The Forgotten

by Tamara Thorne

  “I admit it. If you hadn’t grabbed me when you did, I might have passed out. But you don’t need to tell anyone else that.”

  “Our secret. But can we tell Eric and Barry about the ghost?”

  Gabe shrugged. “Why not? They’ll think it’s a great story—but let’s not go to great lengths to convince them it’s more than that.”

  Kevin nodded. “I wonder what Will will think?”

  “Crap. Do we have to tell Will?”

  “You know my big mouth. I’ll end up telling him even if I promise not to. What?” He snickered. “Are you worried he’ll try to have us committed?”

  “You know Will. He won’t believe we saw a ghost. He’ll say we imagined the entire thing.”

  “I know. And he’ll try to come up with a rational reason for our imagining it. I’d kind of like that. Wouldn’t you?”

  Gabe laughed and finally relaxed a little. “I’d love it.”

  16

  A pleasant warm Sunday afternoon gave way to a perfect evening in Caledonia, and people were relaxing in the final hours of the weekend. Felicia Banning dutifully stirred the beef stew she was keeping warm for her Pete, who was working late again, then wheeled out the trash cans for Monday pickup. After, she curled up in an easy chair with a Danielle Steel novel and read while an Elton John CD supplied background music. She was trying very hard not to think about the lipstick she’d found on his briefs while sorting laundry. It wasn’t the first time either. Not by a long shot. She didn’t care about the cheating; what infuriated her was the lack of respect he showed by letting her find it.

  She’d confronted him once, but the beating she received in return had kept her in bed for a week. That had happened several times since then, and he knew what he was doing. He didn’t leave marks and she never told anyone—she knew they wouldn’t believe her. Everyone loved Pete. He gave to charities, helped old ladies across the street.

  And he wasn’t that bad, really not bad at all as long as she didn’t give him a reason to be pissed off. Sure, he was distant, only paying attention to her when he wanted sex, but unless some knight in shining armor, some rich knight, came along to rescue her, she didn’t really have any intentions of leaving him anymore. After all, she easily carried on her own private life. He gave her material things readily and generously, an enviable allowance for clothes and beauty salons, a new car every year or two. Once, she’d commented on a silver SUV, a Mercedes, she’d seen in town. Two weeks later, for her birthday, she found one just like it in the driveway, a big blue bow on top.

  He even paid for a housekeeper to come in three times a week, which wasn’t necessary, but why knock it? Anyway, if she told him she didn’t appreciate the cleaning woman, he’d undoubtedly become enraged. She had a pretty nice life. Looking good on his arm and keeping him in a pleasant mood were really all he required of her in return for his generosity. What kind of idiot would leave a cushy life for nothing but a return to secretarial work? Sure, she could divorce him and sue for half of everything, but she wouldn’t because she understood that something might happen to her that was worse than a beating.

  The phone rang. “Banning residence,” she said because that’s what Pete told her to say.

  A masculine voice, all business, one she’d heard before. “Mr. Banning, please.”

  “He’s not home yet. May I take a message?”

  “When will he be home?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you have his office number?”

  “Yes, and his cell, but he’s not picking up.”

  “I’m sorry. If you’d like to leave a name and number—”

  “Tell him Uncle Neddy’s looking for him. He has the number.”

  “I didn’t know he had an uncle—” She stopped talking, realizing the phone had already gone dead.

  17

  Jennifer Labouche was still licking her lips when Pete checked the voice mail on his cell phone. He’d turned off the ringer half an hour ago, when they arrived at Felsher Hill. “Shit,” he muttered. There was a message from Nedders and another from Felicia telling him his uncle Neddy was looking for him. “Shit. Shit.”

  “Is something wrong, lover?” Jennifer, lips nicely swollen from all her hard work, was staring at him with those big baby blues.

  “Nothing’s wrong. You go wait in the car while I make a call and lock up.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Jennifer?”

  She batted her eyelashes. “What?”

  “Don’t call me lover.”

  “Okay, Pete.”

  He stared at her. “No, I’m your boss. Call me Mr. Banning.”

  “When we’re alone? You always let me call you Pete.”

  He crossed his arms. “New rule.”

  “Yes, Mr. Banning.” She turned and wiggled away. He loved that she didn’t dare ask why. It was good to be the boss. He’d done it because he could. Maybe next time he’d tell her to start calling him “Master” when they were alone.

  Hearing the car door open and close, he phoned Nedders, his old team leader and still head of Project Tingler. He picked up on the first ring. “It’s me,” Pete said.

  “Talk to me.”

  “The broadcast experiments at the dish worked. Set off two flocks of birds.”

  “You mentioned that before. Any human feedback yet?”

  “Not that I know of. Recon starts tomorrow. I’m also trying to cozy up to my brother. I figure he’ll start getting new customers. Probably, he already has.”

  “Idiot. If he’s got ethics, he’s not going to tell you shit even if you win him over.”

  “I can make him do anything.”

  “Stop your Goddamned swaggering. You’ve got a dick up your ass about that brother of yours. Forget about him and concentrate on the project. How are the installations coming along?”

  “On target. Even worked one of my boys on installs today. That’s overtime pay. More than seventy-five percent of the town subscribes, and we’ve upgraded almost a quarter of those already.”

  “Good. What about bugs? Those installed too?”

  “Very few. I can’t have my workers do that. I’m going to do it while paying personal house calls to thank my customers for their loyalty and extol the virtues of their new channel capabilities. That starts in earnest tomorrow. That way, I can see what’s going on with them, know what I mean?”

  Nedders barked a laugh. “You know how to grease up tongues, I’ll give you that. Get them talking. Wear the wire.”

  “Of course.”

  “And step on it. You’ve installed twenty-five percent, but how many of those have been activated?”

  “I don’t know yet, but most people will have surfed through the new channels. Activation requires clicking on The Chuckles Channel. If they haven’t activated it already, I’ll be doing it for them when I give them their personal demonstration.”

  “Good. Report in tomorrow at twenty-one-hundred.”

  “Will do.” Nedders clicked off and Pete slipped the phone into its holster. Captain Nedders had handpicked him years ago to be a member of what was then called Project ELF, as in Extra-Low Frequency electronic transmissions. The military had been working with electronic mind-control techniques since the fifties; the Russians and Americans had bombarded each other’s embassies unmercifully for years. At one point during the Cold War, part of Washington State was inundated with so much power that mysterious illnesses, miscarriages, and birth defects began to draw unwanted civilian attention. The US responded in kind, but at ten times the rate, and the Soviets backed off. Both powers continued their experimentations more subtly. Other countries got into the act, and for decades, experimentation had continued with everything from implanted radio chips—some subjects remembered being abducted by aliens, which was exactly what the little chips broadcasting in their brains instructed them to remember. Most were unaware of any major changes, but they developed urges to do things they ordinarily wouldn’t. Sometimes subjects would be used in Manchurian Candida
te ways. Most of the time, messages sent into their brains directed them to develop a particular obsession or compulsion or other disorder.

  Project ELF, now Project Tingler because the term ELF was widely known to the public these days, specialized in causing nonspecific mental aberrations in larger populaces. No implants necessary. Waves were broadcast, via satellite and dish, into individual homes (and from the dish itself, specialized waves could be sprayed directly into the air to upset local wildlife). Eventually, they intended to modify the dish controls so that, from that location, specific commands to specific cable boxes could be sent. For now, the waves sent into homes were set at a frequency meant to disrupt the functionings of the brain in generalized ways. Project Tingler was here to gather data on what specific effects would be most common in a population of a small American city.

  Realizing he’d become tense, Pete stretched and twisted back and forth, enjoying the pops as he loosened his spine and relaxed his muscles. The process made him think of Willy Boy. Even as a kid, Baby Brother had stiff necks and backaches. He didn’t know how to relax. He didn’t have the willpower to do it. He was weak then and, undoubtedly, weak now. He couldn’t wait to find out what the specialized microwaves would do to Will.

  18

  Caledonia readied itself for bed.

  Will, exhausted mentally from visiting Michael’s grave, had exhausted himself physically by hiking all over the hilly cemeteries, reading names and epitaphs now and then, but mostly just moving quickly, working his muscles until they felt sore and heavy. Then he’d driven home, had a pizza delivered, and turned on Fox, which was running one Simpsons rerun after another. There he sat, eating pepperoni, olive, and onion pizza out of the box, tearing off cat-size bites for the Orange Boys—why these creatures loved anything Italian, he didn’t know, but if it had tomato sauce on it, they always stared him into submission. They sat on the coffee table to eat—Will chuckled when he thought of how Gabe would react to that. He had a dark beer, they had a mug of water. Cats, being cats, preferred people mugs or glasses to bowls. Maggie assured him it was a common feline fetish. Something to do with pride, probably. All in all, it was a pleasant evening. Will didn’t even stay up for the ten o’clock news, but hit the shower, amused by the unusual presence of the cats. All three waited in the bathroom throughout his ablutions, then followed him into the bedroom and sat on the foot of the bed while he slipped on a fresh pair of shorts. In deference to the heat, he skipped the usual T-shirt.

  He read for a while, and the cats got into their lights-out positions before the lights were out. That was unusual, too. Finally, Will put the book aside and quickly drifted off to sleep, lulled by Freud’s purrs. Always, after the cemetery visit, he dreamed about Michael, disjointed nightmares about the shooting, full of blood and gore. But tonight his dreams were good dreams about playing ball, exploring tidepools, and camping out in the backyard. Unbeknownst to him, the three brother cats picked up on his sleeping pleasure and snuggled closer.

  Kevin and Gabe, though not in Caledonia, were in bed even earlier than Will, but fell asleep much later, wringing every bit of fun they could from the Caveman Room they’d rented at the Candle Bay Hotel. The walls were rocky, there was a round fireplace, and a Jacuzzi in the room, and the bed was a cave within the cave, a grotto built into the wall. Both would dream about the dead thing in their Caledonia home, but neither would tell the other.

  At their own house, something flickered in and out of the living room several times. Something that had once been alive.

  Maggie Maewood ate dinner with her partner and his wife. An older couple, they’d just returned from Reno and were full of stories that took Maggie out of her worry about nervous animals. After dinner, Rose, who was also a veterinary nurse, walked over to the clinic and made the rounds while Maggie filled Charlie in on the two bird attacks on Will—and on the big influx of anxious patients, particularly ones with wings. Later, she went home and settled in with her house pets—two cats and a dog—and watched TV until she fell asleep on the couch. Around 3 A.M., she woke up, turned off the tube, and dragged herself to bed.

  Lara Sweethome slept fitfully, locked in her bathroom. Despite the blankets, the tub was hard and uncomfortable. She prayed for morning to come as she listened to the footsteps that walked up and down, up and down, up and down the stairs. A blue box of Morton’s salt waited next to the doorjamb. She’d poured a thick line of the stuff across the opening because that was how you kept ghosts out. She hoped. She had an appointment with Dr. Banning in the morning—or she would have as soon as his office opened. He wouldn’t turn her away. Not with Mother marching through the house.

  19

  “I think we’ll increase your Risperidone dosage and give you something to help you relax, maybe a little Valium, until this passes. I think you’re having a mild relapse. It’s not uncommon.” Will smiled at Lara Sweethome, who had come to him over a year ago with symptoms born of exhaustion, fear, and guilt. There were hallucinations involved, which could indicate psychosis, but he didn’t think she was schizophrenic; there was too much emotion involved. Lara was convinced her house was haunted by her mother who had died months before. She had responded immediately to a medium-sized dose of a neuroleptic, and had gradually tapered off to a low dose. The hallucinations stopped, and psychotherapy helped the woman, who had spent her entire life taking care of her ailing mother, adjust to life alone, and to not feel guilty about enjoying it. She was, he’d thought, a shining success.

  But now, Lara looked like hell, her complexion sallow, eyes sunken, worse than she had the first time he’d seen her. “Doctor, I know you’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “I won’t think you’re crazy. You can say whatever you want, Lara.”

  “I think it’s real. I mean, it’s not just me. It’s Mother.”

  “Why? After all, you know this supposed haunting went away when we started medication.”

  She twisted a tissue in her hands, then looked up at him. “Almost went away.”

  “Almost? I thought you said—”

  “I didn’t say it was completely gone.”

  “Actually, you did,” he said gently.

  “Well, it was as good as gone. I wanted to please you—”

  “That’s not—”

  “I know. Hear me out. The thing was that the haunting—the footsteps and everything—diminished tremendously. It was softer and far less frequent and, frankly, what sounds I heard just didn’t bother me anymore.”

  “Even if it didn’t bother you, you should have told me.”

  “Dr. Banning, you’ve eased me down to almost no drugs and until last week the haunting stayed diminished. If anything, the haunting continued to lessen all the time you were lowering my medication. I think it was real and that it was fading away.” She searched his eyes. “And then it came back so suddenly. So strong. Stronger than it was when I first came to you.” She hesitated. “Or maybe something made me more sensitive to it. I was reading about schizophrenia.”

  “I really don’t think you’re schizophrenic, Lara.”

  “But Risperidone is for schizophrenia.”

  “Among other things. If you were truly schizophrenic, it would have taken a much higher dose to control your problem.”

  “Please, Dr. Banning, I want to ask you something about schizophrenia, even if I don’t have it, all right?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Okay. From what I’ve read, schizophrenics hear things other people don’t?”

  “Yes. It’s not uncommon. Voices in their heads telling them to do things or plotting against them are stereotypical of that type of problem.”

  “But that’s not all they hear.”

  “Different people hear different things.”

  “Like my hearing my mother’s footsteps? And the doors opening and closing?”

  “Yes, but in your case, these hallucinations are tied to your emotions. That makes it different.”

  “Please, let me finish.”
r />   “Sorry. Go on.”

  “What about smelling her perfume?”

  “Olfactory hallucinations are rarer, but they do occur. There’s also likely to be a perfectly logical explanation for the fragrance.”

  She nodded. “What if some—not all, just some—schizophrenics aren’t really mentally ill, but are just ultra-sensitive to things most people don’t sense? What if they really do hear voices? Hear or see ghosts? Or what about people like me? I lived my entire life with my mother. Wouldn’t it make sense that I’d be sensitive to her spirit?”

  Will sat back and rubbed his chin. It was going to be a long, long day. “The possibility of ultra-sensitivity in some schizophrenics has been suggested many times, sometimes by very reputable experts. I concede that it’s possible, perhaps even probable in a few cases. Just think of our normal senses. For example, a minority of people taste bitterness in spinach and other greens that most people aren’t even aware of. It’s an inherited trait, perfectly explainable. And some people have better hearing than others. Allergies are ultra-sensitivities. One man’s fragrant rose is another’s uncontrollable sneezing fit.” He paused. “But as for sensing spirits, I’m up against a wall here.”

  “Why? It all fits, everything you say fits with what I’m talking about.”

  “Lara, I simply don’t believe in ghosts. They’re not logical. There’s no empirical evidence.”

  “You mean to tell me you’ve never seen or heard anything you can’t explain?”

  Will smiled. “Sometimes my cats stare at things I can’t see. That’s a little unnerving. But it doesn’t mean they’re sensing ghosts.”

  “How can you know that for sure?”

  “I can’t. The only thing I’m certain of is that nothing is certain. But I do know that cats have better eyesight, particularly in low light where I couldn’t possibly see the spider up in a corner that’s so fascinating to them. They can also see into the infrared spectrum. Or maybe they’re simply listening to squirrels in the attic. Their hearing is tremendously better than ours. Same with dogs.”