by John Mimms
Pac seethed with scorn. In some bizarre way, he felt betrayed. Jeff had used his position as the head paranormal prick to move in on Debbie. The chicks on his sassy paranormal programs always swooned over the brave, macho leader of the group. No, Debbie wasn’t different; she was just another para-whore.
Pac swallowed a bite of baked potato, almost choking. He slumped back in his chair and dropped his fork with a dull clunk on the plastic plate. His cheeks flushed red.
A moment later, the waitress came around to check on everyone. When she saw Pac’s almost finished plate, she reached her hand beside it, and asked courteously. “Can I get this out of your way, sir?”
Pac did not look up as he muttered loud enough for the entire table to hear. “You touch my plate; I’ll break your arm!”
The waitress pulled back as if she had touched a hot stove. “I’m sorry,” she said before walking away.
“Not cool,” Elvis said.
Pac glanced at him with indifference. “I’m not going to let her take food away I paid for,” he said flippantly.
Jeff and Debbie did not say a word, Elvis said it all. Pac shrugged and went back to cleaning the remaining morsels off his plate. His little outburst was exactly what he needed to blow off some of the anger steaming inside him. He felt better, but he was still pissed.
They settled their bills and headed for Mrs. Schwender’s house. On arrival, Jeff had to perform the same ritual, communicating through the fortified front door to convince her who he was. The ‘ghost guy’ seemed to do the trick once again.
“Mrs. Schwender, I have told everyone what is going on here. We would like to focus our attention on the den and bedroom since it is where the activity seems to be coming from,” Jeff told her.
Mrs. Schwender agreed. She would spend her time in the kitchen while they investigated.
“I need to organize some of my cookbooks anyway,” she told him. “It’s good to see you two kids again!” She beamed a snuff-stained, but warm smile at Jeff and Debbie.
This comment didn’t help Pac’s festering disappointment.
They did baselines for what Jeff said he hoped was the last time. It didn’t take long to do the two rooms. They went “lights out” after they broke into two teams. Elvis and Debbie took the bedroom first, while Jeff and Pac took the den.
Jeff and Pac did not say two words to each other, but it didn’t matter. What they were searching for arrived much faster than expected. Ten minutes into the rotation, Debbie started feeling like she did on their visit the night before. Her skin crawled. Her stomach ached. She also felt something or someone was in the darkness watching.
She whispered to Elvis, “I think something is in here!”
Elvis hadn’t sensed a presence, but his stomach had started to ache as well. A sickening nausea crept over him, one he initially dismissed as guilt, now he was not so sure. Out of curiosity, he got up and walked to Debbie. When he reached her, he got the surprise of his life.
Given the circumstances, he started thinking about the scene in “The Exorcist” where the priest gets sick. This mental image made him jump in surprise when his EMF meter started going haywire. The normal reading in a home for an electromagnetic field should be at or below 1 milligause. Elvis’s meter was jumping between 420 and 450 milligause. The digital recorders were still running, so he decided to ask a question.
“Is anyone here with us?”
No answer - as expected. The meter continued to squeal like a radiation detector at Chernobyl. He set the meter down on the bedside table. It continued to protest even louder. Elvis decided to check out their surroundings. He edged over to the wall and flipped on the light.
They both blinked in the new light. As their eyes adjusted to the glow of Mrs. Schwender’s dangling 100-watt bulb, they saw nothing out of the ordinary. Elvis picked up his chirping EMF meter, and walked to the other side of the room. With each step, the reading subsided a little more. By the time he reached his chair in the far corner, it had gone completely silent with a reading of zero.
Elvis walked back towards the bed and with each step, the meter whined louder. When he reached the bed, he set it back on the nightstand, and listed to its high-pitched chirp.
“There’s something near the bed causing it,” Elvis said.
Debbie scooted to the foot of the bed, so she was out of range of whatever it was.
Elvis chuckled. “No, something normal,” he said, examining the nightstand. The only things on it were an old brass lamp, a well-read copy of Southern Living, and a plain, white cordless phone. He pulled out his flashlight and shone it behind the nightstand.
“Debbie, come here and give me a hand,” he said, leaning closer to the wall.
She got up and walked to the big guy’s side.
“There is just too much of me to love,” he said as he patted his rotund belly. “I don’t think I can get to it, but ... can you reach over and unplug the cordless phone for me?”
Debbie leaned over the nightstand with the EMF meter shrieking in her ear. She groped around for a few moments until her fingers fell on the oversized AC adapter plugged in below the lamp. She gave it a quick tug, and then dropped it in surprise. A split second after the prongs were free of the outlet, the EMF meter fell silent.
“Did I break something?” she asked with wide-eyed panic.
Elvis laughed.
“Not at all, I think you may have solved Mrs. Schwender’s problem!”
“The phone?”
“Yep, it sat where we didn’t get close to it when we did baseline readings. I would almost bet my right eye there is an identical one in the den.”
They did discover another phone in the den identical to the one in the bedroom. It rested on the floor beside Mrs. Schwender’s chair. The EMF meter registered a consistent 400 milligause from it as well.
“I believe we need to stop the investigation now,” Jeff said. “This is a health hazard to everyone here, plus it is Mrs. Schwender’s only connection to the outside world.”
“I agree,” Elvis said. “I think there is a very good chance it is what is causing her problems.”
“I don’t understand,” Debbie said. “How could a phone be causing everything?”
“Why don’t you come with me while I talk to Mrs. Schwender, I’ll explain it to both of you at the same time.”
“Pompous asshole,” Pac thought, examining the Hummel collection in the curio cabinet behind him.
Jeff and Debbie went to the kitchen to talk to Mrs. Schwender while Elvis went to the bedroom and got his recorder. He plugged a set of earbuds in and sat down to listen to their short session, on the off chance it wasn’t the phone causing the problems.
Mrs. Schwender was confused. “I don’t understand honey. How can my phone cause me to see ghosts?”
“They are putting out very high electromagnetic radiation. Elevated EMF levels can cause a person to experience all sorts of things. It can cause feelings of being watched, headaches, nausea, and rashes. High EMF levels can also cause a person to hallucinate.”
“Honey, I’ll have to take your word for it. You might as well be speaking Greek to me.” She turned to Debbie for validation and Debbie gave her a reassuring nod.
“Mrs. Schwender, how long have you been having these experiences?” Jeff asked.
“I’d say about two months.”
“When did you get your phones?”
“I bought them from a mail order thing in the Sunday paper. I thought they would be handy to use if I’m in the kitchen or something. I remember they were advertising back to school sales so it must have been...” she closed one eye and peered at the ceiling as if in deep thought.
“About two months?” Jeff finished for her.
She nodded. “Sounds about right.”
Jeff recommended she replace the phone as soon as possible because the wiring must be unsafe. Mrs. Schwender shrugged when he asked if she had the receipt to return them.
“I would say for now, lea
ve them unplugged until you need to use them. At the very least, move them away from where you will be sleeping or sitting.”
“No one calls me. I’ve got no kids, and my husband has been gone for twenty years. The only people I talk to are a few neighbors when we discuss recipes.”
“Well, we have them both unplugged for now,” Jeff said. “Remember to plug them back in when you want to make a call. I think this should solve your problem. If not, please call me immediately and we will come back.”
“Bless you kids,” she said as she escorted them out. “Thank you for giving me peace of mind.”
Tears splashed down her cheeks as she gave each one of them a hug as they left. Mrs. Schwender locked and bolted the door behind her. She felt relieved and the night was still young, especially for a self-proclaimed night owl. She had gotten such a good start on her recipe organization, she thought ... why not finish up tonight? She got herself a big dip of snuff, and used an old coffee mug as a spit cup. Then she spent an hour and a half of bliss filing her new recipes.
It was after eleven when she finally checked the clock. She thought about catching the last hour of Saturday Night Live, and then decided against it. The show had gotten too racy nowadays for her taste; besides, she suddenly realized how tired she was. She turned out the light in the kitchen, turned off the lamp in the den, and then got dressed for bed. She gave the phone a perfunctory glance on her nightstand. The large AC plug rested by the base.
“Hah, you won’t be bothering me anymore,” she said.
She felt peaceful, more so than she had in a long time. She had no idea what Jeff was talking about, but they had found the problem and everything would be all right now. She was safe.
“Everything...is...okay,” she thought, drifting off to sleep.
Mrs. Schwender didn’t know how long she had been asleep when she awakened to a strange noise. She lay still and opened one eye to peer around the room. She saw nothing, but the outline of her dresser, dimly illuminated in the moonlight shining through the slats of her blinds. She heard the noise again; it was like someone dragging their feet on a carpet or a rug, swish-swish-swish. The noise seemed to be getting louder. She opened her other eye and raised her head to get a better look. She saw it.
Standing in the doorway between her bedroom and den was a dark figure.
Cold daggers of fear pierced her heart, and she slammed her eyes shut. This was only leftover FM or AM on VHF, whatever it was the kids had explained to her; it just hadn’t had time to wear off yet.
“They fixed it, I know they...,” she thought, but her thoughts faded when the sound returned.
Swish-swish-swish.
She had never heard a sound before.
She opened her eyes to check the doorway. The figure was gone.
Mrs. Schwender breathed out a sigh of relief. As she began to settle back into sleep, something soft, cold, and foul smelling covered her mouth. Whatever it was had her pinned so tight, she couldn’t move. Every muscle in her body froze with terror when she saw the dark figure leaning over her. It pushed down hard, like a demonic animal seizing its prey.
“No, no, they fixed you!” she screamed. “You weren’t supposed to bother me anymore!”
Mrs. Schwender opened her mouth to scream, but it drowned in the cold, rank softness covering her mouth. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell back on the pillow, limp and lifeless.
Chapter 22
THE GROUP HAD ONE FINAL investigation without their new equipment. It was a last-minute request which Jeff felt was too good to pass up. The Carlisle Country Inn was built shortly after the Civil War. It was originally constructed as a boarding house, but its function changed numerous times over the decades. It had also served as a private residence, a brothel, an orphanage, and the office of a law firm. Now, it is one of the highest rated bed and breakfasts in Missouri.
“How many guests will be there Wednesday night?” Jeff asked the owner.
“None,” he replied. “Except on rare occasions, we are usually only busy on the weekends. That’s why I want you to come on Wednesday because, this weekend, every room will be occupied.”
Jeff thought the man sounded desperate. He had heard all the legends about the house. The headless man allegedly decapitated by a crazed prostitute, the children who accidentally burned to death trying to roast marshmallows in the yard, and the original owner who died in his sleep from a heart attack, were all part of the ghostly legends of the property. The local news channels propagated this every Halloween. The building’s haunted history was also touted in every tourist brochure of the area.
While the Carlisle Inn was a beautiful retreat, its beauty was not the primary draw. Jeff had done research on the place back when he was with another paranormal group. They never had the opportunity to investigate the house, but what Jeff discovered, made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Most legends, especially ones as gruesome as the Carlisle Inn harbored, usually contain very little fact. The legends about the building were one hundred percent true. The presence of ghosts was open for debate, but the gruesome events supposedly spawning these phantoms were undeniable. The historical documentation was there, and quite easy to find.
“Why so sudden this couldn’t wait?” Jeff asked.
The owner was hesitant, but he finally opened up. It seems over the last year, almost a dozen guests had fled in the middle of the night.
“They wouldn’t even come back to get their luggage,” the owner said. “I had to meet them in the McDonalds parking lot up the street to give it to them.”
“What did they experience?” Jeff asked.
“I’m not really sure,” the owner said. “They weren’t really in a talking mood afterward.” He sighed and said, “One lady kept repeating over and over – those eyes, those eyes.”
Jeff felt the hair on his arms bristle. It sounded frightening, but it also sounded like a tremendous prospect for their research. He agreed to investigate before consulting the others. If it was only him, he would still go. Jeff didn’t want to miss this opportunity.
Jeff was disappointed when Debbie declined his invitation, citing she really couldn’t be out that late mid-week. Everyone else agreed to attend, even Dr. Staples.
They met at six o’clock the night of the investigation as usual. The owner greeted them at the door and conducted a brief tour. Since the house was built in the Civil War era, it had a hint of Antebellum in its architecture, mixed with a touch of Victorian. The latter was likely due to renovations performed due to a small fire in 1902. The interior of the house had been gutted and replaced with modern sheetrock, tile, laminate hardwood floors, and modern utilities. Despite the building’s modernization, the interior design still paid homage to the roots of the old construction. Antique furniture gave the finishing touch of authenticity.
“I normally sleep in the downstairs bedroom next to the kitchen,” the owner told them before departing. “Makes it easier to prepare meals.”
He stuck out his arm and handed a key to Jeff.
“Tonight, the house is yours,” he said. “All I ask is that you respect it and lock up after you leave.”
“Of course,” Jeff said, a little surprised.
“Well, I’m off to my sister’s,” he said, opening the door. “Don’t be so confused, young man,” he said to Jeff. “I knew your father, he was good people, so I trust you are as well.”
“I’ll treat it as if it were my own,” Jeff said.
“Good, I would expect nothing less,” the owner said. He was about to step through the door when he stopped abruptly and spun around. “Oh, I almost forgot to mention Bob.”
“Bob?” Jeff repeated.
“Yes, he lives a few houses down. He is an elderly man who occasionally forgets to take his medication. When he does, he sometimes wanders down here and demands breakfast. Doesn’t matter if it is seven in the morning or midnight, he always wants breakfast.”
“Does he not have family?” Dr. Staples interj
ected.
“None that I am aware of,” the owner replied. “At least none I have seen. He is harmless, he gets a little confused sometimes. I may go months without seeing him, and then he will show up three nights in a row.”
“How do you know he is not taking his meds?” Pac asked.
“We share the same pharmacist. I happened to mention him one day when I was in the drug store and he told me not to worry,” the owner said.
“What should I do if he shows up?” Jeff asked.
“Just give him a Pop Tart from the pantry, and direct him home. He lives in the plain brick house on the other side of my neighbor’s,” he said pointing to his right, and then glancing at his watch. “Hey guys, I have to run, my sister is expecting me for dinner. I wouldn’t worry, like I said, he doesn’t come around often.”
As soon as the owner walked out the door, they began to do baselines. Since this was a work night for everyone, they decided to make this investigation as short as possible. The most common incidents were reported in two upstairs bedrooms and in a sitting room near the back of the house. They decided to focus their efforts on those three locations.
Nobody wanted to do baselines, and Pac moaned the loudest about it being a waste of time.
“How can you hope to prove anything one way or the other without having some basis of comparison?” Dr. Staples asked him.
“What are you gonna do ... shrink my head?” Pac snapped.
“No,” Dr. Staples answered, “but I would like you to spend some time with me. I want you to see I am not the quack you make me out to be.”
Pac laughed, but before he could respond, Dr. Staples said, “Jeff, I would suggest we split into teams of two. If it is agreeable, I would like Pac to be my partner.”
“Sounds great to me,” Jeff said. “Okay with you, Pac?”
Pac glared at Dr. Staples. He then shrugged and grunted. He guessed Dr. Staples was the lesser of two evils. His only other alternative was the fat mortician.