How to Survive a Killer Seance

by Penny Warner

  After reading a couple of chapters that detailed the Golden Gate World’s Fair of 1939, I yawned, snuggled under the covers and turned off the light. The latte did its trick of drugging me to sleep. I drifted off quickly.

  The next thing I knew, I was awake, sitting upright, and covered in a cold sweat. The knocking sound at my door wasn’t part of the nightmare I’d been having.

  I glanced at the clock: midnight. On the dot.

  Who would be knocking on my door at this time of night? Brad, I hoped.

  I slipped out of bed and armed myself, just in case, with an aerosol can of spray glitter glue and an air horn, both leftovers from past events. If it was some lunatic at the door, I figured the air horn would scare him away while the glitter glue would temporarily blind him.

  I switched on the hall light, and then the front porch light, forgetting it had been broken. I peered through the peephole but it was too dark to see anything.

  The knocking started again, this time at the back door on the other side of my condo.

  Someone was trying to scare me.

  And doing a pretty good job of it.

  I switched on the living room light, grabbed my iPhone from the charger, and punched in Brad’s number. But before I could lift it to my ear, I heard more pounding, this time on one of the side walls. This was no gentle knock. It sounded as if someone was hitting the wall with a sledgehammer. Dropping the phone, I ran to the side window and tried get a glimpse outside, but it was pitch dark—not even moonlight could pierce the heavy layer of fog that had settled in.

  Then it dawned on me. With my lights on inside, whoever was outside could see me clearly as I ran around the house like a frightened chicken.

  I hurried through the living room, hallway, and bedroom, switching off lights.

  Aside from a couple of incidents, I had always felt safe on the Island. I subscribe to a site called EveryBlock.com/TreasureIsland, which sent me a daily e-list of police reports from the past twenty-four hours. TI mostly had petty crimes, such as auto burglaries, loud noises, intoxicated residents, trespassers, fights without weapons, and traffic stops. On occasion I read about an assault and battery or suspicious person, but they were rare.

  Now, though, I felt truly terrified. I was sitting in the dark like a trapped prey waiting for a predator to come knocking on my door again.

  I had to call Brad. Where was my phone?

  From across the room, I heard a ghostly voice utter, “Presley! Presley!”

  But this was no spirit calling from the beyond. My iPhone was lying on the living room floor, lit up like a candle in a cave. I snatched it up.

  “Brad? Is that you?”

  “Presley? You okay? Or did you pocket-call me again—”

  “Brad, listen,” I whispered. “Someone’s outside my condo. Knocking on my doors and pounding on the walls. I’m sure whoever it is, is trying to scare me”—I didn’t dare say “kill me,” but I thought it—“and he’s doing a great job. Can you—”

  “I’m on my way.”

  The line went dead.

  There are no such things as ghosts, I told myself as I waited for the booming to begin again. My hands were trembling so hard, I didn’t know if I could blow the air horn or spray the glitter. Someone was not only trying to scare me, but maybe evened wanted to hurt me. The question was, Why? Because I was asking around about Levi’s murder? I hadn’t even done much of that.

  I huddled in the living room with my weapons, trying to figure out what was going on. My next-door neighbor was gone—his lights were still out. I could blast the air horn, but I’d probably just damage my own ears, while everyone else ignored it. I could scream, but my throat still burned from being choked.

  Instead, I pondered. Did it have something to do with Jonathan? Or was there something else? Then again, it could just be random, although at this point, I hardly thought so.

  Although it seemed like an hour, it was probably less than five minutes when I heard a knock at the door. This one was different. It sounded like a friendly knock.

  I got up and ran to the door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” came the muffled reply from the other side.

  I unlocked and unbolted the door, leaving the chain on, and peeked out, just in case it was someone who only sounded like Brad. These days, computers were capable of conjuring up all kinds of sounds, including voices.

  It was him. Or a mighty convincing 4-D projection. I could feel the tension in my body melt and unchained the door.

  “Boy, something’s got you spooked,” Brad said, stepping inside. “What’s going on?”

  I led him to the kitchen and offered him a beer from the fridge.

  “No, thanks.”

  Since I’d already opened it assuming he’d take it, I decided to drink it myself and leaned on the counter and chugged a few gulps before trying to explain the noises I’d witnessed.

  “I heard knocking.”

  “Knocking.” He raised an eyebrow, like a psychiatrist trying to humor a mental patient. “You mean, like what I just did at your front door?”

  I felt my face grow hot. “Yes, but much louder. And it went on and on, coming from all around the condo. Outside.”

  I knew I wasn’t making sense, but the experience was difficult to explain, without sounding like a Looney Toon. I needed to give Brad some perspective so he wouldn’t call his cop friend Luke Melvin and have me taken in as a 5150—involuntary psychiatric hold, aka crazy person. I learned that on Law & Order.

  After a couple more swigs of beer, I filled Brad in on everything. I played back the phone calls I’d received from someone warning me to mind my own business, then told him about my threatening encounter with Zachary Samuels in the parking lot of Hella-Graphics. Brad’s frown deepened as I spoke.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “I did, sort of. At least about the one phone call. I just didn’t want you to get all upset and tell me to mind my own business. I’m only telling you now because I want you to help me figure out what’s going on. Two people have been killed. I’m a little worried I may be next.”

  “I’m glad you finally recognize that,” Brad said.

  “Hey, I was ready for him, whoever he was.” I pointed to the party weapons I’d planned to use to maim and scare off the intruder.

  Brad looked over at the spray can and air horn lying on the coffee table. He shook his head, grinning. “I wouldn’t want to be trapped in a back alley with you, that’s for sure. I’d come out all glittery and deaf.”

  “Very funny.” I finished the beer and stood up. Too fast, apparently. The room spun around. I remembered I hadn’t had much to eat, then downed a beer.

  “Whoa.” Brad jumped up and held on to me.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m just tired.”

  “Well, let’s get you to bed. Then I’ll take a look around and see if I can figure out what was making the noise.”

  He walked me to my room and I slipped into bed. As he turned to head out, I grabbed his hand. “You’re not leaving, are you?” I said sleepily. Or drunkenly.

  I pulled back the covers on the other side, inviting him to join me.

  He ran his fingers through my hair. “I’m going to sit up for a while and keep an eye out, see if the knocking returns. You sleep.”

  I was too tired to argue.

  He turned off the light. I slipped into a deep sleep and didn’t hear a thing the rest of the night.

  Chapter 18

  PARTY PLANNING TIP #18

  Séance attendees love “parlor tricks,” so include a few extra thrills to give your party guests extra chills. Try “typtology”—the classic lifting of the table. To perform this trick, cover the table with a black cloth, then have someone hiding underneath lift the table on cue.

  I awoke to the sound of knocking on my front door. It immediately dragged me back to what I’d experienced last night. Although my room was flooded with daylight, I broke out in a cold sweat.


  “Brad?” I called, then yelled his name. Where was he? He’d promised to stay over. His side of the bed hadn’t been slept in—that much was obvious.

  “Presley?” I heard a muffled voice coming through the bedroom wall. Military housing was certainly cheap.

  Recognizing the voice, I raced out of the room and down the hall to the front door. The pounding came again.

  “Brad?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Can you open up?”

  The dead bolt and chain were already unlocked, but the twist lock on the knob was still engaged. I opened the door. Brad stood on the other side, two lattes in a carry-tray in one hand and a bag of what I hoped were pastries in the other.

  “Lock yourself out?” I asked, taking the latte tray from him.

  “You realize you don’t have anything to eat or drink here, don’t you?” he said, not responding to my question.

  I remembered finishing off the last of the coffee, but as for pastries, they never remained longer than a few minutes in this house. “I haven’t had time to go shopping.”

  He set the bag on the table and took off his leather jacket and hung it on the hook of a chair. His cheeks were rosy from the early-morning run to the local market. “Although you do have plenty of cat food, if we get desperate enough.”

  “No more knocking last night?” I asked, having slept peacefully after he’d arrived. We sat down at the table, me in my cupcake pajamas, him in his jeans and T-shirt from last night, and sipped our still-hot lattes.

  “Nothing.”

  That figures, I thought. I felt like the girl who cried wolf.

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “A little, on the couch. I didn’t want to disturb you. Plus I figured I’d have quicker access to the mysterious knocker if he returned.”

  “You sound as if you don’t quite believe me,” I said, before taking a huge bite of the chocolate croissant I’d found in the pastry bag.

  “If you say you heard knocking, I’m sure you did,” he said, not meeting my eyes. He quickly changed the subject. “So what are your plans today, other than hopefully grocery shopping?”

  When my mouth was clear enough to speak, I said, “I’m not sure. I’d really like to find Jonathan, but I have no idea where to look. I’d also like to find out who killed Levi, but I don’t want to get myself hit over the head like he did. And finally, I’d like to kill whoever it was that did all that knocking last night. But that doesn’t seem likely either.”

  “How about this?” Brad began, after a sip of his latte. “Let the police find Jonathan. Let the police find out about Levi. And as for the knocker, stay at my place until all this is over.” He gave me a long, steady look.

  In the morning light, I felt a little foolish for calling Brad to come over. After all, it was no doubt some teenage vandals trying to scare me. And of course it stopped as soon as Brad arrived, which made me feel even more foolish. I decided I wouldn’t call him again just because someone was trying to scare me.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be fine here. No one actually tried to break in. And I can always call the TI police if they do.”

  Brad shook his head in acquiescence. “All right, but the offer stands. You don’t have to prove anything to me, Presley.”

  I quietly finished my croissant and wondered if I was really trying to prove something. Maybe. That I could take care of myself? I’d been doing that since my mother divorced my father when I was five. Having a mother who’d had multiple careers and multiple husbands, I’d learned to be independent early on.

  Brad’s cell phone rang. He answered it, mostly listened to the voice on the other end, interjecting the occasional, “Uhhuh,” “Got it,” and “Okay,” and ending with a final “See ya.” Frowning as if his pastry wasn’t settling, he stood up and stuffed the phone into his pocket.

  “Another cleaning job?” I asked, not especially wanting the details.

  He cocked his jaw and looked at me, saying nothing.

  “Brad?” Alarmed at his lack of response, I stood up to face him. “You look like you just got a call from the beyond.”

  He took my hand. “Listen, Presley. Pack your bags. I don’t want any argument. You’re staying with me tonight, understand?”

  “Brad,” I said, laughing nervously. “You’re scaring me. What happened?”

  “I don’t mean to scare you, but I do want you to realize how serious this situation has become.”

  “What situation? What are you talking about?”

  “That was Luke Melvin on the phone.”

  “And he wants you to clean up some kind of crime scene, right?”

  Brad’s dark brown eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “They found another body.”

  I felt the tiny hairs on my arms tingle. “Oh my God. Where?”

  “At Hella-Graphics.”

  My knees wobbled. I held on to the chair back. “Oh God. Who was it? Stephanie? Jonathan?”

  “Zachary Samuels.”

  I sat back down in my chair, completely stunned at the news. I had seen Zachary the previous day, albeit not in the best shape, but at least alive. He couldn’t be dead. It didn’t compute.

  “Listen, I hate to leave you,” Brad said, interrupting my dark thoughts, “but Melvin wants me at Hella-Graphics. You going to be all right?”

  My first thought was: Lyla and Jonathan. “No,” I said. “Can I come with you?” I wanted him to think I was nervous being alone—although I wouldn’t be at my office. But the truth was, I was mad—mad at whoever was killing the computer nerds of Hella-Graphics.

  And I wanted to have a look at the crime scene.

  “Will you stay out of the way? If Melvin sees you, he’ll kill me. And you’ll have to do the cleanup.”

  “Poor choice of words, but yes, you won’t even know I’m there.”

  “Yeah, right. This is against my better judgment. Get your stuff. Let’s go.”

  “I’m with SFPD,” Brad said into the Hella-Graphics intercom. The door magically opened. I would have to remember the secret password the next time I wanted entry.

  Once inside, I trailed Brad through the lobby to the receptionist, where he picked up his visitor badge and asked for one for me, calling me his “assistant.” The girl rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. Things seemed a bit chaotic there, with distraught employees standing around whispering, their arms crossed over their chests as if protecting themselves from an evil force that had invaded their work space.

  Brad headed down the hall, following the directions from the receptionist, then turned back to me as I trailed behind him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Uh . . . with you?”

  “No way. I told you, if Melvin sees you here—”

  “He’ll kill you, I know.” I pointed to the café a short distance away. “I’ll be in there.”

  He nodded, and shot me a look that said, “And stay put.”

  I ordered my second latte of the day and sat down at the only empty table left in the place. The rest of the tables were filled with employees, most of them casually dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and running shoes or Birkenstocks. And most were in their late twenties or early thirties. They were all buzzing about the latest development. I got out my notebook, catching the eyes of a couple of curious employees no doubt wondering who the “new girl” was, and eavesdropped on a few of the conversations, in case someone happened to confess.

  “What was he doing here?” I heard one guy with a ponytail ask.

  “He was found in his old office . . .” said another with glasses and bed-head hair.

  “Did you see his head? It was all bashed in . . .” said a woman with a blue streak in her shoulder-length hair and a tie-dyed T-shirt.

  I took notes as I caught snatches of their comments. When their conversations turned to more personal topics—“Do you think they’ll shut down the campus?” “Do they plan to talk to all of us?” “I never could stand the guy.”—I tuned out and started writing down
my own questions.

  1. What was Zachary doing at Hella-Graphics?

  Possibilities: A) Sabotaging his work (to get even?). B) Meeting with someone (who? why?). C) Returning to get something that belonged to him (entitlement?). D) Trying to find Jonathan (to protect Lyla?).

  2. What was the time of death?

  Possibilities: A) Soon after he’d left my car? (Last I had seen he was running down the hill being chased by a security guard.) B) Sometime in the middle of the night? (Wait for coroner’s report.)

  3. How had he been killed? Someone had mentioned his head was bashed in. Same MO as Levi? (Hit from behind?) Same weapon? (Candlestick?)

  All I had was a bunch of questions. I needed to start looking for answers. Brad told me that answers reveal patterns, and one pattern was obvious: All three of the deceased victims had worked at Hella-Graphics—George Wells, Levi Webster, and Zachary Samuels. Two of them had had the same job—working on the 4-D project—but George was connected. He had worked as a programmer.

  The signs kept pointing to Jonathan Ellington. Had he somehow lured Zachary inside the building and bludgeoned him to death? Did he suspect Zachary of hacking into the 4-D demo and changing the voice and script to embarrass him? Did he want to kill Zachary for fooling around with Lyla?

  I flipped back to my original suspect list. Now that another suspect was dead, I had to rethink the whole list.

  First I crossed off Zachary and wrote “Victim #3.”

  That put Jonathan at the top of the list again. He had a connection to all three victims. His fingerprints were on the weapon that killed Levi. He’d fired Zachary for trying to blackmail him.