A Barricade in Hell

by Jaime Lee Moyer

  “Joey, do you have access to a phone?” The boy nodded and Gabe tore a blank page from Jack’s notebook. He wrote out the address and phone number of the police station, and handed the paper to Joey. “Call us at the station if there’s any news of your brother or you hear of anyone else who’s missing. If Lieutenant Fitzgerald or I aren’t there, someone will get a message to us.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Joey carefully folded the scrap of paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “A neighbor’s minding my niece, but I promised to be home before supper. I best get the rest of these handbills posted and get back. With luck, Mr. Glibert won’t rip them all down before people get a chance to read one.”

  Curtains on the window nearest the door twitched shut. Gabe looked pointedly at the front of the store and took a step closer, certain the old man was watching. He raised his voice, wanting to make sure Glibert heard. “Don’t worry about Mr. Glibert. I’ll make sure he won’t bother you.”

  He and Jack waited until the boy had nailed up three notices on the pole outside Glibert’s store, standing guard. Once Joey moved down the block, they started back the other way on Embarcadero, toward the construction site. The wind had died away to a fitful breeze, not a cold gale that blew full in their face. They made better time as a result.

  Neither of them said much, but talking wasn’t really necessary. Gabe and Jack both saw the yellow handbills nailed on every electric pole, fence post, and notice board they passed. Some were faded to the point the paper was almost white, victims of sun and age. Bright, fresh notices with new meeting dates were layered atop the old, splashes of sunshine against weathered wood. He couldn’t begin to count the tattered pieces of paper or explain why he hadn’t noticed before.

  Now he couldn’t stop seeing. Effie Fontaine’s smiling face was inescapable.

  CHAPTER 11

  Delia

  I’d put Dora to bed in the spare room as soon as we reached the house. She’d made a token protest, but I knew her well enough to recognize that was all show. Exhaustion dragged at the corners of her mouth, and her eyes were narrowed with pain, all signs she’d pushed herself too far. How quickly she’d fallen asleep proved I’d been right to insist. Gabe and Jack might not arrive until suppertime or later, and I saw no reason for her not to rest until then.

  Convincing Randy Dodd there was no need to patrol the outside of the house or stand guard at the front door was more difficult. He was an earnest young man, determined to fulfill Gabe’s trust. We’d settled on him dragging a sitting room chair into the front hall, a vantage point that let him watch the front entrance and the doorways into most of the house. Seeing him comfortably seated and reading The Saturday Evening Post eased my conscience.

  A part of me viewed Randy’s staying here as unnecessary, an overreaction on Gabe’s part. Isadora and I had viewed evidence from dozens of murders, consulted on Jack and Gabe’s investigations for more than two years. Hints of the occult had crept into cases in the past, not as strong nor so gruesome, but undeniable. This was the first time Gabe had felt Dora and I needed protection just because we’d viewed a set of photographs, or handled a piece of evidence.

  That in itself was disturbing. And if I was honest and paid heed to the disquiet that dogged my steps, the urge to roam room to room, peering into dark corners, I had to admit that having Randy in the house was a comfort. I couldn’t talk myself out of the certainty that something was there and that if I just looked hard enough, I’d see.

  Not knowing what—if anything—might be hiding ate at me. The possibilities kept unreeling in my head, ghosts and spirit creatures I’d learned of from Isadora, but had never seen. Walking always helped me think, even if the longest distance I walked was up and down the hall. That more than anything kept me from sticking to any one task.

  After the fifth or sixth time I went between the sitting room and the kitchen, and peered into the bedroom checking in on Isadora, Randy glanced up from his reading and frowned. “Is everything all right, Delia?”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m a little restless and having a hard time settling down. That’s all it is, nothing dire.” A flush crept up my neck and a bright, hot spot burned in my cheeks. Randy didn’t know me well yet, certainly not well enough to recognize my quirks and habits. Jumping at the thinnest of shadows had concerned him for no reason. “Nothing to worry about, I promise.”

  He looked me in the eye, making sure. Randy might not know what kind of threat he’d be called upon to protect me from, or if indeed there was a threat, but he took Gabe’s charge to watch over us seriously. Once reassured that all was well, he went back to his reading.

  I wandered into the parlor, determined to settle and be quiet until Dora woke. The kitchen was my workroom and where I was most comfortable, but our parlor was my second favorite room in the house. I spent a great deal of time there while Gabe was working. Large bay windows looked out over the side garden, ensuring the parlor was bright even on cloudy, overcast winter days. Summer gave me a view of the garden in full bloom, black and yellow bumblebees happily gathering pollen.

  That wasn’t the only reason I loved this room. The fireplace mantel was filled with family photographs, many of them gifts from Gabe’s mother. After Matt Ryan was killed, Moira sold the egg ranch and went to live with her sister in Boise. She’d given me most of the photographs she had of Gabe as a child, portraits of Matt in uniform, and a photograph of Matt pinning Gabe’s lieutenant bars on his dress uniform while Moira looked on, smiling and proud.

  I’d added my own photographs of Esther, Sadie, and Annie to the collection. The 1906 fire took my parents and destroyed everything in our house, leaving me with only memories. That left me doubly grateful for the line of silver and walnut frames along the mantel and on the wall above. Not everything was lost.

  My knitting bag was tucked into the corner of the parlor sofa, an activity that usually kept me well occupied. I pulled out the nearly finished carriage blanket I was making for baby Stella and set to work. Picking up a dropped stitch proved to be a challenge and concentrating on setting it right bled away most of the restlessness.

  The line of frames on the mantel rattled and danced. Minor earthquakes were common, most so small and swiftly over, they passed nearly unnoticed. That was my first thought, but a glance toward the lamp on the sofa table showed the shade’s beaded fringe hanging straight and still.

  Laughter and a child’s high-pitched singing filled the room, chasing away all thoughts of an earthquake.

  A penny for a ball of thread,

  Another for a needle—

  Ask her where the money goes,

  Pop! goes the weasel.

  I stood, searching the room for the little girl ghost. She still evaded all my layers of charms and barricades, and crossed my threshold as she pleased. I refused to believe any spirit was so strong, she couldn’t be shut out of my house.

  She couldn’t be allowed to have her way. By necessity, my will must be stronger. “You’re still not welcome here, spirit. Twice I’ve told you to tell me what you want or to leave and not come back. This is the third time and the third time binds. Say your piece or go.”

  She laughed again, grating and brittle, not at all like a child at play. A cool wind ruffled my hair, lifted the curtains on windows shut tight for the winter.

  Every night when I go out,

  The monkey climbs the steeple,

  Take a stick and knock her off,

  Pop! goes the weasel.

  A large walnut frame over the fireplace slid down the wall and crashed to the floor, sending shards of shattered glass and splintered wood flying. Two more frames, a photo of Esther and one of Gabe’s parents, jumped off the wall as I watched. They landed at my feet, showering the tops of my shoes with broken glass. That sent me scrambling away from the sofa and toward the other side of the room.

  Frames flew across the parlor too quickly to dodge, driving me toward the wall and away from the door. I huddled against the pale yellow w
allpaper, arms wrapped around my head. One by one, the photographs I’d cherished crashed into the wall next to my head, tearing the wallpaper and gouging holes in the plaster. Others smashed on the floor around my feet.

  “Delia! What’s going on?” I heard Randy’s voice calling me and the note of alarm when I didn’t answer. Not everything the ghost threw hit me directly, but she kept me pinned in place.

  Two sets of running footfalls in the hall promised help. “Delia! Answer me!”

  Not being able to escape proved both painful and terrifying. The backs of my hands stung with tiny cuts and pieces of glass lodged in my cuffs, threatening to slide down my sleeves. Blood matted my hair and trickled down the back of my neck.

  In and out the corner store,

  The monkey chased the people,

  Ask her where the children go,

  Pop! goes the weasel.

  Mrs. Allen’s poltergeist and the little girl ghost were one and the same. That was the only thought I could form and hold. Charms to send away harmful spirits, cantrips to seal entrances and forbid ghosts from crossing the threshold: all the words evaporated before I could utter a one. Fear was a small part of it, but the ghost’s power to use my fear against me was a bigger factor. The ghost wanted me afraid and silent; that was clear. I just didn’t understand why.

  A tall curio cabinet tipped over, shattering the glass-paneled front and blocking the doorway. Large, razor-edged pieces of glass slid across the oak floor, coming to rest in the carpet fringe. A smaller fragment bounced and pain spiked up my leg. I screamed.

  “Oh dear God … Dee!” A quick glance showed Isadora framed in the doorway, hair disheveled and clothing rumpled from sleeping on the guest bed. She planted both hands against the curio cabinet and pushed, but it wouldn’t budge. “Randy, go help her. Hurry!”

  Randy scrambled over the toppled cabinet, ripping his uniform pants on a jagged hook of glass still hanging from the front. He curled over me, providing shelter and blocking the rain of broken glass and splinters with his body. The ghost had run short of framed photographs and made a start on flinging books, vases, and small knickknacks. Sharp intakes of breath and a quickly stifled groan told me the ghost wasn’t holding back or deliberately missing now that he was between us; she hit Randy more than once.

  The barrage stopped as unexpectedly as it began. A large, heavy-bottomed vase hovered for an instant before settling to the floor and spinning in a circle. Books tumbled off a shelf, but nothing else flew toward me.

  The clock in the front hallway chimed five o’clock. Randy waited a few more seconds, gasping, before he stood straight. He got a good look at me and his eyes went wide. “We should send for a doctor, Delia, just to make sure you’re all right. I’m going to call the station and have them hunt down the captain. He’ll want to come home right away once he hears.”

  Dora searched the corners of the room, eyes narrowed and her mouth set in a scowl. “We’ll call Gabe soon enough, but first we need to get her out of this room. Quickly now. Help me get her to the kitchen.”

  The curio cabinet moved easily enough this time. Randy shoved it to the center of the room, leaving the doorway clear. Dora looked me over quickly, concern and relief warring in her eyes, before wrapping an arm around my waist to hurry me down the hall. My kitchen was swaddled in wards, a necessity to protect my workroom. I’d be safe there if I was safe anywhere in the house.

  That the home I’d made with Gabe might not be safe, not for me or for him, struck me hard. Falling into despair would be so easy. I shut my eyes, swallowing tears and nursing a stubborn spark of anger inside until it grew into a raging flame that drove away fear. The ghost thought she’d won, but I wouldn’t let her. I refused.

  Dora settled me into a kitchen chair and began giving orders. “Randy, close the door into the hall and find me a basin for water. I know Dee has a bowl or something in the cupboard by the stove. You should find clean napkins or towels in the sideboard. And don’t open the hall door again unless I say. The seal is stronger with it shut.”

  I sat quietly and let her fuss over me, shaken but unable to stop my mind from circling endlessly. Fear and pain receded into the background. All I could focus on was the question of why the little girl ghost attacked me and why she’d spent so much time causing trouble for Mrs. Allen. “Why” was important.

  Isadora took stock of my injuries, giving me a running list. Her hands were steady even if a tremor had crept into her voice. “The cut on your cheek isn’t very deep. I don’t think you need worry much about scars on your face. Your hands and your calf are worse, but nothing is bleeding much. I’d feel better all the way around if a doctor took a look at the gash on the back of your head. I’m so, so sorry, Dee. Damn sneaky poltergeist attached itself to you and I didn’t notice.”

  “You couldn’t have noticed, Dora, and there’s no need to apologize. She was already here.” Powdered glass covered my clothes, razor-edged diamond dust that caught the light and warned not to touch. I held tight to the chair seat to keep myself from brushing at my skirts, an old habit born of nerves. “The little girl ghost I told you about was responsible for wrecking my parlor and all the trouble at Mrs. Allen’s boarding house. This is all her handiwork, I’m certain of it. I’m equally sure she’s not a poltergeist.”

  “A ghost did all that damage?” Randy set a basin of warm water and one of my best tea towels on the table. His hands shook, sloshing water, and a dark, wet ring spread across the tablecloth. “When you told me you saw ghosts—I mean, well, I thought you saw spirits like they show in the cinema. I never imagined real ghosts could tip over pieces of furniture. You can practically see right through the ghosts in Old Scrooge and that new movie. What’s it called? The one with the mad king and the witches.”

  “It’s called Macbeth. And you weren’t wrong.” Dora patted his cheek fondly and smiled. She dipped the tea towel in warm water and began wiping blood and layers of dust off my face. “It’s very rare for a ghost to be able to move or influence physical objects. But this ghost has already proved to be exceptional. I’m beginning to doubt that she’s a ghost, at least not in the way I normally think of spirits. She doesn’t follow the rules.”

  He flipped another chair around and sat backwards, the way he straddled the chair reminding me a great deal of Jack. My husband had more than his share of rookie cops looking to be just like him, imitating Gabe’s mannerisms and the way he worked. I could easily imagine the same type of hero worship directed toward Jack.

  Randy laid his arms along the back of the chair, studying Dora’s face. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what Dora said, this ghost doesn’t follow the rules spirits are normally bound by. Ghosts normally manifest in one way, take one form.” I flinched, fighting back tears. Isadora smiled an apology and went back to scrubbing cuts and scrapes on the back of my hand. “That form can be as solid and real as they looked in life, thin as a cloud of steam, or somewhere between. A poltergeist is always a poltergeist and a haunt is always a haunt. This ghost had proved she can change form as she pleases. Act as it suits her to act.”

  He looked between us, not confused or frightened as I’d expect from someone encountering spirits for the first time, but truly curious. “So what is she?”

  “A problem.” Dora’s smile was bright, guileless. Randy didn’t know her well and I doubt he saw the momentary uncertainty in her eyes, but I did. “I need to resolve this soon before anyone else gets hurt. Now, be a darling and go call Gabe for me. The telephone is in the sitting room. Make sure he knows it’s nothing terribly serious, but tell him to fetch the doctor on his way home.”

  He left, shutting the door again without prompting.

  “He’s gone. Tell me what you’re afraid of.” I twisted in the chair, ignoring the sting of cuts pulling open again. Looking Dora in the eye was more important. “And don’t you dare try to be coy with me, Isadora Bobet, or try to wheedle out of telling me everything. I don’t need to be coddled or cosseted be
cause this spirit singled me out.”

  Dora sighed and tossed the tea towel onto the table. She dragged Randy’s chair over, sitting knee to knee with me and taking my hand. “But she did single you out, Dee, and that has to mean something. I wasn’t lying when I said this spirit was a problem. You said yourself that you were in her way when it came to getting at Gabe. Maybe she thinks she can drive you away, and the attack today was only the beginning. It’s not coddling for me to be extra cautious in the face of that. I can’t say for certain how malevolent this spirit is or begin to guess what she’ll do next. I’m not even sure what she is.”

  I’d learned that unless she was telling fortunes or holding a séance at a society party, Dora wasn’t given to theatrics or exaggeration. If the little girl spirit frightened her or made her unsure of her ground, I had every right to be terrified.

  That I wasn’t frightened, especially after what I’d just been through, probably said something about my sanity. Instead, I was furious. The things she’d destroyed—photographs of people I’d loved and lost, wedding presents and small remembrances of Esther—couldn’t be replaced. This ghost in little girl guise continued to seek ways to come between me and Gabe, and I was just as determined she wouldn’t have her way. What she’d done to Katie Allen just added more reasons to be angry.

  Anger had carried me through rough spots more than once. “Solving the mystery of what this spirit is seems to be the logical first step. We can deal with her once we know. This might be a good time to dig into that witch’s bag of tricks you’ve mentioned a time or two. I’m keen on discovering what you’re hiding in there.”

  She smiled, genuinely amused. Doubt left her eyes. “At least one of those tricks is better tried in my house. Have Gabe bring you for supper tomorrow night. I think Randy may prove useful as well, so I’ll include him in the invitation. My housekeeper will adore having someone to cook for that appreciates her efforts.”