The Forgotten

by Tamara Thorne

  Two minds, one thought. She smiled for the first time all day.

  “Maggie?” Will said. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No. It’s just that it took you over thirty years to ask me.”

  He chuckled. “Hey, take a decade off that. We were only four when we met. I should have asked you out when we were freshmen in high school, not in kindergarten.”

  “Okay. It only took you twenty years to ask me out.”

  “You could have asked me,” he said softly.

  “I was afraid to.”

  “We were both afraid,” he agreed. “So are we going to do this?”

  “Let’s do lunch, maybe poke around a couple of towns, do a little bird-and-people watching.”

  “Walk out the pier at Red Cay and tell each other ghost stories about Body House and the lighthouse?”

  “Why, Will Banning, I thought you weren’t impressed with ghost stories.”

  “I am if it means a girl will get scared and hang on to me.”

  Butterflies flew giddily behind her breastbone. She heard the same giddiness in his voice. “What else do you want to do?”

  “It’s a first date,” he said slowly, finishing what she’d started. “Let’s just have fun. No expectations, except to remain bosom buddies.” He paused. “Except since it’s a date, I guess you get to slap me if I get too close to your bosom.”

  Never in her life had she been so turned on so quickly. Heat rose in her face and her groin. “Maybe I’m a slut,” she said coyly. “I might let you cop a feel on the first date.” She blushed harder, embarrassed. “Of course, I’d probably knock your block off. You know that, right?”

  “Right.” In the background, she heard Rorschach start trilling loudly. Will was petting his pussycat. Even that thought went straight to her crotch. “So did you call me up in the middle of the night to tease me, Maggie?”

  “No. I figured something out about our behavior problems.”

  “Ours in particular? I thought we just worked on them.”

  “You know what I mean. Do you want me to tell you or not?”

  “Tell me.”

  “The domestic animals I’ve been seeing? Every one of them spends most of their time indoors. They all sleep in their owner’s homes at night. In the house, not in the yard.”

  “Wow.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it—”

  “I’m not. That was a serious wow. You’re sure?”

  “I need to access my files to be certain, but I don’t think I’ve seen many outdoor animals, especially since Wednesday or so. That’s when the wildlife incidents dropped off, too.”

  “I think you’re onto something, too. Let’s brainstorm a little tomorrow, while we’re out of town. Maybe we can elaborate on your theory.” He paused. “It fits. All my patients sleep indoors at night.”

  “Will, I ought to slap you upside the head for saying that.”

  “You should. Maybe tomorrow, after I cop a feel, you can take care of two birds with one stone and slap me silly.”

  “You’re already silly.”

  “I know. I can’t believe what I’m about to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Listen to Coastal Eddie interview David Masters.”

  “When?”

  “Starts in about two minutes.”

  “Ghost stories,” she said. “I’ll listen, too. Maybe we’ll get a clue.”

  “Maybe. He’s a good writer, but I don’t buy all that crap about ghost hunting.”

  “Of course you don’t, but try to keep an open mind, will you? Remember what we saw at Gabe and Kevin’s.”

  “It had to be a trick. Ghosts don’t exist.”

  “Will, maybe you’re putting too fine an edge on the definition of ‘ghost.’ It doesn’t have to mean a boogedy-boogedy earthbound spirit. It means an afterimage by all nonsupernatural definitions. Why couldn’t that apply to what we saw the other night? An afterimage that somehow got stronger. You know, like when a cat craps in the house, but you don’t find it when it happens because you don’t go in the room and smell it? Then, six months later, you go in the room on a hot day and you smell a ghost of the crap?”

  “That’s charming, Mags, just charming. But I see what you mean. I guess it’s possible. I’ll try to keep an open mind, I promise. What time do you want me to pick you up in the morning?”

  “I’ll pick you up. If we want to go off-road we need my Forester.”

  “Off-road? What are you thinking of doing?”

  “Nothing. Come on, Will, I’ve only had it three months. I want to drive, okay?”

  “You only had to say so. What time are you picking me up?”

  “Eleven?”

  “That’s not very early.”

  “It’s twelve hours from now. We’ll have the rest of the day. Now, hang up and listen to the ghost expert so you can tell me a really good story tomorrow. I don’t scare easily, so if you want me to cling to you in terror, you have to work for it.”

  “Okay. See you in the morning.”

  She put the phone down, her head buzzing, her crotch aching as much as any pubescent boy’s with his first Victoria’s Secret catalog. The cats and dog were still downstairs, so she sneaked up and shut the bedroom door before they could follow. She’d let them in a little later. She turned on her radio just as the interview started, and turned on the vibrator a moment later, knowing she wouldn’t remember a word of the interview if she didn’t relieve her tension.

  65

  “Good evening to you, friends and neighbors, from me, Coastal Eddie, at KNDL on the cool California Coast. It’s eleven-oh-five in the P.M. and here in Candle Bay it’s a perfect sixty-eight degrees. Down in Red Cay, home of tonight’s special guest, it’s sixty-nine degrees, and up in Caledonia, it’s a warm seventy-one. Greenbriar College calls in with a very warm seventy-eight degrees.”

  Eddie prattled on in his folksy way while Will tried to settle down and concentrate, which was none too easy after talking to Maggie. He couldn’t believe he’d asked her for a date. It had just popped out. And the flirting. They’d always flirted, but it was different. Tonight, it aroused him. There had been a new tone to it, though the silliness that they’d always indulged in remained. Tonight, there was something serious lurking in the background. Maybe it had always been there, but neither of them had ever dared to stir it up before, to even acknowledge it.

  He wished his pants weren’t so tight, thought briefly about doing something about it, but then Eddie was leading into the interview and Freud was staring at him reproachfully. Mastering one’s domain wasn’t something that could be done when cats were watching, especially a cat possessing the gravity of a Supreme Court judge and a name automatically associated with sexual obsessions.

  “David Masters is the bestselling author of many horror novels and he’ll be signing his newest, The Portal, tomorrow from two to four at Deliciously Dark Booksellers in Red Cay. David, the reviews on your new book are terrific. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Eddie. And I’m a big fan of your show.”

  They continued to pat each other on the back for several minutes, went on to talk about the contents of the new book, notable to Will because it was supposed to be based on a “real” haunting a few miles inland at Greenbriar, a pricey private college. Will had given a few guest lectures at the tweedy old school, but hadn’t known the walls held any ghosts. Of course, looking at the Georgian architecture, well over a century old, it was obvious the place had to have a ghost or two. And if it didn’t, David Masters was just the man to plant some there.

  Finally, after a set of commercials, Eddie asked, “What is your definition of the word ‘ghost’?”

  Will sat up and waited to hear about wailing spirits waiting to be freed from earthly chains, to be led into the light by tiny eccentric mediums. And all the rest of the usual rot.

  Masters cleared his throat. “Essentially a ghost is an afterimage, and when I say that, I don’t mean it’s always
a visual image; generally, it’s not. It’s an imprint, a recording hidden in the walls of buildings, particularly those with plenty of rock in their makeup. Silica holds imprints well and many homes have it. Early phonograph records used to have silica in them, in fact.

  “In my experience, most ghosts are aural rather than visual. Perhaps that has something to do with the ease of recording on materials that make up the building. These ghosts are usually repetitious. Footsteps and slamming doors are very common. If a ghost manifests as a minor poltergeist, rocking chairs often move, and hanging lights and fans will sway. It takes very little energy for these things to happen.”

  “When you have a ghost that, for instance, stomps around your house, why does it do it?”

  “Well, Eddie, there are many theories. While I don’t commit to any of them, I’m inclined to think that certain personalities—living ones, I mean—give off an energy that somehow activates a ghost.”

  “Does a ghost walk when no one is there to hear it?”

  “That’s a good question. I’m going to take a chance on disappointing a lot of people and tell you my opinion.”

  “Before your answer: Why will it disappoint people?”

  “Many readers assume that because I write about the paranormal, that I’m a believer. I’m not. Frauds abound in parapsychology, intentional and unintentional. I’m a skeptic. A true skeptic. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes, but tell our listeners, since many won’t be as familiar with your nonfiction and your essays as I am.”

  “A skeptic is not the opposite of a believer. A disbeliever is the opposite of the believer. They are at two ends of the spectrum. The skeptic lies dead center with a fairly neutral attitude best summed up with two words: ‘Prove it.’ This attitude is vital to the study of things which are currently inexplicable. Facts must not be twisted to suit the beliefs or disbeliefs of the investigator. They must be examined scientifically, and with an open mind, with the understanding that there truly are things we cannot explain at this point. A skeptic can easily become a disbeliever, and that’s as bad as a believer, in my book.” Masters chuckled lightly. “A skeptic is a nonbeliever.”

  “What about people whom you say activate hauntings. Are they believers?”

  “Not necessarily. They’re personality types. Maybe they give off an abundance of some type of brain wave that can be used by a ghost. Eddie, you’ve been around people who leave you exhausted, haven’t you? All you have to do is be in their presence, and they seem to be able to suck all your energy away. Many people call them ‘psychic vampires.’ Psychologists call them passive-aggressives. Some doctors refuse to treat them because they’re too draining.”

  “Maybe this guy isn’t a charlatan after all,” Will told Freud.

  “Another type of haunting might be a sense of profound unease, sort of a thickness in the atmosphere that feels depressing or ominous. You may have had a similar sensation around living people, not just bad people, but good people in bad moods. Not everyone senses this, but many do.”

  “I know exactly what you’re talking about, David.”

  Will nodded agreement, sitting forward now, hanging on every word.

  “A ghost can be that emotional imprint. You walk into a room and seem to be drowning in gloom. That is a type of ghost.”

  “So there aren’t any ghosts that communicate with people?”

  “Generally, they don’t communicate. They are shadows, recordings. They may seem to be interacting, but it’s very rare.”

  “But didn’t you have lots of run-ins with these kinds of spirits in your home, Baudey House, when you first moved in? You recounted your experiences in Mephisto Palace, a book that scared me half to death.”

  “Thanks. That was a fictionalized account, but yes, I’ve had interactions with what seem to be spirits. Usually, if there is interaction, it’s because a living human is, typically without knowledge, fueling a ghost. This often happens when a marriage is bad. ‘Often’ being a very relative word.”

  “But in your home, weren’t you actually attacked by spirits?”

  “I dislike the word ‘spirit,’ because it implies an intelligence that I’ve rarely experienced. With that caveat, yes, I was attacked. My family and other people in the house were all attacked. At least three ghosts—two would fall in the ‘good’ category and one in the ‘evil’—were physically attacked without any indication of a living human directing the attacks. I have no explanation for these incidents. They simply happened.”

  The interview went on for some time in the same vein before it wound down. When it was over, Will turned off the radio, wondering what Maggie’s take on it was. He’d know soon enough, he decided as he opened the closet and took out the air mattress. He pumped it up in a jiffy then went to the linen closet and dressed it. Ten minutes later, he’d brushed his teeth and stripped to his shorts. Usually, he showered and shaved at night, but tomorrow was special. He’d bathe in the morning.

  The cats, all three, watched him closely as he got between the sheets on the floor. After a moment, he got back up and went to his bedroom, allowing himself to turn on the overhead while he grabbed his pillow. He didn’t stay long enough to hear anything. He closed that door behind him, then shut the office door most of the way. He wanted to lock it—face it, Masters spooked you—but if a cat had to use the facilities, that was more important.

  All three stared down at him. He patted the top blanket. “Come on, guys.”

  Trills and grunts, and then heavy purring ensued as the cats settled into their accustomed positions.

  66

  There was a dead woman—the ghost of a dead woman—next door and Mickey Elfbones was far more concerned about the noises she made than about the voices plotting against him in his head.

  Every night since they took her body away, he’d been aware of her. She was growing stronger and louder. A little while ago, he’d heard her sing one of the songs she’d crooned while alive. It was “Help!,” the classic Beatles tune. Hearing it come from a ghost, gave it new meaning that frightened him.

  Alive, when Abby Abernathy was in a good mood, she was nutty-happy as often as not, and then she’d sing. Mickey hadn’t minded; her voice wasn’t bad, and if he didn’t want to hear it, his television or stereo easily drowned her out. Most of the time, she sang folk songs, sometimes the oldest Beatles tunes, and occasionally, when she was extra nutty-happy, she belted out commercial jingles. Hearing a fifty-year-old woman sing “I wish I were an Oscar Meyer wiener” was very disturbing.

  Hearing a dead woman sing anything was incredibly worse.

  Although he couldn’t see her from his apartment, he could hear her often, not just when she sang. The television would be turned on, channels changed, turned off again, and sometimes she banged on the wall separating them. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected it was drumming, a part of the nutty-happy side of her. He hated it.

  “Go away,” he muttered. “Go to your grave.”

  She banged louder and began singing the wiener song, as if she’d heard his thoughts. Maybe she had. Why not?

  Mickey curled up on his sofa, which was against the wall farthest from her apartment, and tried to get to sleep. Sometime after three in the morning, she finally stopped making noise, and Mickey wondered if maybe he should tell the shrink about it, or better, talk to the young cop who’d seen the ghost, too. It couldn’t hurt. The cop was nice. He’d never met a nice cop before.

  67

  Lara Sweethome was having ghostly problems of her own, but at least she could sleep in her own bed, alone, as long as the thick ribbon of salt was unbroken. She had listened intently to the David Masters interview, wishing the entire time that she’d taped it for Dr. Banning. The doctor would respond well to Mr. Masters, she thought, and maybe he’d better understand what she was going through.

  While he had briefly called her back, he hadn’t had time to come over and experience her mother for himself. He had apologized and told her he would as soon
as he could. He made it sound like he never had a minute to himself, and maybe that was true since he didn’t have the part-time partner anymore. No matter, she decided. She had an appointment Monday or Tuesday—she needed to double-check—and would try to talk about her ghost the way David Masters had.

  Her mother was walking the upstairs hallway and stopped at her locked bedroom door each time she came to it to scratch on the door with her toes. Lara silently cursed herself for not putting salt outside the door as well. That would have kept her from touching the door.

  Tomorrow, Lara promised herself, she would have a day to herself and drive her little Toyota down to Red Cay to meet David Masters and have him sign a copy of his new book for her. It would be an adventure; she hadn’t left the confines of Caledonia for well over a year. Thinking about doing so frightened her a little, but it would be well worth it, especially if she could talk David Masters into visiting her home and maybe exorcising her mother. If anyone could do it, he could.

  68

  Daniel Hatch’s dick wouldn’t stop talking about Mother and it was driving him to distraction. Dick wanted to “get rid of her,” and Daniel figured that was polite penis language for murder.

  Not that he blamed Dick, whose name he’d finally accepted because it was easier now that they were having so many conversations. Dick was a relentless talker, but he was also rather cruel and selfish. He didn’t think much about other people’s feelings, not even giving a flying fart about Daniel’s well-being.

  But then, what else could you expect from a penis?

  Daniel and Dick were in bed at Mother’s house and it was well past midnight. All Daniel wanted was to go to sleep, but Dick wasn’t having any of it. He was incensed because Mother had dominated their time every night since they found poor old Mrs. Lavia with her eyes pecked out. Mother wanted Daniel with her from the time he got home from work until bedtime, and every night she tried to talk him into staying at her house in his old room instead of going home. She claimed she was afraid to be left alone. Dick had insisted he leave and Daniel acquiesced to him until tonight, when Mother seemed to be truly frightened.