by Rick Suttle
Ghosts at Drayson Schoolhouse
The McCauliffe Adventures – Book 1
by
Rick Suttle
RB Publishing Cincinnati, Ohio
© 2015 Rick Suttle. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieved system, or dispensed by any means without the written permission of the author.
Printed in the United States of America
Cincinnati, Ohio
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 1
I can’t remember when I first became interested in the supernatural. It was probably around the time I got the flu in 2009. I caught the dang bug from some doofus named Jimmy Montgomery in the seventh grade—what a creep!
We were in fourth period study hall. His nose was running like a faucet that day, and he kept snorting and wiping it with his hand. Next thing I know, he’s grabbing my wrist telling me to check out Cindy Mason’s boobs in the seat across from him. I had to admit, the little brunette was hot, and she must’ve forgotten to wear a bra that day. But the welcomed distraction wasn’t worth getting a glob of snot on the sleeve of my new shirt. I quickly wiped the booger under the desk, and after nearly vomiting, went back to reading my American history book.
I went home two days later with the aches and chills. I was under a half dozen blankets sweating my unmentionables off, when my mom flipped on the tube.
“Anything in particular you want to watch,” she said, spearing me with a look of concern. You would’ve thought I was dying from all the attention I was getting.
“Just leave it on that channel, mom, and hand me the remote.” She picked the remote control off my dresser and sidled toward me, covering her mouth and nose as if I had leprosy. Jeez. What a germaphobe.
I ended up watching a string of Ghost Adventures episodes on the Travel Channel, occasionally arising from my cocoon of blankets to hit the crapper. For some reason, I had diarrhea with this bug, and it felt more like I had malaria. I swear I saw tiny helicopters flying around my room that night, and they were using the light fixture above me as a launching pad. And it was full of water. I hoped, it was just a flu symptom. But I didn’t know what to think.
As it turned out, I was just hallucinating. Good thing ‘cause one of the miniature helicopters flew into my mouth and almost caused me to gag. A tiny helicopter apparition caused by an extreme body temperature. That was a new one.
Jimmy definitely had at least a wedgie coming his way—maybe even an atomic one. And the plan was to get him in gym class, which I did a couple weeks later. Funniest thing ever—watching Jimmy try to pull those tighty-whities off his pointy head.
I’m seventeen now and a bit more mature. I’ll be eighteen on Independence Day. I’m a freshman at the University of Cincinnati. I’m double-majoring in computer science and engineering. No, I’m not one of those geniuses. I just took a lot of extra courses in high school and during a couple summers, and graduated a year early.
This particular day finds me poring over a physics text, my head canted on a reading pillow on my bed. I have final exam coming up next week, then I have to find a summer job. What a drag.
“What’s this?”
I looked over and saw my thirteen year-old sister standing near my book shelf, which was full of electrical gadgets. I’d made many of the devices—radios, remote controls, walkie-talkies—over the years, but not the one Sarah was fingering at the moment.
“It’s a new spirit box. It’s got a Word processing program . . .”
“That converts EVPs into digital messages,” said Sarah—half asking, but finishing my sentence. Sarah always did crap like that, and I hated it. I’d come to accept this little quirk over the years because my sister was psychic.
EVP stands for electronic voice phenomenon. These are voices of ghosts that are picked up electronically through various recording apparatuses.
“Be careful with that,” I said, as Sarah picked the spirit box up and flipped it over, handling it as if she were studying fossil formations on an old creek stone.
“Relax. I’m not going to break it.”
Sarah was known as a psychic medium. She had the ability to see and speak with dead people. She said spirits often approached her to help them move on to the next world. Some were stuck in this world, for whatever reason. Pretty sad if you think about it. And more than a bit creepy!
Sarah had her first ghostly experience with the supernatural at the age of seven. A little girl had visited her room at the house my parents owned until I was fifteen. Sarah said the girl had gotten small pox during the Civil War, and then perished from it. The girl hung around for months, until Sarah helped her move on to the light. She said she hated to see her go, and at one time claimed her as a best friend. But Sarah knew the girl would be happier in heaven—rather than hanging around this crazy world any longer. Sarah has seen many spirits since then, and helped on most of our investigations. Yes, my sister could probably read my thoughts as I speak—not good!
Now that you know a little about my sister, let me introduce the rest of our investigation team. We’re a family of paranormal investigators—or ghost hunters. But we’re not just in it for thrills. We help people get rid of spirits, which can cause all kinds of problems for folks. Yeah, I know, it’s enough to creep anyone out—even me at times.
Most investigators are adults with years of experience, but we got into the business at an early age. We even ran our first ad in the Internet yellow pages under “D.M.S. Paranormal,” the former of which were the initials of our first names—Dylan, Mark and Sarah. I’m Dylan, by the way. But in our minds D.M.S. was an acronym for “Don’t Mess with Spirits.”
My dad’s a pastor at The Savior Episcopalian Church in Cincinnati. He used to be a Catholic priest before meeting my mom, but had to leave the priesthood before he married her. Prior to their wedding in 1993, he had trained as an exorcist through the Vatican. He has since become a noted Christian demonologist who helps people coordinate exorcisms—and he performs minor ones himself.
Nowadays, he doesn’t go through Catholic priests and bishops when he performs these ceremonies. He says it takes too long to get approval through the Vatican. Plus, he’s no longer a Catholic. Truth is, the Vatican needs a ton of evidence before they’ll send a priest for an exorcism. And some people just can’t wait; they need help immediately or risk severe injuries, illnesses or even death. I’ve been present for a couple minor exorcisms my father performed in recent years. But he hasn’t participated in a major exorcism for many years.
Needless to say, we keep these extracurricular activities on the downlow. There are a lot of busybodies in our congregation and neighborhood. And if people knew what we did, they’d think we were The Munsters or something. You know, that family of freakazoids from the hilarious 1960’s television show. That wouldn’t win us many friends either.
My brother Mark is the history buff or researcher of the group. While I operate the equipment and Sarah communicates with spirits, Mark researches old homes and family histories. And in the Cincinnati area, there’s a heck of a lot of history—not all good.
Mark usually does his research after our initial investigation. That way, we can better understand who the spirits are in haunted places. Mom just stays out of the whole mess. She’s the nervous type anyway. That’s why we don’t discuss these things around her. It gives her the heebie-jeebies, as she used to say. I can understand her sentiments, having been on two dozen of these investigations. Scariest stuff I’ve ever done—and often worse than what you see in the movies. I’m not kidding.
Dad doesn’t participate in many of our ghost adventures. Just the ones where strong presences linger, or when demons are involved. He warns us to be careful and not anger the evil spirits. Demons, and some evil spirits, can follow you home when you’re visiting an abandoned haunted location, whether it’s a house, graveyard or whatever. But demonic hauntings are fairly rare, per my father, and usually occur at abandoned prisons, mental asylums or hospitals, where evil or death was once rampant—or in homes when people mess with the occult.
That’s why my dad also warns us to avoid séances, Ouija boards or satanic rituals at all costs. Practitioners of the occult or black magic open up portals for evil spirits. And sometimes the damage they cause can’t be reversed. The Persians were some of the earliest devotees to this type of activity, and created grimoires or black magic books to teach their methods.
After I finished studying physics, I went downstairs to get a snack. I reached for a box of Frosted Flakes on top of the fridge and dropped it on the floor. At least a fourth of the box spilled on the tiles.
“Don’t waste that,” said my mom, as she emerged through the doorway behind me. Her sudden appearance made me jump. Germs from the floor were okay with her with respect to food, as frugality was more important.
“I won’t,” I said, as I bent down on my knees, gathered up the scattered flakes and placed them in a separate bowl. Meanwhile, mom ambled over to the sink and rinsed off a pile of dishes, spraying them with the hose before placing them in the dishwasher. Mark and I had dirtied most of them, as we were always eating. Just a couple of growing boys, that’s all.
“Put your bowl and spoon in the dishwasher when you’re finished. But rinse them off with some warm water and soap first.”
“Okay.”
“And make sure you get plenty of rest for your exams. You’ll get sick if you don’t. . .” I nodded and tuned mom out. She really needed to lighten up with the mother smother stuff. I was a college man now and could take care of myself.
I cursed Mike under my breath, as he never folded up the inside plastic bags or connected the flaps on cereal boxes. I hoped it was he that had the misfortune of eating the next batch. It would serve him right.
I had no sooner dumped the tainted flakes back in the box, when Mark strolled into the kitchen. He scratched his stomach and yawned, stretching his arms overhead.
“We have an email tonight.”
“On the site?”
“Yeah, where else?”
“Did you read it?” I asked, as he walked over to the fridge and peeked inside it. He searched the shelves for something to eat before turning around to see what I was eating.
“Yeah.”
Half the emails we received was from vendors trying to sell us ghost hunting or electrical gadgets. I’d already spent a fortune on them. Another quarter came from religious zealots who wanted to save our depraved souls.
Then a smattering of weirdos liked to poke fun of our site: “Scary stuff dudes, but you’re nothing but ghost nerds.” . . . “I was just wondering, do ghosts fart?” Or, “My grandma’s now a ghost, and she says you suck!” Only about ten percent of the emails we got were from people who needed our help.
I watched as Mark grabbed a bowl and spoon and walked over to the table. He sat down and poured a bowl of Frosted Flakes, and drenched it with milk. I was halfway finished with my first bowl of cereal. His chair squeaked against the floor as he scooted closer to the table.
“Well, who’s the email from?”
“The Drayson Schoolhouse,” said Mark, slurping up a spoonful of Tony the Tiger’s “Gr-r-reat” flakes. I smiled as I finished my first bowl and poured another, now that Mark had taken most of the germy flakes with the floor dust and grime sprinkled in.
“Those folks are always trying to keep people away,” I said. “And I thought they condemned the place last year.”
“It’s being refurbished this summer. I guess some levy passed to pay for the remodeling. They just hired a new principal.”
“What do they want?”
“The carpenters and electricians are experiencing some activity—lights going off and on, missing tools. Someone also got pushed off a ladder and injured.”
“And they really need our help?”
“The email’s from ‘Anonymous,’ but the person left a number. I put it on your desk.” Mark poured himself another bowl of cereal. It sounded like just a few flakes remained.
“Finish the rest of it if there’s less than a bowl left,” I said. There was nothing worse than looking forward to eating cereal when only a few crumbs remained.
“Whatever, dude. But this is all I want.”
I grabbed the box and finished the Frosted Flakes off. It was my fourth bowl. I washed it all down with some milk. My stomach felt bloated; I was ready to puke. I belched. Mike looked up. “Nice one. I could actually smell it. So, did you get a summer job yet?”
“No. I’m waiting until after exams this year.” Last year, I already had a job at this point, bagging groceries at Kroger.
I got up from the table, rinsed my dishes off in the sink with soap and warm water and placed them on the appropriate racks in the dishwasher.
“Wash your dishes out,” I said, as I passed the table.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I clambered the steps to my room. Mark had scrawled the phone number on a yellow Post-It note. I could barely make it out.
I wrote the number down again on my desk calendar, reminding myself to call the person tomorrow. Mr. or Mrs. Anonymous. I then turned on my laptop and read the email.
The note sounded a bit more urgent than Mark had indicated. “We desperately need your help before the school year starts this fall.”
It was quarter till midnight when I looked at my alarm clock. I Googled “Drayson Schoolhouse” to see if I could gather some history on the place, though it would be Mark’s job to delve into people’s pasts if Sarah came up with anything.
The Drayson Schoolhouse was a forty minute drive from our home in Bridgetown. It sat isolated atop a steep hill overlooking the valley of a rural village.
The school was founded in 1867 by a Byron Ferguson. It had closed down four times over the years for various reasons, including electrical problems, flooding and health issues. I checked a few other sites about the schoolhouse.
One site provided a history on some of the deaths that occurred at the school over the years—twenty that had made the papers. But there was no mention of any murders, which could spur hauntings.
I checked the email again. I could swear several words had been added since I first read it, but couldn’t figure out which ones. The lights on my computer started blinking, then the Drayson Schoolhouse site popped back up on my screen. That was odd because I had closed the site three minutes ago. I turned the computer off. My heart was pounding.
CHAPTER 2
I called the Drayson Schoolhouse on Monday after my Geology final. The physics exam was coming up on Thursday, which would be the last day of my freshman year in college.
A female answered on the fourth ring. I could barely hear her as she finished reciting her sheepish salutation and spiel about the school, ending with a faint, “How may I help you?”
“This is Dylan McCauliffe,” I said, after the voice on the other end went silent.
“Who?”
“I’m with D.M.S. Paranormal.” Silence ensued. “I got an email from your school over the weekend. It said you needed some help.”
“Oh,” the woman said—he
r voice a bit louder.
“It was signed anonymous,” I said. “Do you know who wrote it? I promise, everything here is confidential.”
“Well.” The woman seemed a bit hesitant. “I . . . I . . . I wrote the email, but it was for the school principal. He’s new here and asked me to write you.”
“And what is his name?”
“Gerald Tanner,” she said. She cleared her throat. “But please, this has to be in strict confidence. I don’t want to upset the parents. And the Board doesn’t even know about this.”
“Like I said, Ms. . . .”
“It’s . . . Joyce Fletcher.”
“Ms. Fletcher, we don’t divulge anything about our clients to anyone.”
“Okay. That’s good.”
“And we back that up in writing in our contract.”
“What do I need to do? We’re desperate here. Things are getting out of control.”
“We usually start with a meeting,” I said. “The earliest I can meet is Thursday afternoon.”
Joyce sighed. “You don’t have anything sooner?” Her voice quivered. She let out an agitated sigh.
I thought about my study schedule and exams. “I could meet you tomorrow around four p.m. Would that work?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“I have the directions. Will Mr. Tanner be present?”
“No, but he’s already agreed to the investigation,” she said. “How does this work?”
“I’ll explain everything tomorrow,” I said. “My brother Mike and I will be there at four.”
“I’ll tell the guard you’re coming.” Joyce thanked me and hung up.
“I don’t know if I can meet tomorrow,” said Mike. I stood in the middle of his room after dinner. Clothes were strewn on the floor, and several wads of paper lay near his trashcan. A stale odor of sweat wafted through the air, as if Mike had just finished working out.