelius and resumed teasing the bird. “It’s all done on computer.”
“On computer, huh?” Scott’s mind started turning.
“What are you thinking?”
“Your cousin, the computer hack …”
“Hubert?”
“You think he might want to help us out again?”
“Depends.” He looked back to Scott. “What’s up?” Scott rose to his feet and crossed over to his own computer at the desk. “I’m not sure. Let me check with Z first, see what he knows about astrology.”
“You’re going to talk to Z? Now?” There was no missing the interest in Darryl’s voice. Z was a mystery. The man (or woman — they really didn’t know) had become Scott’s private source of information on the occult. Z knew everything. And not just about the occult. Sometimes he knew about their own personal lives, things only family would know — which often gave Scott and Becka the willies. But Z would never reveal his identity. They’d even tried to track him down once, but with little success.
Z was always one step ahead.
Darryl pushed up his glasses and gave another obnoxious sniff. “Doesn’t he, like, you know, just talk to you at night?” Scott snapped on the computer. “Usually … but I can still leave a message.”
Darryl nodded, then suddenly let out a bloodcurdling scream as he grabbed his finger. “OWWWW!”
“SQUAWK. MAKE MY DAY, PUNK, MAKE MY DAY!” Scott looked up from the computer and chuckled. “I told you not to tease my bird.”
Darryl glared at Cornelius as the bird continued bobbing up and down, a particularly satisfied gleam in his beady black eyes.
“MAKE MY DAY, MAKE MY DAY, MAKE MY DAY.”
**********
3:23 p.m.
When Ryan had suggested ghost hunting, the last place in the world Becka thought they’d wind up was in the public library.
But here they were, inside the dimly lit microfilm-viewing room. Before them were a dozen boxes of microfilm envelopes, with one packet of envelopes for each year that the Crescent Bay Gazette had been in publication.
“Here’s the last of them,” the librarian said with a grin as he hauled in the final two boxes and placed them atop the others.
“All one hundred and forty three years. If there’s anything about your little girl or her murder, it’ll be right here.” Becka and Ryan stared blankly at the boxes. “But where?” Ryan asked. “Where do we start?”
“Well, son,” the old man chuckled, “that’s your job now, isn’t it?” With that he turned and shuffled out of the room. He stuck his head back in to say, “We close at six,” then gave them a wink and shut the door behind him.
At first Becka and Ryan were overwhelmed. But soon they started to make headway. Well, sort of …
Becka remembered the Ascension Lady wanting the séance the day after tomorrow; that was Friday, the twenty-first. “She’d said the twenty-first was some sort of window,” Becka explained.
“The anniversary of the girl’s murder.”
Ryan nodded. “Then that’s the date to check.” Becka moaned. “But that’s one hundred and forty-three issues.”
Ryan flashed her his famous grin. “Guess we’d better get started, then.”
Reluctantly she reached down and turned on the bulky microfilm machine in front of her. The screen glowed and a little fan inside began to whir. Ryan followed suit with his own machine.
“Let’s start with last year and work backward,” Becka suggested.
The hours dragged on as they went through year after year.
Some of the history was interesting, but for the most part it was a continual stream of boring who-did-what-to-whom or who-built-this-and-bought-that.
Because of the date, there were frequent articles on the Easter season and various church ser vices. This got Becka to thinking about their previous conversation. “Hey, Ryan, how come you believe all this stuff happened — ” she nodded at the pile of microfilm — “but you don’t believe the Bible?” Ryan threw her a glance. “Run that past me again.”
“Why do you accept all this stuff as history, but not the Bible?”
“Well, this stuff was accurately reported. It was witnessed by the people who lived here.”
“And the Bible?”
“It’s thousands of years old.”
“And?”
“Well, there’s nobody around to prove it.” Becka thought this over as she continued going through the microfilm. Ryan had a point. And yet, no one was alive today who could prove George Washington was the first president. Or that Columbus had sailed to America. Before she could put these thoughts into words, Ryan let out a groan.
“What’s wrong?” She looked over to his machine. He was on the last microfilm. “There’s nothing here; we missed it.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “We’ve gone through every April twenty-first issue, and there’s nothing, not a thing.”
Rebecca closed her eyes. She hadn’t realized how tired she was.
“So,” Ryan continued, “for all these years that murder has only been a rumor? No one was really killed at the mansion?” He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “That means your theory about no ghosts might be correct.”
Becka nodded, grateful that she’d been proven right. But the victory was short-lived. Soon Ryan was tapping his finger on his jaw, the way he always did when he thought. “Unless …” She watched. He continued, “If the murder took place on the twenty-first … Oh, man …”
“What?” Becka asked. “What’s wrong?”
“It wouldn’t be in the papers on April twenty-first. That’s the night it happened. If it was a murder, it would be in the paper the next day or the day after that.”
It was Becka’s turn to groan. Her eyes were tired and her neck was stiff. But he was right. “Does that mean we have to start all over again?”
“Not if you don’t want to.” She caught the twinkle in his eye.
“If you want to concede and admit you were wrong, that’s okay with me.”
“No way, bucko.” She grinned. “If you can hang on, I can hang on.”
“What a man.” He smirked. “What a man.”
She gave him a look, and they started all over again from the top — this time checking out April twenty-second and twenty-third.
In less than an hour, Becka found it. The article was dated April 23, 1939, and the headline read, “Man Arrested for Murder of Maid’s Daughter.”
“Take a look,” she said. Ryan joined her, and they read the article together:
Mr. Daniel Hawthorne was arrested Friday evening and charged with the murder of his housekeeper’s daughter, Juanita Garcia, age eight. Juanita’s mother, Mrs. Maria Garcia, had been employed by Hawthorne for nine months.
Both mother and daughter were citizens of Mexico. Friday evening, around 10:00 p.m., neighbors heard what was described as the screaming of a little girl and telephoned the police. Juanita was found on the second-story bedroom fl oor, lying in a pool of blood. She had been stabbed count-less times. Police Chief Warren believes the girl underwent extreme suffering before her demise. Hawthorne has denied all charges despite the fact that when police arrested him, his face and neck
were scratched, his clothing was torn, and he was covered in blood. Hawthorne offered no explanation for his condition.
The more Becka read, the lower her heart sank. Not only over the little girl’s fate, but also because of her own defeat. And maybe the Bible’s. Granted, just because a girl was murdered in that house didn’t automatically mean the place was haunted by her ghost. But there was something else gnawing at Becka.
Ryan noticed her expression. “Beck, you okay?” She continued staring at the screen. “That girl, Juanita, was from Mexico.”
Ryan nodded. “Yeah. So?”
“The little girl I saw up in the window … she had dark hair and skin. She could have easily been Mexican.”
Chapter 3
11:54 p.m.
Once again Scott had a difficult time getting to sleep. His mind churned with anger — and with thoughts of revenge.
He ran scene after scene through his head, thinking of ways to get even, to make the Ascension Lady look like a fool.
He rolled over and looked at his radio clock. It was hard to make out the exact time through his dirty socks, but he knew it was late. A thought came to mind. He threw off the covers and padded across to his computer. He snapped it on, typed in a few command strokes, and entered the chat room. He moved and clicked the mouse only to discover that Z had left a message.
To: New Kid
From: Z
Topic: Astrology
Good to hear from you. Most occult experts think astrology is foolishness. Even your Bible mocks those who believe it: “All the counsel you have received has only worn you out! Let your astrologers come forward, those stargazers who make predictions month by month, let them save you from what is coming upon you. Surely they are like stubble; the fi re will burn them up. They cannot even save themselves from the power of the fl ame. Here are no coals to warm anyone; here is no fi re to sit by” (Isaiah 47:13 – 14).
FACTS:
• Astrology is the belief that lives are controlled by the position of the stars. The theory has several holes. First, it was conceived and based on the idea that the stars rotated around the earth. (Most of us have discovered that’s not true.) Second, there are different versions of astrology with many directly opposing each other. Some believe there are 8 signs of the zodiac; others believe 12, 14, or even 24. Third, it is diffi cult to fi nd any two astrologers who will give the same advice to the same person on the same day.