A Barricade in Hell

by Jaime Lee Moyer

  She glanced at me and went back to watching the road. “Did the ghost you told me about come back? The little girl?”

  “For the last two nights. You were right, Dora. She’s older and more determined than I’d imagined. This ghost is strong enough to evade all my protections, and to come and go as she pleases. She frightens me.”

  Dora stopped at an intersection, chewing her bottom lip and studying the traffic before finding an opening and darting across. We reached the other side and began climbing the hill. She looked at me again, frowning and obviously perplexed. “Delia … you haven’t been frightened of a spirit in a long time. You’ve had no reason. What did this ghost do?”

  “I’ve tried every charm and trick I know to banish her and forbid her entrance to our house. Nothing works. I might as well have flung the door wide and invited her to breakfast.” I cleared my throat and swallowed. “I need your help, Dora. She forces her way into Gabe’s dreams. I don’t know how to stop her.”

  Dora’s frown became a scowl. She jammed on the brakes and swerved toward the curb to park, drawing the stares of passersby and other drivers. The car rocked to a halt, shuddering from end to end as she shifted into neutral and swiveled to face me. “Tell me what happened, Dee, all of it.”

  She sat very still and didn’t interrupt as I related all I remembered: Gabe’s thrashing and muttering in his sleep each time the ghost appeared, the singsong chant, the man’s voice, and the glimpse of a summer day before the ghost vanished. Each of the spirit’s visits began and ended the same way. At the last, I remembered to tell her about the army of ghosts who’d followed Gabe home, not knowing what was important or what might help.

  Dora continued to sit quietly once I’d finished, brows drawn down in concentration and red lacquered nails drumming a rhythm against the steering wheel. The drumming stopped and she sighed. “Did you tell Gabe he was in danger from this ghost?”

  “No, not a word. I thought talking to you first and deciding on a plan of action was for the best. And I honestly didn’t know what to say to him.” Guilt soured my stomach. “Can you imagine the dinner conversation? ‘Oh, by the way, darling, you’re being haunted. I know you’re not terribly keen on the idea, so I’ll do my best to keep her from driving you mad.’ We both know how well Gabe would take that, but not telling him feels wrong. I don’t like keeping secrets from him.”

  “Nor should you. Your husband trusts you.” Dora patted my shoulder and put the car into gear again. “Gabe believes everything you tell him about the spirit world. That gives you an enormous advantage over this ghost, Delia. On some level, he’ll know the ghost is lying to him and fight her control. He won’t succumb quickly or easily.”

  She pushed on the accelerator, and the car lurched away from the curb. I grabbed the corner of the windscreen this time and held tight. “So what do we do?”

  “We carry on with what we had planned for the day. Rushing into things wouldn’t be wise. We have time, Gabe’s not in immediate danger. I want to consult my books and as you so colorfully put it, formulate a plan of action.” Isadora gave me her best, most winning smile, but a smile couldn’t disguise the anger in her eyes. “You have my solemn vow, Dee, I won’t let this ghost harm Gabe. We’ll find a way to send this spirit away. Now, put on a cheerful face for Mrs. Allen. She’s worried enough.”

  The boardinghouse was just ahead on the right. Gabe and I had lived there for a few short weeks after we’d married; a way station between my moving out of the house I shared with Annie, Sadie, and Jack, and into our own. During that time I’d grown enormously fond of Mrs. Allen. She was a warm, loving woman who treated her boarders as family, not tenants.

  Three shallow steps led up to a front door painted carmine and trimmed in soft white. Wooden frames surrounded the lace-curtained windows on all three floors, painted white to match the door. The front of the building was plain, weathered brick, a style that suited Mrs. Allen more than some of the garishly painted row houses on the block. Tiny bits of fuzzy green moss grew in the seams between brick and mortar, kept alive by an abundance of fog.

  Dora parked in front of the house next door and gathered her things. Each stubborn ghost or haunting might require any number of herbs or arcane objects, so she usually brought along an assortment to cover most possible situations. Guesswork mostly, but she was right more often than not. She passed me a heavy basket, full of muslin bags that smelled of rosemary and nutmeg and thyme, and chunky white candles. Dora looped the handle for another basket over an arm and grabbed a canvas bag overflowing with sage and pine branches.

  I put a hand on her arm to stop her from charging out the car door. “There’s something else I need to tell you before we go inside. Gabe told me last night that Amanda Poe’s gone missing.”

  “Missing?” Her mouth pulled into a hard, thin line. “She’s run off before. I think it amuses Mandy to worry her friends.”

  “Not this time.” I couldn’t deny that Isadora was right. Knowing, and explaining, that this time was different left me queasy. “It’s a police matter. Gabe has Archie in custody.”

  She appeared genuinely shocked. “He’s arrested Archie? Whatever for?”

  “Suspicion of murder.” The words were difficult to say, bitter and awkward on my tongue. “They think Archie may have killed Mandy.”

  Dora scowled and waved a hand in dismissal. “Nonsense. Archie isn’t capable of hurting Mandy, nor anyone else for that matter.” She slid out of the car and came round to my side. “He deserted from the Belgian army because he couldn’t bring himself to shoot anyone, not even the Huns. The idea of him murdering Mandy is ludicrous.”

  “Archie deserted?” Now it was my turn at shock and disbelief. “I hadn’t heard anything from Sadie other than he was home. She and Jack must not know either.”

  “Very few people know.” Dora removed her goggles, dropping them on the car seat. “Mandy took pains to keep the reason Archie came home and his condition quiet. I’d like to believe she did so out of concern for him, but concern for her social position is more likely.”

  I opened the gate and we strolled up the short walkway. The boardinghouse was set close to the street, with the majority of the grounds in the back. “From what Gabe said, Archie wasn’t in his right mind. He stopped short of saying Archie was mad as a hatter, but not by much.”

  “I’m meeting with Gabe and Jack about the Wells murder case tomorrow afternoon. As long as Gabe doesn’t think doing so will cause any harm, I’d like to speak to Archie myself.” Dora reached the top of the steps first and rang the bell. “I’ve always been fond of Archie, much more so than Mandy. Maybe I can help sort things out.”

  The door opened wide. Mrs. Allen was expecting us, but her face lit up with relief. “Thank the heavens it’s the pair of you. Come in, come in. I didn’t think you’d ever get here, Dorrie.”

  I couldn’t hide my amusement. Dora raised an eyebrow in warning, her stern expression promising no quarter if I dared make fun. No one called Isadora Bobet pet names to her face. No one but Mrs. Allen. I coughed and looked away, biting my lip hard to keep from laughing.

  “My apologies, Katie. We were delayed.” Dora held her basket out in explanation, her expression contrite and utterly sincere. “Gathering everything took more time than I thought. Now, show me where all the trouble started. Dee and I will work out what to do from there.”

  Katie Allen was shorter than both of us, with wild iron-gray hair that hung loose to her knees, hazel eyes, and a kind, round face. Traces of her Yorkshire girlhood lingered in the way she spoke—as well as the way she viewed the world—even well into her fifties. She still wore full skirts that brushed the tops of her sturdy shoes, high-necked blouses, and long sleeves the year round.

  “No harm done, you’re here now to get this sorted. Follow me up to Mr. Baskin’s room on the third floor.” She lifted her long skirts ankle high and led us up the front stairs. “He’s been away on business since the day all this mischief started or there’
d be real hell to pay. Mr. Baskin is a meticulous man, neat and tidy to a fault. I rarely have to do more than dust his room or give it a good airing. That’s how I knew right off something peculiar was going on.”

  I shifted the heavy basket to my other hand. Stair treads creaked with each step we climbed, a sound I’d grown used to in the brief time I lived in the house. “What happened?”

  “The day Mr. Baskin left, I went in to open a window. This time of year rooms start to smell musty if they’re closed up too long. Sometime in late afternoon it was, when the sun was hitting this side of the house.” She frowned and clucked her tongue. “All his clothes and books were on the floor, like they’d been tossed in the air and left right where they landed. That isn’t Mr. Baskin’s way.”

  We reached the second-floor landing and I heard the sound of a woman singing scales. Her voice soared, hitting each note perfectly. I wanted to stand and listen, hoping she’d go on to something grand and wonderful, but this wasn’t the time. I kept climbing stairs.

  “This all started in one of the tenant’s rooms, not downstairs in the kitchen?” Dora kept pace with Mrs. Allen, but her attention was focused on the upper floor. Trying to sense the ghost, as I was. “For some reason I thought most of the activity was in the kitchen. Broken dishes and such like. Was I wrong about that?”

  “No, no, Dorrie, you weren’t wrong. I tidy up each night before bed, but by morning I’m likely to find my kitchen a right mess. Put me in mind of my gram’s stories about brownies and sprites back home in Harrogate. I even tried leaving out a bowl of milk one night as a peace offering.” She unhooked a fat ring of keys from her belt and stopped in front of the room at the end of the hall. “But you asked where things started and that’s right here, in Mr. Baskin’s room.”

  A frosty wind blew under the door, twining catlike around my ankles. “Dora … this used to be Gabe’s room.”

  Mrs. Allen unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Gabriel lived in this room for more than seven years before he showed the good sense to marry Delia. Mr. Baskin moved in last year.”

  “Really…” Her fingers tightened around the canvas sack and the glance she gave me was troubled, but Dora showed Mrs. Allen the cheerful face she’d urged me to adopt. “Dee and I will take care of everything up here. Why don’t you make us a pot of tea? We’ll join you in the kitchen once we’ve finished in Mr. Baskin’s room.”

  “Don’t think I can’t see through what you’re doing.” Mrs. Allen shook her finger at Isadora, setting the ring of keys in her hand to jingling loudly. “If you want me out of the way, Dorrie, then say so. I’m not in the least ways dim. Chasing off haunts is likely something I shouldn’t stick my nose into.”

  “You’re right, Katie. I’d like you to go downstairs for your own safety.” Dora set down the bag of pine branches and herbs before breaking off a sprig of sage. She rubbed the sage along both sides and the top of the doorjamb, leaving green streaks and pieces of crushed leaves on the painted wood. “Forgive me. I should have said so right off. Poltergeists are usually harmless and easily routed, but I’d rather not take chances.”

  “I thought as much.” She sniffed and started for the stairs. “My gram was a hedgewitch. I’ve seen a few things in my day.”

  I held my tongue until Mrs. Allen was well on her way downstairs. “Tell me the truth. Do you think this is a coincidence?”

  “That Mrs. Allen’s haunting started in Gabe’s old room?” Dora broke off a piece of pine and smeared yellowish, sticky sap over the sage. The combined scent filled the hallway, burning my nose and making me want to sneeze. “No, Dee, I’m afraid not. Coincidence happens so rarely with spirits, it might as well not exist. Most are single-minded and utterly focused on getting what they want. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Mrs. Allen’s poltergeist is somehow tied to the ghost giving you so much trouble. What I can’t be sure of yet is if she’s determined to attract your attention or Gabe’s.”

  “She doesn’t want me. If anything I’m in the way.” Any doubts vanished, replaced by the certainty that was true. All the new strangeness in our lives, from poltergeists inhabiting his old room to legions of ghosts on our front steps, revolved around Gabe. “I chase her away from Gabe and put obstacles in her path. And this spirit has never appeared when he wasn’t home or given as much as a hint of her presence when I’m alone.”

  “I suspect you’re right, but I’ll reserve final judgment for now. The question I want answered is not only why this spirit appears to be focused on Gabe, but why now.” Dora tossed the shredded remnants of sage and pine into Gabe’s old room and pulled a clean white rag from the bag at her feet. She wiped her hands, pensive and thoughtful. “Causing trouble for Mrs. Allen is sure to lure Gabe into the thick of things one way or another. He dotes on Katie Allen, nearly as much as he adores his mother, and he’d never leave her to cope alone. He’d find help.”

  “Even if that help involves an apprentice and her teacher performing cleansing rituals on a Tuesday morning.” I hugged the basket of candles and herbs to my chest. We’d done this a hundred times, but I was jittery and nervous. “I assume cleansing the house of spirits is what you have planned. Now would be the preferred time to tell me otherwise.”

  “Containment first and then hopefully some answers. Now, scoot inside before I seal the threshold.”

  We lugged the baskets and bag of pine branches through the door. I set mine down on the worn black and tan carpet next to the four-poster bed, grateful to be shed of the weight. The furniture was the same as I remembered: a tall, scarred oak chest; an easy chair and floor lamp under the window; a small washstand in the corner. But the personal effects on the washstand and atop the chest, the book left lying on the chair, place neatly marked with a green ribbon, all belonged to a stranger.

  Nothing marked the time I’d spent here with Gabe, how comfortable and at home I’d been living in this room. I was an intruder now. That was an odd thing to contemplate.

  Mr. Baskin’s room was cold, but it was a natural cold, a consequence of the season. Windows had been flung open, letting in a strong breeze from outside that whipped the curtains up and down. Dora hurried to tug the sash down and shut out the wind.

  “There, now the candles will stay lit. Give me a moment before we light them.” She pulled off her gloves, walking the edges of the room with a hand outstretched, pausing to touch a picture frame on the wall, run a finger along the top of the chest, or brush her palm over the back of the easy chair. I stood near the door, waiting for instructions on where to place the candles.

  Dora walked the circuit three times, her frown growing darker. She stopped in the center of the room and folded her arms over her chest. “Dee … close your eyes. Tell me what you sense and if you hear anything unusual.”

  I set the basket of candles at my feet. “What’s wrong?”

  “Maybe nothing.” She sat on the edge of Mr. Baskin’s bed, eyes narrowed and searching the corners of the room. “Humor me. I want to be sure before we continue.”

  I trusted Dora implicitly, but turning toward the windows bathed my face in sunlight and made shutting my eyes easier. The sounds of other tenants drifted up from the lower floors, a woman’s laughter and the heavy tread of a man climbing the creaky stairs. Traffic noises carried from outside, a child’s shout and a mother calling her son back to the yard. The smell of baking cookies chased the scent of Mr. Baskin’s cologne from the room, making my stomach rumble.

  “Nothing.” Try as I might, I couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. I turned, Dora’s sour expression confirming my instincts. “There’s nothing here, not a trace of a spirit in this room. I’d swear no ghosts had ever entered Mrs. Allen’s house, let alone caused the destruction she described. How can that be?”

  “I wish I knew, Dee. The house is completely empty of spirits, too empty for a building of this age. Almost all old houses have at least one faded haunt hanging about. At the very least, I’d expect to sense residue of a spirit’s prese
nce before it passed from this world. I’d dearly love to know what happened to the resident ghosts.” Dora stood, smoothing her skirt before pulling her gloves on again. She turned in a slow circle, peering at everything in such a way, I was certain she saw more than a shaving brush on the washstand, or a book left unfinished on the chair. “Katie Allen’s not one to make things up or cry wolf just to draw attention. She’s too solid and rooted in the here and now. I’m sure everything happened just as she said.”

  I looked around Mr. Baskin’s quiet room, feeling the emptiness settle around me and endeavoring to remember if the boardinghouse had always felt so hollow. Perhaps I hadn’t noticed. That I’d grown so used to the presence of spirits that a house without them felt unnatural was telling. “Dora, if it’s not a poltergeist breaking Mrs. Allen’s dishes and threatening her boarders … what is?”

  “I wish all the answers that leap to mind didn’t make my skin crawl. Ghosts aren’t the only denizens of the spirit world. They’re merely the most common and benign.” Dora yanked open the windows, letting the windborne smell of salt and the sea fill the room again, and replace the dusty scent of sage and pine. “Do you remember the discussion we had on imps and fiends? Certain types of demons are said to devour older, weaker ghosts and assume the spirit’s place. Demons must be invited inside deliberately, they don’t wander into the realm of the living by accident. But that would explain the lack of haunts and house spirits here.”

  I stared. “Ghost-eating demons? You can’t be serious.”

  Dora waved a hand in exasperation. “Of course I’m serious. But just because I used that as an example doesn’t mean I’m convinced we’re dealing with anything quite that dramatic. Chances are that Katie was closer to the mark in thinking something similar to brownies or sprites are at the root of her troubles. Trickster spirits are found everywhere.”

  The tightness in my throat eased, allowing me to breathe. I’d questioned my sanity for years before circumstances forced me to acknowledge that the ghosts I saw were real. That spirits sought me out was bad enough, but I’d learned to cope. I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. Suddenly, facing a poltergeist didn’t seem all that bad. “All right. What do we do now?”