Hunting Memories vm-2

by Barb Hendee

  Along with Dialogues of the Dead by George, First Baron Lyt telton.

  But two books lay open. The smaller book-written in German-had given him more specific instructions regarding what he needed to do:

  Geister Auffordern by Gottbert Drechsler.

  The larger had proven most useful. It was so old that he could not find a publication date, and the cover was worn so thin, some of the letters weren't clear. He couldn't make out the complete title, but the words resembled Medius Excessum Universum. The Latin text inside was easier to read, and the book proved to be a startling treatise on the fates of souls trapped between worlds.

  Three fat candles stood beside the books, and a new thermometer lay above them.

  He hated all this… foolishness, as it reminded him too much of unnatural powers such as telepathy.

  He remembered despising his mother for attempting to fill her life with such empty trifles. Of course she had never succeeded in summoning a ghost. She had no true connection to the dead, and she wasn't capable of understanding much of the material she'd read-especially the German.

  But he did.

  From what he had gleaned, only potential «summoners» with a connection to the dead could successfully call a spirit from the other side. In some accounts, this had included a person who had died briefly and been brought back to life. Another account in Drechsler's book involved a summoner who had been born with a kind of supernatural sense that allowed her to connect with those who had passed over. People like her were rare.

  But Julian believed that he also possessed a connection. He was one of the living dead.

  The last object on the table was a copy of the Seattle Times lying open to expose the obituaries.

  He'd been scanning various papers, ignoring the numerous mundane deaths by car accident or cancer or heart disease, occasionally stopping upon a murder victim, but then passing the entry by.

  Finally, three nights ago, he'd come upon a brief article-rather than a standard obituary-that made him pause longer.

  Sixteen-year-old Mary Jordane of Bellevue, Washington, met a tragic death Tuesday night when she overdosed on her mother's prescription medications, combining Ambien with OxyContin. Her parents, Mat thew and Laura Jordane, were attending an art exhibition in Seattle. After taking the medication, Mary attempted to call her father's cell phone several times, unaware he had turned it off. She called 911, but the paramedics did not arrive in time, and she died en route to Overlake Hospital Medical Center. She is survived by her parents and her grandmother, Estelle Goodrich.

  The article went on recounting mundane details. Julian studied the accompanying photo, which appeared to have been taken at school by a class photographer. Even posed, her face was angry, defiant, and unhappy. She had short, spiky hair dyed magenta and a nose stud.

  Although Julian practiced the purity of isolation, he knew something of human nature, and he could read between the lines. This girl was addicted to attention and had probably worn her parents thin, forcing her to create larger and larger dramas. Julian did not believe she'd ever intended to commit suicide. She had overdosed and then called her father, knowing her parents would run home immediately.

  Her plan failed.

  This was the ghost he wanted.

  She did not wish to be dead, suggesting a good chance that she remained on the bleak middle plane, trying to get back to this one. If so, he could manipulate her. He could use her.

  Gathering the candles and the thermometer, he left the table and moved over to the threadbare Indian rug in the center of the study. He sat on the floor and arranged the candles in a triangle. Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he lit the candles and then laid the thermometer beside himself on the rug.

  From what he had read, what he was about to attempt required no telepathic ability whatsoever, simply a connection to the dead. There were risks, but he was prepared.

  Staring at the candles, he tried to clear his mind. At first he failed, dwelling on Eleisha's suddenly manifesting psychic ability, wondering how this came to be, wondering if the same thing could happen to Philip, whom he'd terrified and driven into solitude. What would Philip do if he ever gained power over Julian?

  Even worse than Eleisha.

  But Julian forced himself into a state of numb emptiness as he focused on the candles, on Mary Jordane's name, on the image of her face, on achieving a connection.

  "Mary Jordane," he said aloud, and then he closed his eyes, picturing the middle plane of existence, the in-between place where lost souls wandered.

  "Mary Jordane," he repeated more loudly. "I ask you to come to me. Hear my voice."

  Julian never made requests. He gave orders. This practice of asking her to hear him felt alien.

  At first, nothing happened, but he continued focusing on the image of her face, and he called her name over and over. The temperature in the room began to drop. He had built no fire, so it was cold already, but Julian could feel the difference. He didn't need to look at the thermometer.

  Then he sensed a presence-nothing concrete, just a feeling. He opened his eyes, staring at the three candles, keeping everything from his mind except for the image of Mary Jordane, but he did not ask her to manifest yet.

  "Are you there?" he asked without looking up. He needed to maintain his focus.

  No one answered.

  "Are you Mary Jordane?"

  "Ask me to show myself and you'll see," said a female voice, sounding as if she was standing in the room.

  He raised both hands. "Not yet."

  Several of the texts had warned him that malevolent ghosts could masquerade as the person being called-seeking entry into the world of the living. He did not fear ghosts, but he wished to be certain he'd found Mary.

  "How did you die?" he asked. "Let me feel how you died."

  Nothing happened and the moments kept ticking.

  Then he began to feel ill, nauseous and dizzy. The sensation was made worse by the fact that he had not felt such things for two hundred years. The floor rushed up, and he narrowly avoided hitting the nearest candle. He was sick, floating on wave after wave of nausea, and then he grew tired.

  "Stop," he said hoarsely. "Stop now!"

  His head cleared. He had found Mary.

  "Show yourself!" he ordered. "I call on you."

  The air in front him, just across the edge of the carpet, wavered and began to fill with color. A few seconds later, a transparent girl was staring back at him in surprise.

  She looked younger than sixteen, skinny with a hint of budding breasts, wearing a purple T-shirt and a black mesh overshirt, torn jeans, and Doc Martens boots.

  "I can see you," she gasped, as if she could still breathe. "How did you do that?" Her accent was common, like typical American trash. He was repulsed by the sight of her. He would not employ one such as her to scrub the floor of his kitchens.

  She turned around in awe, taking in the study. "I'm here. I can see everything."

  Now that he had succeeded in summoning this spirit, he was somewhat at a loss. The last thing he wanted to do was speak with her. He did not even care to speak with underlings here at the manor and preferred to pass down his orders in writing.

  Mary stopped, looking at the shelves and candles and the antique table. "Wait… Where am I?"

  "You are in Wales," he managed to answer.

  "Wales? Where is that?"

  Good God.

  "They told me," she babbled on. "They told me if you called me to appear, I could cross over to this side. I never thought…" She faltered, taking in the sight of him.

  "Who told you?"

  "The others. They were jealous when you called my name."

  But her words were spoken somewhat absently as she moved closer to him, studying him. He cared little for his own appearance anymore. He was a large man with a bone structure that almost made him look heavy. His dark hair hung at uneven angles around a solid chin. His feet were bare tonight. He wore black slacks and a loose shirt that hadn't be
en laundered in weeks.

  "I don't know you," she said, sounding like a pensive, confused child. "The others… they thought maybe my mother hired someone to find me. Someone to help me cross over. And that's why I didn't know your voice. I didn't think I'd ever get back."

  As she said this, he knew what to do.

  "I require your services," he said.

  "My what?"

  "You're from the Seattle area. I need you to find out if someone is still there, and tell me where she is, what she does, where she goes."

  Mary's demeanor changed, and she looked him up and down dismissively. "I don't think so. I'm going home."

  Finding this conversation more and more difficult, he said, "Yes, I will let you go home eventually. But you must do as I say first."

  Her transparent features twisted, making her nose stud rise slightly. "Screw that. I don't even know you."

  He wasn't certain his gift would work on a ghost, but he let the aura of fear flow outward, filling the room. "I summoned you here," he said coldly. "And I can send you back with a word. Would you like to go back?"

  Deep satisfaction washed through him at the sudden anxiety on her face.

  But she surprised him by asking, "Is Wales a long way from Seattle?"

  "Yes."

  "Then how do I get there?"

  He blew out the candles and stood up. "You're inside a stone manor, a large dwelling. Wish yourself outside, somewhere on the grounds."

  She looked at him disbelief. Then she glanced away and her expression grew intense. She vanished.

  He waited a few moments before attempting the most crucial part. If he could not succeed in his next attempt, the entire summoning was a failure.

  "Mary Jordane!" he called loudly.

  She instantly appeared before him. Her mouth fell open. "What the…?"

  The sense of relief was sweet. She was his slave.

  "Were you standing outside the manor?" he asked.

  "Yeah." Her eyes were wide.

  "I called you. I can call you to my side from anywhere at any time. And I can send you back to the lost souls, to the in-between plane, and leave you there forever. Do you understand?"

  She didn't answer, but her eyes were locked into his. The reality of her situation was beginning to sink in.

  "But if you serve me," he went on, "if you do as I ask, when my task for you is finished, I will release you and let you remain in this world. You can haunt your family, your old school, anyplace you please, and remain here among the living. Is that what you want?"

  Slowly, she nodded. "Just how am I supposed to find someone I've never met in Seattle?"

  Was she attempting to stand up to him? He knew that others might admire her spirit. He did not.

  "Because ghosts like yourself are drawn to dead," he answered. "Eleisha is undead, a vampire."

  "Like you?"

  "Yes."

  At least the girl wasn't completely stupid, and she appeared to be catching on more quickly than he initially expected. She must have sensed he wasn't alive almost as soon as she materialized.

  "You simply have to focus upon a landmark in Seattle that you already know," he said. "From there, I think you'll be able to sense her."

  "Someplace like the Seattle Center?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay… I know where that is. And if I do what you say, you won't send me back? When I'm done, I can just go home?"

  If it were possible, he would have smiled. She might be trash, but she would serve him.

  * * *

  Three nights later, Eleisha stood between Wade and Philip in northwest Portland as they all gazed upward.

  "You've got to be joking," Wade said in disbelief. "A church? Can you step inside?"

  Philip didn't say anything.

  Surprised that Wade would even entertain such old superstitions or trepidation about holy ground, Eleisha glanced over at him. "Of course we can. Don't be ridiculous."

  Although both men had tried to pry hints from her, she'd refused to say a word about their destination, and after leaving the airport, she'd simply handed the taxi driver an address. She had seen this building only in photos, but standing in the churchyard, with the night-blooming roses winding up the tall, wrought-iron fence, she knew they had come to the right place.

  The church was two stories high, constructed of red brick.

  It looked like a haven.

  She pulled the gate shut behind them and latched it. Then she fished a set of keys from her bag. "Let's look inside. It's been empty for a long time."

  Wade's astonishment grew. "You've got the keys? Why isn't the real estate agent meeting us here?"

  "I talked her into… Just come inside. I'll tell you everything."

  "Eleisha," he insisted. "Agents don't give potential buyers the keys."

  She ignored him and hurried up the steps to unlock the front doors, which were newer additions made from thick metal.

  Philip stopped briefly to examine the doors. She looked back at him, and he nodded.

  She turned on the overhead lights. "The deacons' committee decided to leave the power on so any buyers could see that all the wiring works."

  They stepped into what had once been the main sanctuary, but now the altar was bare and all the pews had been ripped out, leaving only a large room with spiderwebs and a musty red and tan carpet. Half-oval stained-glass window lined the walls, and Eleisha turned in a circle to see each one, soothed by the greens, blues, and yellows in the depictions.

  "This was built in 1902, and it's been on the market for over two years," she said. "The congregation outgrew it, and they commissioned a new church." She looked at Philip again. "The walls are two feet thick, and there are only two doorways on the ground floor to the outside: this front one we just came in and a single back door."

  He still hadn't spoken, but again he nodded and began studying the structure of the high-set windows.

  Wade came in only a few steps. "You aren't seriously thinking of buying this place? Of living here?"

  "Just leave your suitcases and come this way," she said, dropping her bag and moving behind the altar to a side door. The door led into a hallway where she faced two other doors, a stairway to the left leading down, and another stairway at the end of the hall leading up. Eleisha had studied the floor plan for hours and knew the layout by heart. She turned on the hallway lights.

  "These two rooms are offices," she said, opening the closest door.

  Wade peered inside at a pleasant room with hardwood floors and cream walls.

  "There's a three-bedroom apartment in the basement, along with an industrial-sized kitchen on the other side," she added.

  For first time since walking through the gate, Wade turned and seemed to be seriously listening to her. "A three-bedroom apartment?"

  "Yes, the place was designed so the pastor and his family could live inside the church. But come upstairs with me first."

  Without waiting for a response, she walked down the hall and up the stairs, emerging into another hallway, this one with a red-and-tan carpet like the sanctuary's. Three doors lined each wall, and she flicked on the light and moved onward, opening doors as she went.

  "Most of these were Sunday school or meeting rooms, but they're empty now. We could turn one of them into a room for Rose."

  The moment those words left her mouth, she regretted them. Both Philip and Wade had agreed to come to Portland and see this mysterious «place» she had in mind, but so far, neither of them had expressed sharing her determination to find this woman who'd written asking for their help. And although she'd meant her outburst back at Maggie's, that she'd find Rose alone if need be… the truth was she wanted Philip and Wade to be part of all this.

  Finding a proper safe house was the first step. But she needed to pull them in one step at a time.

  Wade and Philip walked the floor, looking inside all six of the bare rooms. Neither one responded to her mention of Rose.

  Finally Philip said, "Too many exteri
or windows. We'll have to seal most of them up."

  Wade stared at him. "You're standing outside a Sunday school room, and that's all you can say? ‘Too many windows'? Have you missed the irony here?"

  Philip shrugged and put his hand against the wall. "Old buildings are best. This is an йglise solide."

  Eleisha had picked up enough French from him to know he'd called the place a sturdy church. Excitement began building inside her. He was clearly considering the idea. Regarding this part of her plan, though, she hadn't worried too much about convincing Philip. Spending four weeks at Maggie's was probably the longest stretch he'd stayed in one place in decades. Before becoming entangled with Eleisha, Philip had not been a cautious hunter-leaving bodies wherever he dropped them. And he'd hunted more often then he needed to, so he was constantly on the move. No, he would feel no hesitation to leave Maggie's. He didn't care where he lived as long as Eleisha and Wade lived with him.

  Wade was a different story. He didn't like making decisions, and he was a big fan of "thinking things through"-which she viewed as a euphemism for sitting on the fence.

  She nearly ran back to the stairs. "Come on. Let's see the basement."

  Not waiting for them, she jumped off the bottom step into the hallway and jogged to the stairs leading down, emerging into a sitting room. Overhead lighting down here was more sparse, as the place must have contained lamps before. She moved to the apartment's small kitchen and switched on a light. Then she walked back into the sitting room.

  Even dimly lit, the sitting room was lovely, with soft yellow walls and white molding around the floors and ceiling.

  When she turned around, Wade and Philip were standing quietly behind her. "It only has one bathroom, but the bedrooms are over there," she said, pointing through an old-fashioned archway. "And there is a small family kitchen that way. The big congregation kitchen is on the far side of the building."

  Wade cooked sometimes-when he didn't order pizza-and Eleisha and Philip sometimes made tea. They could not eat or digest food, but their kind could absorb tea and even small amounts of wine.

  She stood tense, unable to read either of her companions. From the moment she had seen the photos, something about this place had called to her… as if calling her home. She felt safe here. Welcome. Wanted. Like the building had been abandoned for too long, and it needed them.