“Detective Cox?” she asked, looking from Brian to Blake.
“I’m Detective Cox.” Brian offered his hand. “And this is Blake Danzig.”
“Linda Harris.” The interpreter, a small, mousy-looking woman in her twenties, shook Blake’s hand. She looked like she would frighten easily, and Blake wondered how she would handle being confronted by a ghost.
As if reading his mind, Brian leaned close to Blake. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I briefed Linda on the whole thing by phone. She knows.”
“I’m a big girl,” she said. “And, by the way, I’m a big fan of your show.”
“Thanks.”
They entered the building and followed the same route Blake and Brian had taken two days earlier, carefully walking through the darkened hallways and finally arriving at unit 308. Blake strode confidently into the bedroom and opened the closet door. For a moment he thought the ghost was gone, but as his eyes began to adjust the shadows, he could see her, hiding in a corner.
“Who are you?” he asked. Linda, standing just behind him, translated the question into Ukrainian.
The ghost’s expression changed upon hearing her native language, and she stepped cautiously from the shadows.
“We’re here to help you,” Blake said. “Please, tell us your name.”
Again, Linda translated.
“Anya,” the spirit replied. Blake repeated this to his companions and Brian nodded—they had the right spirit.
“Who did this to you?” Blake asked.
Once Linda had translated the question, the spirit began to speak quickly, her eyes huge.
“Slowly,” he said, kindly.
But the ghost seemed eager to tell her story to the first people willing to listen in over twenty years.
“I don’t know,” Blake said. “I wish you could hear her, Linda. I’m having difficulty making out what she’s saying.”
Brian sighed impatiently behind them.
“What does it sound like she’s saying?” Linda acted as if she was beginning to feel a little spooked.
Blake wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of performing a phonetic translation. Too many things could go wrong and, since he didn’t speak a word of Ukrainian, the ghost might as well have been speaking Swahili. To make matters worse, she had begun to sob uncontrollably, choking out each foreign word between sobs.
“I don’t know,” Blake said, feeling horribly self-conscious. “It sounds like ‘vil a mean-ya vladealitz.’”
The ghost nodded at Blake, and Linda asked Blake to repeat what he had just said, his tongue twisting on the strange words. Suddenly, Linda repeated perfectly what the ghost had been saying. The ghost nodded. “Da, da!”
Linda turned to Brian. “That means ‘my landlord killed me,’” she said, her expression grave. She turned back to Blake. “Are you sure?”
“The ghost says yes,” Blake replied. He was suddenly struck with an idea and turned to Brian. “Do you have a pen?”
Brian fished around in his pocket and finally produced a ballpoint, which he passed to Blake. Blake, in turn, offered the pen to the ghost.
“Can you write that?” he asked.
Linda translated and gasped when the pen floated through what looked like thin air.
“Okay,” she said, now acting very frightened, “that’s creepy.”
“Write what you told us,” Blake said, “on the wall.”
Linda translated his instructions and the pen—seemingly of its own volition—began to form Cyrillic characters on the closet wall in front of them.
Linda read aloud after the pen tumbled to the floor. “‘My landlord killed me. He was a monster and killed many women here.’”
“Holy shit,” Brian whispered. He turned and walked into the empty living room.
Blake and Linda joined him.
“How do we prove that?” Brian asked. He gestured wildly in the direction of the bedroom.
“She told us,” Blake said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” Brian replied flatly. “I can’t obtain an arrest warrant on the word of a spirit. They’d lock me up in the nearest loony bin and throw away the key.”
Welcome to my world, Blake thought. “I have an idea,” he said. “What if the cops overlooked the writing on the wall back in 1984? You came here to look into the old case, found the writing, and hired Linda to translate it.”
Brian looked skeptical. “It’s a long shot,” he said, “but it’s worth a try.”
“I’ll vouch for you,” Linda said. Then, looking around the room, she added, “Can we go now? This turned out to be a little more than I bargained for.”
“Not yet,” Blake said. “We need to do something first.”
Brian and Linda stared at him, clearly confused. He walked back into the bedroom and stopped in front of the open closet door. The ghost, who seemed to have regained her composure, looked at him.
“Tell her she’s free to move on now,” Blake told Linda. “Thanks to her we will catch and punish the man who did this to her.”
Linda translated and Anya looked at Blake, confusion on her face.
“Anya,” Blake said. “You’re free. Go now and rest in peace.”
She seemed to have understood Blake, because she beamed, then began to fade from sight even before Linda began translating.
“She’s gone,” Blake announced. He retrieved Brian’s pen from the floor and handed it to him.
Brian seemed reluctant to touch the object, as if the ghost had somehow contaminated it, but quickly shoved it into his pocket.
He promised to call Blake as soon as they knew anything more, and they parted in front of the building. As Blake made his way back up the hill, his cell phone began to ring. To his great relief, Blake saw it was Joe.
“Sorry to just now get back to you,” said Joe. “I’m one of those rare people that actually turns his phone off at work.”
“That’s okay. I’m just glad to hear your voice.”
“What were you saying about the ghost at the bar?” Joe sounded amused.
“This is going to sound weird,” Blake said, “but I think the ghost at the Bayside might be stalking me.”
“What? Are you kidding?”
“No. “Listen, when can I see you again, Joe? I’d really rather talk about this in person.”
“How about tonight?”
“Be at my place by eight. My friend Melody and her new girlfriend will be there, too. You can meet everybody and I’ll explain about the ghost.”
Chapter Thirteen
Blake busily tidied up his condominium in preparation for the arrival of his guests. Ghost-show night had never been a formal affair, just he and Melody sharing wine and appetizers while critiquing competing paranormal shows. This night, however, had to be special. Not only would he meet Melody’s new love interest, Hope, but Melody would meet Joe. Part of Blake felt that it might be premature to introduce Joe to his best friend—they had only spent one night together, after all—but his real inspiration for having Joe over had more to do with the ghost at the bar. Besides, he told himself, maybe Joe could be the right guy. Might as well get introductions out of the way and see where things go from there.
Blake walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, checking there was enough wine being chilled, and pulled out a platter of cheeses he had assembled earlier. From a nearby paper bag he produced a baguette, which he cut into bite-sized pieces and placed on a separate platter alongside a variety of gourmet crackers. He checked the clock on the wall and, seeing he still had plenty of time to shower before the guests arrived, retrieved a vase from a cupboard for the bouquet of irises he had purchased at the corner market just down the hill. He carried his arrangement into the living room, placed it on the coffee table, and admired his handiwork. Satisfied the place was ready for company, he went to shower.
*
The subway car was filled to capacity, forcing Joe to stand for the short ride downtown. Grasping the overhead railing in on
e hand for support and, in the other, clutching the bouquet of roses he had purchased from a vendor outside the Castro station, Joe took in his fellow passengers: a mixture of business men and women in their corporate drag, shoppers laden with bags of loot, kids from the suburbs in town to cause a little trouble, and students heading home from school. They were like ants going about their business in seemingly disorganized chaos.
Joe stepped off of the cramped subway car at the Powell Street station, below Market Street. The ride from Castro Street had been a quick one. At first he’d been hesitant about bringing flowers, but had given in to his urge in the end. Besides, they were yellow roses, and if he remembered his flower etiquette properly, yellow roses symbolized friendship. Anyway, he wanted to make a good impression, and wasn’t it customary to bring gifts when invited to another person’s house?
At the top of the escalator leading from the subway stop to the street, Joe emerged at the Powell Street cable-car turnaround. Surrounded by tourists from every corner of the earth waiting for their turn on the famous cable cars, he grinned at their enthusiasm and took in the sounds and smells of the city. He continued past Union Square and the Academy of Art building, turned left at California Street, and began climbing another steep street, slowly making his way to Blake’s building.
*
Melody and Hope sat in the backseat of a taxi, headed downtown. Melody glanced over at Hope, who looked ill at ease, and squeezed her hand. “Are you nervous about meeting Blake?”
“A little. I mean, not only is he your best friend, he’s also Blake Danzig, star of his own television show.”
“Hey, I’m on that show, too.”
“I know.” Hope kissed her on the lips and glanced at the cab driver. He was focused on the road, busy concentrating on the traffic. She squeezed Melody’s hand and looked out the window.
Melody settled back into the seat, still grasping Hope’s hand. Hope seemed so far away, staring silently out the window. What could be bothering her? Surely she wasn’t all that nervous about meeting Blake, who was one of the kindest, most down-to-earth people possible. But if Blake wasn’t the issue, what was? It certainly didn’t seem to be the witchcraft thing. Hope seemed downright supportive of whatever Melody wanted to believe. She had even agreed to wear the protective amulet that Melody had given her “just in case.” The night they met, Melody had inquired about the pentacle tattooed on Hope’s arm and she had shrugged, explaining that it had more to do with her heavy metal days than with witchcraft. Still, she had been willing to entertain the notion of goddess worship.
And that was enough for now.
As was her way, Melody began worrying about the fledgling relationship. Had she done something wrong? Had the talisman been too much too soon? And, if it was, what could she do to fix things? One thing she knew for certain: she would not let this relationship go without a fight, and she would even use magic if necessary.
*
Blake answered the knock on his door, and Joe held out the bouquet of yellow roses and kissed Blake softly on the lips.
“I’m glad you got here first,” Blake said, leading Joe to the kitchen before he searched for another vase. “At least I’ll get you to myself for a little while.”
He put the roses in another vase, which he placed in the middle of the dining-room table, then rejoined Joe, who had remained in the kitchen. “Thank you for the flowers,” he said, putting his arms around Joe, “they’re beautiful.”
“What was that crazy call about?” Joe arched an eyebrow. “Something about the ghost at the bar?”
“I’ll tell you when Melody gets here.” He poured two glasses of wine, offered one to Joe, and they both took a sip.
“Whatever it is,” Joe said, “I’m glad to see you again.”
“Me, too.”
Unfortunately, a second knock on the door interrupted their brief private time, and, without waiting for a reply, Melody and Hope entered the apartment. “Hello?” Melody called. “We’re here.”
“In the kitchen.” Blake stole one more kiss from Joe before stepping around the corner. Joe followed him, wineglass in hand.
Introductions were made, and Blake instantly liked Hope. She seemed intelligent and possessed a pronounced sense of self-confidence that came across as neither smug nor pushy. Upon meeting Joe, Melody raised her eyebrows at Blake, an amused look on her face. They left Joe and Hope to chat and went to the kitchen to pour two more glasses of wine.
“When did you meet Joe?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Last night.” Blake ignored Melody’s wicked smile. “He’s cute, don’t you think?”
“Very.” Melody peered into the living room, where Hope and Joe were admiring the view from the windows. “What do you think of Hope?”
“She seems very nice.” Blake said, passing a wineglass to Melody.
“And gorgeous.” She sounded slighted.
“And gorgeous.” Blake laughed. “If you like girls.”
He carried the second glass of wine into the living room and offered it to Hope. “Okay,” he said, looking from Melody to Joe. “Something weird happened last night you should both know about.”
He explained what Mike, the doorman, had told him about the previous night’s arriving cab—namely, that three people emerged from the cab instead of two. “I believe it was the ghost from the Bayside Bar.”
“Okay, that’s a little weird, isn’t it?” Melody slowly took a seat on the sofa, where Hope joined her, but remained silent.
“Well, yes,” Blake said. “But it’s not unheard of for ghosts to attach themselves to people they are somehow attracted to. Or even—as in the case of my doorman—to appear to whomever they choose.”
“But you didn’t see him?” Melody asked.
Blake shook his head, feeling serious.
“A ghost stalker.” Melody laughed. “Leave it to you.”
“It’s not really that funny. I think the ghost is the blond who attacked you Sunday night.”
“Blake, this guy was real—”
“He had an average build, was in his twenties, and he was wearing faded jeans and a white T-shirt?”
“This is too weird.” Melody said, and Hope put an arm around her.
Joe took his cue to chime in. “That’s why you told me to be careful at the bar. You think he’d attack me?”
“Yes. The first night I saw him, he definitely seemed interested in me. In fact, I think he was trying to get me to follow him to the bathroom.”
“A gay ghost,” Melody said, almost to herself. “That’s fucking creepy.”
“Why not? And I’m afraid that if he finds out you’re dating me,” Blake addressed Joe, “he might try to harm you like he did Melody.”
“I already told you,” Joe said, “I’m not afraid of ghosts.”
“Still, I think I should go to the bar and try to get rid of him.”
“How are you going to manage that, Blake?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know, but, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to meet you at the bar after you close tomorrow night and maybe have a talk with our otherworldly stalker.”
“Okay.” Then, with a wide grin, Joe said, “Cool, I get to see you in action, and not on television.”
*
With plans made, the four of them settled in front of the television for a night of paranormal television.
“Is your show on tonight?” asked Joe, who had curled up next to Blake.
“No. We’re on another network.”
“Most of the other paranormal investigative shows, which air on a rival network,” Melody explained, “are a mixture of different guys doing basically the same thing—some better than others.”
“The first show,” Blake said, “is Ghost Nation, which is made up of three guys who used simple, handheld cameras to record their investigations. The leader of the group is well-built and not unattractive, but he looks like a wannabe porn star. And the way he butchers the English language is so pas
t laughable, it’s sad.”
“I swear, you guys,” Melody said, mimicking their rival, “I seen a ghost in there!”
Blake agreed. “It amazes me that such a big, dumb frat boy could have ended up with his own show. They do manage to catch some fascinating footage of spirits on camera, so I’m willing to overlook his battering of the English language.”
Two regular guys headed the next show. When not working their day jobs as bus drivers, they starred on the show named after the paranormal investigations company they’d formed called T.A.G.S., an acronym for The American Ghost Society. Blake particularly liked this show and its stars and was constantly impressed with their innovative approaches to gathering paranormal evidence. In one episode, they sprinkled baby powder in a hallway frequented by a poltergeist and, amazingly, captured footprints in the otherwise-deserted hall.
In the third show, a group of hysterical college-aged kids failed—that night anyway—to capture anything of value. To Blake, they seemed to be playing with fire, and he questioned the wisdom of the show’s producers to put such innocents in harm’s way. With any luck, the show wouldn’t make it to a second season.
The final show of the evening was Haunted Isle, Clive Damon’s vehicle for paranormal investigation. As usual, the location of that night’s show was an ancient castle, this one somewhere in Scotland. In the end, the camera recorded no concrete evidence of ghostly presence.
As the show was ending, footage—seemingly live, as opposed to the taped show that had just aired—appeared on-screen. Clive Damon, dressed in some sort of ridiculous Western getup, smiled at his television audience. “Thank you for watching tonight’s show,” he drawled. “I certainly hope you enjoyed the investigation and invite you to tune in for our next show, filmed in the American Southwest, site of numerous hauntings.”
Melody scoffed. “What’s that fraud doing in America? Not enough ghosts in merry old England?”
Midnight Whispers Page 11