by Dana Donovan
The Witch’s Ladder
Copyright Dana E. Donovan 2000, 2011
Author's notes: This book is based entirely on fiction and its story line derived solely from the imagination of its author. No characters, places or incidents in this book are real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, events or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be copied or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author or author’s agent.
Other books in this series:
Eye of the Witch
The Witch’s Key
Bones of a Witch
Witch House
Kiss the Witch
Call of the Witch (late 2011)
Other books by Dana E. Donovan:
Abandoned
Skinny
Resurrection
Death and Other Little Inconveniences (a collection of 9 short stories)
Available on www.danadonovan.com
Coincidence: just another way of explaining the unexplainable.
One
It started out innocently enough. I had just wrapped up a burglary case that had warehouse owners up in arms down on Pier Four at Suffolk’s Walk. The culprits in a series of break-ins came up under the buildings in a small boat, cut holes in the floorboards and gained access through them. They never got away with much, the boat being too small to haul off any real payload, but their ability to evade capture irritated warehouse owners enough to motivate some to sit up nights, waiting with shotguns. I knew if I didn’t catch the thieves soon, we would probably end up with a couple of dead juveniles on our hands.
Turns out I was right about the perpetrators being juvies. They were two young brothers that owned a small fishing boat. They hoped to make a few bucks selling live crabs. The problem was that after spending all their money to get a boat, they had none left to purchase crab traps. A few more petty thefts and they would likely have made enough money for the traps they needed, and then everything would have gone back to normal. I’m not saying that’s right, or that I condone such things, but shooting the boys over a stupid adolescent mistake wouldn’t have made matters any better. It was in that vein that I knew I had to follow through on the case.
After staking out the pier with my partner, Detective Carlos Rodriquez, we finally caught the kids in the act. We busted them, brought them downtown for processing, took mug shots and fingerprints, and then called their parents to come get them. I spent the rest of the night filing my report, thinking that maybe it was a fitting, if not so sensational, case in which to close the chapter on my professional career as a detective. You see only the week before I toyed with the idea of finally setting a retirement date. It wasn’t the big bang I hoped for, not some great jewelry heist that I might solve single-handedly and write a book about after retiring. Then again in New Castle, big headline-making crime stories come few and far between the more mundane.
I had all but accepted that volumes of such less spectacular cases would fill my book of memoirs, not knowing that earlier that night the biggest, most bizarre case of my career was already unfolding only a few miles away. It took several months to conclude, and I’m letting you know now that not all the pieces fit together so nicely like in some perfect Hollywood movie; real life cases seldom do. But, as they say, it is what it is, and after collecting data from all the documents, interviews and witness accounts, and then sewing the ends together with some speculation of my own, I now have a clearer picture of what happened. And though I may take some liberties in my narration, I assure you it’s for theatrical purposes only, for this story went down exactly the way I’m about to tell you.
As I said, it started out innocently enough. While I sat in my boat waiting on the Suffolk’s Walk burglars to strike, Jean Bradford, middle-aged and newly widowed, pulled into the parking lot of the New England Institute for Research of Paranormal and Unexplained Phenomena, a research center on the outskirts of New Castle city limits. As Jean told me in her initial interview, she remembered getting out of her car, turning her collar against the cold and dashing across the moonlit lot to the steps of the old two-story brownstone. The lights were on in the room directly over the entrance and a dim bulb burned in the foyer. She tugged on the plate-glass door, but it wouldn’t open. Inside, a small easel sporting a handmade sign read, “WORKSHOP––SECOND FLOOR”. She palmed the glass and struck it sharply.
“Hello! Is anyone there?”
She told me how she leaned in, cupping her hands to the door to see. Her warm breath fogged the plate-glass. She backed away, and as the fog dissipated a reflection appeared, revealing an ominous silhouette behind her. She turned on her heels and clutched her handbag.
“Who’s there?”
But she saw no one. A brisk northeastern blew in and assaulted the front of the building. It wrangled in the doorway and rustled her hair. She welcomed it as an opportunity to make gains on her composure. She took a breath and let it out, and when she turned back again it was there, a tall, looming figure staring down at her. She staggered back and gasped before realizing it was just a man on the other side of the door. He smiled thinly, nudged his dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and unlocked the door.
“Hello, there,” he said, presenting a path in with a sweep of his hand. “I’m Doctor Peter Lieberman. I’m sorry we didn’t hear you out there. We keep the doors locked after sunset.”
Jean hurried in, still not feeling safe until he shut and locked the door behind her. “It’s okay,” she said, a little winded. “I’m Jean Bradford. My uncle, Doctor Lowell, hired me.”
“Oh, I’m glad to hear that. He did mention he was getting me a new assistant. You’ll forgive me, I hope. I didn’t realize you were starting tonight. I would’ve had someone watch for you.”
“That’s all right, Doctor. I’m running late, I know. I should have called.”
He gestured toward the staircase. “The group’s already assembled upstairs, Ms. Bradford. What do you say we join them?”
She followed him up, heeding his advice to take hold of the banister and to step carefully on its narrow treads. “We don’t meet every week with the entire group,” he told her. “Normally, the workshop is split in two sessions with the first half meeting Tuesday and Thursday nights; the second on Wednesdays and Fridays. Generally, we only get together like this once a month.”
“I see,” she said, “but why nights? Doesn’t the institute conduct studies during the day?”
He laughed lightly. “Of course. That’s why this workshop meets evenings. You see, during the day, all types of studies and experiments go on in dozens of rooms with hundreds of people. It can get distracting. This group is the real cream of the crop. Some have worked with us for years, and all have displayed genuine aptitude in ESP, clairvoyance and other exceptional abilities. Just wait. You’ll see.”
He led her from the top of the stairs, down the hall to a great-room, its eastern wall flanked by four massive windows trimmed in fluted casework. The floors were planked wood, as were the large wooden tables with oak chairs assembled around them. In the chairs sat the workshop members. Jean counted ten in all, six women and four younger men. None stopped what they were doing to look up at her or Doctor Lieberman; instead they remained absorbed in an ongoing experiment that seemed to focus on one individual in particular.
Jean looked up at Doctor Lieberman. He motioned with his finger to his lips, leaned in and whispered, “The young man sitting in the center there?” he pointed. “That’s Michael Dietrich. He comes
to us from Ravensburg, Germany. We heard about Michael after a German newspaper carried a story on him and his father. The article reported that Michael, after hearing of his father's death in a skiing accident, had caused an avalanche in the mountains simply by willing it to happen.”
“An avalanche?”
“On the very spot his father was killed. As the story goes, he told an acquaintance he would cause the avalanche at a specific time of day, and when that exact moment came, so did the avalanche.”
Jean whispered back, “And you believe he actually made it happen?”
“Well, we don’t know that for sure, Ms. Bradford. What we do know is that the avalanche occurred, and that it happened at the exact time at which he said it would. Perhaps it’s only coincidence, or perhaps he’s clairvoyant and he simply foretold what he saw in a vision. However, one cannot rule out the possibility of psycho kinesis.”
“PK,” she said.
“Exactly, the technique of mind over matter. Experts have documented the phenomenon as a mostly spontaneous event, which by the sheer nature of its spontaneity makes it difficult to document at all. Cases of deliberate or conscious psycho kinesis on a large scale are considered rare events indeed, although not entirely disproved.” Doctor Lieberman redirected Jean’s attention toward the experiment in progress. “What Michael is attempting now is an experiment that I devised. It allows anyone at all to test his powers of PK.”
Jean moved in closer, hoping to gain a better view of the experiment unfolding. Doctor Lieberman shadowed her closely, continuing his narrative.
“What Michael has on the table in front of him are two magnets. Their magnetic poles face each other north-to-south, allowing the natural magnetic gravitation of each to pull them toward each other. Now, as you might imagine, if the magnets were very close to one another, then you could hardly keep them from snapping together, as two magnets will. However, if you separate them and maintain enough distance between them until the gravitational pull of the Earth becomes greater than the pull the magnets have on each other, they are unable to connect on their own. Michael is concentrating on the invisible magnetic field that still exists between the magnets, but is not strong enough to allow them to overcome the force resisting them, namely gravity. As he concentrates, he is able to direct his energy into the magnetic field, displacing gravity, thereby increasing the magnetic pull and allowing the two magnets to overcome the barrier of distance which would normally prevent them from joining.”
Jean leaned over and positioned herself shoulder to shoulder with the other members of the workshop.
“We started the experiment,” Doctor Lieberman continued, “with the magnets separated just enough to prevent the magnetic pull from overtaking the forces preventing their union: initially, a distance of barely a few centimeters. In the past, Michael has succeeded in causing the magnets to overcome that barrier in no time. As you see, tonight a distance of nearly two meters separates the magnets now. Let’s watch what happens.”
Doctor Lieberman fell into a hush, as all eyes focused on the magnets. Michael’s concentration intensified. Sweat dripped from his brow. The air buzzed with electricity, its dull hum broken only by the sound of the group’s collective breathing, inhaling and exhaling as one entity.
Soon, one magnet began to vibrate slightly. When the other began to quiver, Jean let out a gasp, interrupting the rhythm of breathing among the group. The doctor steadied her hand and she reigned in her excitement, allowing the others to regain their concentration on the experiment without consequence.
The magnets continued to tremble, still meagerly, but slowly the subtle pulsing gave way to a rapid and vibrant shudder. They began creeping toward each other. Initially the magnet on the left moved only an inch, then stopped but continued shaking. Then the magnet on the right moved, shimmying as it walked, almost with intelligent intent. Then it happened, as if a cord holding them back had snapped, the two magnets raced toward each other, sliding along the tabletop like skaters on ice until slapping together with a click.
The group cheered in celebration. Jean, too, clapped, though admittedly uncertain as to what had actually taken place. It was supposed to be Michael’s experiment, yet it seemed as though the entire group contributed to the cause and effect. When she questioned Doctor Lieberman about the outcome of the test, he concurred, noting that the entire group most likely combined their collective energies to facilitate the results.
“And to some small measure,” he told her, “I suspect you were instrumental in the success of the experiment, as well. Perhaps it was your small contribution of energy that enabled the magnets to overcome what otherwise might have been too great a distance.”
“But then how do you document to what extent Michael’s part played in the experiment?” she asked.
He laughed casually. “Ms. Bradford, we don’t. The experiments tonight are just for fun. We do that sometimes. Not everything we do is all work. Here, why don’t I introduce you to everyone?”
Doctor Lieberman cleared his throat, signaling the others to simmer down. “Everyone, I would like you to meet Jean Bradford, my new assistant.”
A chorus of hellos rippled through the room. The doctor gestured toward Michael. “As I mentioned earlier, our telekinesis expert in the middle there is Michael Dietrich.” Michael smiled at her and nodded politely. Jean nodded back. “To his left and right are Chris Walker and Travis Webber. Like Michael, Chris and Travis possess acute abilities in telekinesis, although we’re still focusing our experiments to determine to just what extent that is.”
The two boys acknowledged Jean with a wave.
“Next we have Gordon Walsh.” He came around the table and placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Gordon, along with Barbara Richardson and Valerie Spencer,” he gestured toward the next two women in line, “are our resident experts in ESP, or clairvoyance.”
Jean reached across the table and began shaking hands, noting the obvious that Barbara and Valerie were much older than the boys, enough so that they could be their mothers. She smiled politely and continued following Doctor Lieberman around the room. “And here,” he said, presenting two very pretty and petite young ladies, “are the lovely twins, Shekina and Akasha Kayo. These two come to us from South Africa. They, like Gordon, Barbara and Valerie, are also telepathic. However, the telepathy between Shekina and Akasha is particularly strong. I would venture to guess that at any given moment these two know exactly what the other is thinking. Am I right, girls?”
Shekina and Akasha turned to each other and smiled knowingly.
“There, you see? They’re doing it again.”
Jean merely nodded.
Next, the doctor turned his attention to the far end of the table. There, a young woman sat with her head down, her arms gathered tightly below her breasts. Her eyes stared innocuously at the floor, her smile bashful, as if born partly out of fright. “This is Leona Diaz,” said the doctor. He reached over and gently stroked Leona’s hair with the back of his hand. “Leona is the newest member of our workshop. She comes to us from Honduras. She’s a wonderful child of innocence, and she has a most incredible gift, which I’m sure she could go on for hours telling us about if she were not so terribly shy. You see, Ms. Bradford, Leona has the ability, though mostly involuntary, to travel out of body and maintain a presence in two places simultaneously. You may have heard it referred to as astral-projection. It’s uncertain what her double looks like, whether she appears as a solid or ghostly form to others, for she’s been unable to bilocate to places any of us can be at that time. However, we have documentation of her travels to substantiate her experiences. Always, it’s information of events as they happen. Unlike ESP and clairvoyance, which generally tells of future or past events, Leona can see events unfolding and recite a virtual play-by-play of those events in real time. We’re all very excited that she’s joined us, and we hope to make her comfortable in her new home so far away from home.”
Doctor Lieberman warme
d Leona with his smile. “Hola, Leona. ¿Cómo estás?"
In better English than Jean expected, Leona replied, “I am fine, Doctor. Much thanks to you for asking.”
“You’re welcome, dear.”
Finally, Doctor Lieberman turned his attention to the last person in the room still awaiting introduction: a longhaired, dark-skinned beauty with rich ebony eyes. She stood alone in the corner, leaning against a filing cabinet, arms folded. She seemed dark and mysterious, yet confident as though needing no introduction at all.
“This, Ms. Bradford, is the enchanting Lilith Adams,” he smiled tentatively. Jean followed him across the room and met up with Lilith just as the doctor said, “Ms. Adams here is a witch.”
“A witch?” Jean’s outstretched hand froze in mid-reach. She offered a suspicious smile. “You’re joking, of course.”
“No I’m not,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed, though. I’m sure Lilith here is a good witch. Aren’t you, Lilith?”
“Of course,” she said, and she hissed cat-like while taking a playful swat at him.
“Actually, Ms. Bradford, we include Lilith in our workshop not for her sorcery, but because she demonstrates abilities as a sensitive with surprisingly accurate results.”
“A sensitive?”
“Yes. That’s someone who displays fundamental abilities to serve as a host for spirit communications. Ms. Adams has established a long and successful record in working with thought-forms, or nonphysical entities. It’s rather bewitching, if you’ll excuse the pun.” He laughed lightly at his own wit. Neither woman seemed amused. “Seriously though, her work here at the institute has been enlightening. Although her fascination with witchcraft is something we don’t particularly endorse, we do excuse it for the sake of research.”
“Interesting,” said Jean. “You communicate with the dead. Do you suppose you could talk to my late husband, Arnold? I’d love to hear from him.”