by Jason Hawes
“The cabin is where they stayed when Mr. Maguire went hunting,” Amanda added. “That’s where the dog waited for him. I think that’s where King would be at peace.”
Holly came back into the room. She handed Grant a slip of paper. “That’s the number for the vet,” she said. She put an arm around each of her daughters. “I heard what you girls suggested. I think that sounds like the right thing to do. Then maybe King’s ghost will be able to rest.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Grant said. “Hey, you, too, man. Talk to you later. Tell Holly and the girls we all say hi.”
Smiling, Grant hung up the phone. He turned to the rest of the TAPS team. Everyone was sitting at their desks, staring at him. It was about a week after the investigation at the Cooper home.
“That was Dave,” Grant said. “As if you couldn’t tell. He said he just talked to Holly. Everything is quiet. There have been no more sightings of the ghost dog. Looks like burying those bones near the cabin finally laid the old dog to rest.”
“That’s good news,” Jen said.
Grant nodded. “It is.”
“I wonder what happened to Edgar Maguire,” Mike said.
“I’ve been wondering about that, too,” Grant admitted. “Maybe we’ll never know. And maybe his bones are out there someplace, waiting to be found. Maybe one day, we’ll get a call.”
At just that moment, the telephone rang.
“Oh, man,” Mark exclaimed as Lyssa picked up the phone. “Now that’s what I call spooky!”
“The Atlantic Paranormal Society,” Lyssa said. “How can I help you?”
RUNAWAY GHOST
New Hampshire, 1925
There’s no going back now.
Frank Thompson paused on the steep stairs of Bryant House. He craned his neck, staring into the darkness. His breath came in short, quick gasps. Sweat trickled down his back, hot and sticky. The air around him felt thick, as if he were trying to breathe through a towel. Frank could hear rain drumming on the roof overhead.
He wasn’t supposed to be up here. Nobody was.
But Frank had never been very good about following the rules. That was how he’d ended up in Bryant House in the first place.
Bryant House. It sounded like some fancy hotel. Frank figured the name of the place made all the parents and guardians who put kids there feel better about what they did.
It didn’t help the boys inside very much, though.
Bryant House was named after its founder, Silas Bryant. But Bryant House was no hotel. It was much more like a prison. Boys were sent here “for their own good.” And nobody who went into Bryant House ever came back out unless Silas Bryant said so.
Frank Thompson was going to change all that. He was breaking out of Bryant House. Tonight. Right now. He couldn’t stay here. Not now that he knew Mama was so sick.
She needs me, Frank thought. And all I’ve ever done is let her down. That was something else that Frank was going to change. He’d take care of Mama. He would make everything all right again.
Once he got out of Bryant House.
Frank continued to climb the stairs, careful to walk on the balls of his feet. He tested each step before he put his full weight on it. He didn’t want the steps to creak and give him away. When he arrived at the top of the stairs, Frank paused to catch his breath once more. He was in good shape, but having to go quietly was starting to wear him down. He didn’t want to get caught. He couldn’t get caught.
Frank reached up, standing on his tiptoes, stretching his arms as far as they would go. He wasn’t very tall. Other boys picked on him because of his height. But Frank was a fighter. Nobody picked on him these days, at least not more than once.
There! His pulse racing with excitement, Frank found with his fingers what he was searching for: the outline of the trapdoor that would take him to the attic at the very top of the house. The attic had four windows, one on each side. You could see them as you walked around the outside of the house.
All Frank had to do was climb out the window closest to the big old maple tree that stood on the right side of the house. But the roof was steep. And it was made of slate. It would be slippery because of the rain. If Frank wasn’t careful, he could fall and break his neck.
That would make Tyrant Bryant happy, he thought. One less boy to worry about.
Frank’s searching fingers found the rope that would open the trapdoor. He pulled. Hard. The trapdoor swung open with a groan. The rickety set of steps swung down. Frank put one foot on the first rickety step and tested his weight.
The step creaked a little, but it held him. So he took another step. And another.
A few minutes later, he was in the attic. Frank bent down and heaved the trapdoor closed. There was no sense in leaving it open. There was no way Frank was going back. He was only going out.
He paused for a moment to get his bearings. Because of the windows, even at night, the attic was not as dark as the hall. Frank could make out vague objects scattered throughout the room. Old furniture and trunks. The trunks might contain something valuable. Maybe there was something he could sell once he was on his own. But he couldn’t take time to investigate now. He fought down the temptation to explore.
He had to keep going. He had to get out of Bryant House.
Any minute now, it would be time for bed check. The warden would walk up and down the rows of beds and see that his bed was empty. The alarm would be raised. A search would be started. Frank wanted to be far away from the house before any of that happened.
Frank turned to the right and made his way over to the window. It was raining harder now. He could see the rain bouncing off the slate roof.
He turned the lock at the top of the window. Then he knelt down to push the window up. It didn’t move. The window was stuck shut!
No! Frank thought. No. He could feel adrenaline rushing through his veins. What if the warden and the others were already looking for him? Frank didn’t want to think about what would happen to him if Tyrant Bryant found him in the attic.
I have to get away. I have to get away now! Frank heaved with all his might. With a screech, the window shot up.
Frank quickly straddled the sill, sticking one leg out into the downpour. He had spent a lot of time outside in the last few weeks doing yard work on this side of the house. So he knew exactly what he had to do now.
The roof outside the attic was very steep. The only way to get down it was to slide. At the bottom, the roof flattened a little, becoming less steep as it leveled out to cover the right wing of the house. If Frank could make it to that section of the roof, then he could walk—very carefully—over to the maple tree, leap into its branches, and climb down to the ground.
And then he would be free, free, FREE!
Frank turned to face into the attic. He swung his other leg outside onto the roof. Clinging to the sill, he stretched himself out to his full length. Rain pounded down onto his body, dripped down into his eyes. Frank was sopping wet in an instant.
He let go and began to slide.
Fast! Too fast!
Frank’s body whooshed down the wet slate of the roof like ice skates over a smooth, icy pond. Frank put his hands down flat, desperate to try anything that could slow him down.
Whack! Thump!
He landed on the lower section of the roof so hard he saw stars. Frank felt a sharp pain shoot up his left leg.
No! he thought. NO!
If he hurt his leg, he wouldn’t be able to run.
Slowly, Frank rolled over. His left leg was throbbing with pain. Carefully, Frank touched his calf. It hurt worse than anything he had felt in his whole life, but he didn’t think it was broken. No bones were sticking out.
Keep going, he told himself fiercely. Don’t stop now.
Slowly, Frank got to his knees. Then he carefully stood up. Sharp pain shot through his whole body as he put his left foot down. He picked it up quickly, then windmilled his arms as the sudden change made him lose his balance for a moment.
The tree. I have to get to the tree, he thought. Even if I have to crawl.
Frank dropped back to his knees. Rain dripped down his face and ran off the bottom of his chin. The rain bounced up from the roof and into his eyes. But Frank was determined. He began to crawl on his hands and knees along the roof, toward the big maple tree.
Almost there, he thought. I can make it. I can make it!
What was that?
Were those sounds below voices? Yes. He could hear voices shouting. Calling out his name.
No! Frank thought. No! It was too soon. He was supposed to have been far away by now. So far that nobody would ever catch him and lock him up again.
The maple tree loomed in front of him. His left leg screaming in agony, Frank got to his feet. He had to do it. There wasn’t any other choice.
He bent his knees and jumped.
At the last second, his left leg gave way. Frank felt something go snap as he pushed down with all his might. He screamed in agony and fear as he tumbled through the air. Not into the branches of the maple tree the way he’d hoped. But out into the cold and rainy night. Now the only direction he could go was down, down, down.
And the only thing to meet him, the last thing Frank would ever know, was the cold, wet ground.
Present day. On the road.
“Hey, Jen. What’s up?” Grant said into the speakerphone. He and Jason were together in one of the TAPS SUVs. They were returning from out of state. The rest of the team were in the office.
“Where are you guys?” Jen’s voice filled the car.
Jason checked the GPS, since Grant was driving. “We’re still in New Hampshire, near Concord,” he said. “We should be back at the office by the end of the day. What’s up?” Jason repeated Grant’s question.
“We just got this unusual phone call,” Jen explained. “We talked it over and decided it was one you guys should know about. It’s in New Hampshire, pretty near Concord, as a matter of fact.”
“Really. What do we need to know?” Grant asked.
“Yeah,” Jason said. “Fill us in.”
“Well, first off,” Jen said, “our client claims she’s been stabbed by a ghost.”
“Who’s there?” a low voice asked.
Jason and Grant were standing on a wide front porch. But it was so overgrown with bushes and trees that the porch seemed small and gloomy.
And dark, Grant thought. This actually looks like a haunted house.
“It’s Jason Hawes and Grant Wilson,” Jason said. “We’re here from The Atlantic Paranormal Society. You called our office this morning, ma’am.”
The front door opened a crack. A pair of eyes peered out.
“I’d like to see some identification, please,” the quiet voice said.
Jason and Grant got out their driver’s licenses and held them up. There was a moment of silence while the person inside looked them over. Then the door opened a little wider, just wide enough for the two men to fit through.
“Please, come inside.” They stepped through the front door into a narrow hallway. “I really do thank you for coming so quickly,” the woman said as she led them down the hall.
Just as Grant had expected, the hall was dark. But when the trio reached the kitchen, he got a surprise. The room was bright and cheerful. Brightly colored bowls of different colors sat on open shelves.
There were two big windows with cheery yellow curtains. The curtains were pulled back to let in the sunshine. Through the windows, Grant could see a neat and tidy backyard. There were flower beds filled with purple-and-white petunias. Vegetable beds grew lettuce and tomatoes. A crab apple tree filled with bright red fruit stood just outside the kitchen door.
“I didn’t mean to sound like you weren’t welcome,” the client went on. Like her kitchen and garden, the older woman was neat as a pin. Her face was lined with wrinkles, but her eyes were blue and bright.
“But I can’t be too careful. A woman like me, all on her own. My name is Abigail McGrath. But then your staff would have told you that, I suppose.”
“We’re pleased to meet you,” Jason said. “And we understand your concerns. We want you to feel comfortable. Would you like to tell us what’s been going on? The staff member who called us said you believe you’ve been hurt by a ghost.”
“Yes,” Mrs. McGrath said calmly. “I was.”
She turned around. Now both Jason and Grant could see a white bandage on one shoulder. Mrs. McGrath patted the bandage.
“This happened just last night. I’ve been worried and upset before, of course, but this… well, this was simply the last straw. I knew I had to call someone. Whatever’s going on inside this house, the time has come for it to stop.
“I’ve lived here for more than fifty years,” Mrs. McGrath continued in her quiet voice. “First with my husband, Leo, then on my own when he died. I’ve never had a bit of trouble until just lately.”
She gave a quick shudder. As if to distract herself from bad memories, she went to the cupboard and got down three cups. She poured coffee and carried them to the table, then brought milk and sugar and finally a plate of cookies.
Grant watched Abigail McGrath as she moved around the kitchen. His eyes took in the details of the room. He got so busy doing this that he jumped when Jason laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Check out the top of the fridge,” Jay said in a low voice.
Grant nodded. “I know,” he whispered back.
On top of the fridge was a big piece of wood with half a dozen knife handles sticking out of it. A knife block, he thought. That’s what people call it.
“You keep your knives on top of the refrigerator?” Grant asked as Mrs. McGrath finally sat down.
“Oh, yes,” she said calmly. “I know it must seem odd, but my niece has a young son. That boy loves to climb. Would you believe I actually found him swinging from the chandelier above the dining room table once? I forgot to push one of the chairs in, and he climbed right up on it. From there he got onto the table, and after that—”
She broke off with a smile. “Anyhow. I didn’t want to run the risk of his getting into the knives. So I keep the knife block on top of the fridge. I figured it would be out of reach way up there.”
“Makes sense to me,” Jason admitted. All of a sudden, he grinned. “You know, my mom claimed I swung from the dining room chandelier when I was a boy. I always figured she was making it up. Guess I’m going to have to call her up and apologize.”
“Maybe you should have joined the circus,” Grant suggested.
“I thought I had.”
“You boys sound just like brothers,” Mrs. McGrath commented. “How nice.”
“Mrs. McGrath,” Grant said, his expression serious now, “will you please tell us what happened last night?”
“I went to bed about eleven, like I always do,” she said. “All day long, I was kind of jumpy. I think it was all the noise from down the street, where they’re tearing down the old Bryant House. It was a reform school—what we used to call a home for wayward boys.”
Mrs. McGrath paused.
“Wayward,” she said quietly. “Such an interesting word, don’t you think? They weren’t bad boys. Not all of them. They just didn’t fit in, and so they got locked up.”
She gave herself a little shake, like she was waking up from a dream.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Where was I?”
“Last night,” Grant prompted.
“Oh, yes. That’s right. Well, I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing all these noises. Like somebody was banging around inside the house. I didn’t really want to get up. Night is when all the bad things happen.”
“Like what?” Jason asked.
“Well,” Mrs. McGrath said quietly, “just last week, I heard a noise in the living room. When I got there, all the books were pulled out of the bookshelves. When I went to put them back, one came flying through the air and hit me on the head pretty hard.
“The next night,
while I was making a cup of hot chocolate before bed, the burner on the stove I was using went out. But all the other ones came on full strength. The oven door banged open and closed.
“I went out to the living room. I didn’t want to get burned. When I went to sit in my favorite chair, I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders. They pushed me down, hard.”
“All that sounds pretty scary,” Grant said.
“Well, yes,” Mrs. McGrath said. “It was.” She looked at Grant and Jason for a minute. Her blue eyes moved from one face to the other. “I don’t know how you were raised,” she said, “but I was raised to solve my own problems. I don’t like to ask for help. But after last night…”
Her voice trailed off.
“But anyway, last night I heard a noise, as I said,” she continued. “The noise came from the kitchen. I was afraid to get up. But I told myself I had to do it. I refuse to be afraid in my own home.
“So I got out of bed and went down the hall. The kitchen was completely dark. And that was strange. I keep a night-light on in every room to help me find my way around.
“I was just stepping into the kitchen when something pushed me from behind. I stumbled across the room and ran face-first into the fridge. Then I felt two hands turn me around. They pushed me back against the fridge a second time. Something hit my head so hard I saw stars, and I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder.
“I think I must have fainted. The next thing I remember, I was sitting on the ground. I got to my hands and knees and crawled across the room to turn on the light.
“That’s when I saw the knife block on the floor. But there was just one knife out of the block. The blade was pointing straight at me. I was afraid then. Afraid that I’d been harmed by whoever is haunting this house. That’s when I knew I had to have help. I can’t go on like this. Something has to be done. Can you help me?”
“Okay,” Grant said later that night. “Let’s go over the setup.”