Those of the Margin: a Paranormal Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 2)

by T Patrick Phelps

  Recognition and the Return

  (FIRST DRAFT)

  By Ronald White

  January 2014

  In 1972, I was asked to witness what I later learned to be a psychological experiment in Toronto, Canada. The experiment was called the "Phillip Experiment," and its mission was to determine the psychological impact of the power of persuasion and the human need to believe in life after death. The results of the experiment, however, provided results quite different from what was expected.

  The team of psychiatrists and psychologists created a fictional character named "Phillip." They created details of his life, timeframes of major life events, and created a series of challenges and successes that Phillip experienced throughout his life. They also gave Phillip a date of death. In other words, they both gave Phillip life and ended it.

  The test subjects were given a plethora of information about Phillip, whom they were told was an actual human being, who lived and who died. Each test subject was expected to know as much about Phillip as possible. Once the psychiatrists felt that the test group was ready, they asked the group to try to make contact with Phillip by participating in a séance.

  I was invited to the third séance and was not afforded the luxury of knowing the truth behind Phillip. I accepted the invitation, curious as to why men of science would be conducting a controlled study that included participants trying to make contact with a departed soul. Never one to believe in claims of the paranormal, I attended the séance with the intention of reporting that any claims of contact with the "other world" were fabricated and sensationalized stunts.

  I was wrong.

  To this day, I cannot say for certain what I experienced during that séance over 40 years ago, but the event changed me forever. What I can say for certain is that the Phillip Experiment altered the course of my personal and professional life.

  For the past 40 plus years, I have sought answers to a single, burning set of questions: 1.) Do ghosts exist? 2.) If ghosts exist, can we make contact with them? 3.) Are ghosts entirely dependent on our believing in them? To rephrase this last question, would ghosts exist if no one believed in them?

  Over the years, I have conducted countless experiments of my own, interviewed hundreds, if not thousands of people who claimed to have had a "ghostly encounter," and have been able to provide reasonable and scientific reason to disprove the overwhelming majority of experiences.

  But not all.

  In 2011, I interviewed a man from Cork, Ireland, whose theory so compelled me that I not only flew to Ireland to meet with him, but also began a series of experiments focused on proving or disproving his theory.

  The man's name was Patrick McGwyn. His theory was that, when all of us die, we are given a choice: to either advance to the next realm of existence or to continue a form of earthly life. Mr. McGwyn provided no theories of what the next realm of existence is or could be, but instead focused his theory on the departed who choose to remain on earth.

  "They are the ghosts and spirits that we have all heard about," he told me. "But in truth, they are human beings who chose to remain instead of advancing."

  McGwyn theorized that those who choose to continue an earthly existence can do so until someone who knew them when they were 'alive' recognizes them.

  How many times have you thought you saw someone who you knew had died? Perhaps you catch a glimpse of your departed grandfather, father, mother, or friend out of the corner of your eye. At first, you may actually forget that the person is dead, then, you look again and the person is gone from your view. You feel a twinge of sadness then pass the whole event off as a trick of your mind.

  McGwyn's theory is that a ghost, once recognized, is returned to the realm they chose not to choose upon their death. A fantastic claim, for sure, but one with countless stories to support it that I felt obligated to test.

  And so I began testing by combing through obituaries, studying the faces of the departed then looking for them in public places. After over two years, I found nothing to support Mr. McGwyn's theory.

  I suffered a stroke in October of 2013 and decided to rehab in a nursing home in the State of Maine, where my family and I have vacationed numerous times. There, I met a woman (who asked not to be named in this article), who had not only heard of McGwyn's theory but also had evidence that the theory was correct.

  "I have recognized and returned three spirits in the past six years," she claimed. She then told me that that the way I was testing the theory had a critical flaw.

  "They cannot know you are searching for them."

  Being confined to the nursing home grounds, I designed a method of "spying" that would allow me to, hopefully, recognize a ghost and return them. And on January 3, 2014, I confirmed that Patrick McGwyn's theory is accurate when I clearly saw a man walking down a path in Maine that I personally knew and who had died a few weeks prior.

  Who it was is not important, nor is whether or not you, the reader of this article, believe the theory that ghosts walk among us. They walk in the shadows and among those cast off from society. They hide, knowing that if they are ever recognized, that they will be banished to another unknown.

  As for me, I still question if all of this can possibly be true. I've doubted what I saw countless times and have even committed to never writing about this theory or speaking about it again. But in the end, I know what I saw, and I know that there are things well beyond my ability to understand.

  Do ghosts exist? And if they do exist, are they among those who continue to inhabit the margins of society? For me, they do, and for as long as I am able to walk this earth, I will always be looking for faces in the crowds and wondering if they are counted among those of the margin.

  I hope you enjoyed this book as much as I did writing it. I have received plenty of questions about "Those of the Margin" since it was originally published and want to answer a few of the most commonly asked ones here.

  "Was Ron White really a reporter?" Ron White, and every character in this novel, is fictitious. No one is based on anyone, living or deceased.

  "Is the theory about ghosts being sent back to a different realm once they are recognized a commonly known theory?" I am pretty sure I made this whole thing up. One day, a few months after my dad died, I was walking through the lobby in the resort my family and I were staying in Hawaii. I noticed someone walking ahead of me who looked exactly like my father. I sped up to get a better look at the man but I lost track of him. Those of the Margin was born!

  "Is the Phillip Experiment real?" Yes. It was a real experiment conducted in the early 1970's. I did some research on the Phillip Experiment and wanted to blend it into this story. While this story is not a fictional continuation of the Phillip Experiment, I blended the findings (theories) of the experiment into Margin.

  I truly hope that you enjoyed this book and that you will be so kind as to leave an honest, supportive review. As a small "thank you," I have included the first couple of chapters in the third Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Series, "The Observer" at the end of this book.

  Thank you for reading!

  T Patrick Phelps

  T Patrick Phelps has been writing professionally for over two decades. He is the author of "Heartless: a Derek Cole Suspense Thriller," which is the first in the Derek Cole Suspense Thriller series.

  Phelps lives in Upstate New York with his wife and two children. He has never seen a ghost, but sure would like to someday.

  Connect with T Patrick Phelps via Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/authortpp

  It was cooler than he wished. Though he did not know if the temperature might alter the expected and desired after effects, he believed the cool weather would keep people too comfortable. If it were warmer, more people would be out in the streets and more would escape the heat by going inside. Inside was where he needed them to be.

  He turned the key of his car to "on" and waited for the touch screen display of the 2010 Lincoln Navigator to jump to life. He cared about two things: The
time and the temperature.

  "Sixty-eight degrees," he sighed. "Too cool. Much too cool for August."

  The display reminded him that his time was drawing to an end though the digital clock could not remind him that he still had a choice.

  "Thirty-six minutes until I am free."

  His cell phone sat beside him on the vacant passengers seat. Though he was sure the phone's signal would be strong and battery near full, he grabbed it, flipped it open and pressed a few numbers, grateful to hear the tones. He didn't expect his mentor to call for another 20 minutes, making him wonder why he was instructed to arrive so early.

  "It will make people nervous," he said to his mentor the day the plan was detailed the plan to him. "A car sitting outside a restaurant in that part of town will make people nervous. Someone might say something. Especially now after all that has happened."

  "Things must be well timed," his mentor said. "Our plan needs to be flexible in case of interruptions. Do not worry about being seen. They will all notice you when the time is right. And then, no one will ever forget you."

  Aahill knew better than to question his mentor. He was so new to the organization and his mentor had already proven himself to be brilliant. He was not worthy to question. But soon, in less than 35 minutes, his name would be listed among the great ones. The ones who sacrificed all so that the truth was told and the non-believers, punished.

  Still, he wished for less time to wait.

  Aahill turned the key to "off" and waited. He studied the people passing along either side of the street, some with a direction, others ambling by. He wondered why more were not walking into his target. The research the organization had done listed his target as a popular and highly rated place: One of the most "liked" taverns in the area.

  Having lived Manhattan for only a few months, he was far from an authority on great taverns in the Upper East Side. But of all the places listed in his instructions to "check out," this became his favorite. The location was perfect: Near both office buildings and apartment buildings.

  The two times he had been inside, he found the bar and seating areas packed with patrons. Most inside wore crisp, white shirts, ties and sport jackets; telling him that this was the place that people who lived in the nearby apartments stopped on their way home from work.

  "Friday is your day, Aahill," his mentor said. "Friday will mark your entrance into greatness and the day that the infidels will mourn for generations."

  "But that is not the day you told me before?" he questioned. "I thought I had more time. That our plan was not ready yet?"

  "Our leader knows things you and I cannot possibly understand. And our leader says Friday is your day. This Friday."

  His mentor, who Aahill understood was not the head of the organization but was quickly making a name for himself, trusted Aahill's judgment. When Aahill suggested that this tavern, this restaurant, was the best target, his mentor agreed.

  "You are guided by Allah," he said. "Who am I to doubt?"

  He despised the time he had left as he sat in his car parked across from his selected target. Aahill scolded himself for questioning why his mentor insisted on the time of 3:37 pm and not the time that Aahill had suggested.

  "Allah, keep me strong in my thoughts," he said with his eyes closed. "Keep me strong."

  *********

  As he sat behind his newly purchased, sold mahogany desk, Derek Cole was torn between competing emotions. Though he knew that he needed to make changes if he wanted to expand his investigative firm, as he watched the hired movers and delivery men trudge up the twelve flights of stairs carrying new desks, new computers and new everything else, he already missed his old, 300 foot, one-person office. His new office, located in the heart of downtown Columbus, had a more impressive feel to it. From the entrance lobby, complete with a security desk, a three-story high water feature and expertly crafted synthetic marble floors, to the receptionist area of his office, everything was designed to both impress and to suggest success.

  Derek's decision to expand his team was not rushed into. He had been contemplating hiring someone to assist with his case load (which had grown significantly since he had appeared on several national news shows after he had played key roles in solving two recent murder cases) and to provide clients with another competent professional to work with when he was busy working a case. But as he sat behind his desk, three months after Victoria Crown accepted the assistant job, Derek wondered if he was moving too quickly.

  Victoria Crown was the eighth person who interviewed for the "Investigator's Assistant" position he had posted on Monster.com. As soon as she walked into his office, she assumed that the job was hers for the asking.

  "Can you tell me a little about yourself and why you are interested in working as a private investigator's assistant?" Derek began the interview.

  "Slow down a minute," she said. "This isn't about me and my goals. Me coming here is all about what you need and what you expect. I know what I'm doing here. What's important is why you and I are sitting in a Denny's having an interview?"

  Victoria was quickly approaching 50 years old, a fact that her multiple layers of makeup failed to disguise. Her shoulder length, reddish brown hair betrayed her desire to retain the youthful look that had enabled her to land two well-off husbands, as it displayed the marks of a losing battle against gray hair's advances. Twice married, and twice divorced, Victoria did not need to work, but her life-long battle against the possibility of ever being bored drove her actions.

  When she grew tired of traveling the world and of seeing the sights that most others only read and dream about, she tried her hand at settling down to a comfortable life. Three days after her attempt began, she was combing through the online job postings. Both of her ex-husbands were criminal defense lawyers, and both were her employers.

  "I've worked for two of the top legal defense firms in the county," she continued before giving Derek the chance to respond. "One for eight years in Grand Rapids and the other for six years outside of Boston. Don't ask me for reference numbers because I don't want those shit heads to know that I'm working again. Bastards will go running to a judge to have their alimony payments lowered." Victoria turned suddenly serious as she stared into Derek's eyes. "I know what you're up against and I know what you need to take your little agency to the next level."

  "I never said I was looking to get to the next level. I'm doing okay at the level I'm at."

  "Really?" Victoria said. "You think you're doing just fine, do you? So you think running an agency out of a 300 square foot office, that, based on what I've seen, isn't professional looking enough to bring any clients to, is doing well? Flying all over the country to meet with your clients in public parks before deciding whether their case is one you want to take on is a sound business strategy I suppose? Not being able to figure out how to make your multi-functional printer-the one you bought for $299 at Staples last year-do anything except receive a fax now and then is a sign of an agency on the rise? Listen Cole, your phone system comprises one iPhone, you still use a Rolodex for your contact management system, you have one six-year old laptop for your IT department and you can only work one case at a time because you're as sucky as shit with your time management. You ain't doing okay, Cole. There's only two reasons you're getting enough clients to keep your head above water: You do a damn good job when a client hires you and you got free advertisement when Dateline flashed your pretty-boy face all over TV screens across America. You need me way more than I need you."

  "Not sure if you understand how job interviews are supposed to go. See, I ask the questions and you give the answers."

  "Cole," Victoria said, slowly shaking her head, "this isn't an interview. This is an intervention. I'll tell you what we're gonna do: You play the owner's role and ask me some lame ass questions about how I would respond to an angry client. Ask me about a time in my career when I had to choose between doing what was best for the client or the business. Shit, ask me about my favorite positi
on in bed if you think that will help. Go ahead and ask me anything that will make you feel all warm and fuzzy. After this sit down, I'll pretend to sit by the phone, hoping that you call me and offer me the job. I'll come into your shit office next week, all dressed up as pretty as I can make all this," she said while she gestured towards her face and body, "and you can tell your buddies down at the Legion about how tough you are when interviewing people."

  "I still don't think you understand what I'm looking for," Derek said.

  "You may think that you know but I'll tell you what you should be looking for. You need someone that will keep you organized, focused and with clients pulling out their wallets, begging for you to take their case. You need someone to turn your little no-name agency into one of the top investigative firms in the country. You may not know it yet, but you need to decide whether you want to keep doing 'okay' or you want to really make an impact. Hire anyone else besides me and I will guarantee that either they quit after four months or, worse yet, stay as your pretty little assistant for 30 years.

  "You got a huge gift when your face and name were spread across the country on that TV show. You can either get damn used to turning clients away because you can't handle more than a few cases a year, or you can maximize the opportunity and make a name for yourself. I get it, it's your call. You're the boss. You decide. But I'll tell you this; make the easy decision and hire an ex-librarian with fake tits and a mouth filled with corrective dental work, and you'll be shitting all over this opportunity. What's your decision?"