A Haunting Experience

by Kessily Lewel

"You're right about that, too," she immediately agreed. "My stomach is growling, and it's as good a reason as any to go back into the fray," she said.

  She left her hair in the towel; it was thick and took hours to dry. If she took it down, the back of her shirt would soak through, and she'd be chilled. Despite renovations, the house was still old, and there were drafts. She paused in the bedroom to put on slippers and a bathrobe to ward off the chill of the house, and then they went downstairs together to see about finding dinner.

  She chatted with him about unimportant things as they went down the main stairway, asking him questions about some of the furnishings, many of which were part of the original house, knowing the cameras would be catching it all. But the easy calm mood was shattered when her foot touched the floor. A vase large enough for a small child to hide in exploded into fragments, and she cried out in shock, stumbling back against him.

  Not one piece of flying pottery touched her, and she couldn't understand how they'd missed; the porcelain shards were everywhere.

  "John?" she said, turning to him in confusion, but he had vanished in an instant.

  She looked around and shivered, suddenly feeling alone. A large, ornately gilded mirror thumped against the wall several times as she stood there, frightened.

  Just because she could speak to ghosts and sometimes see them didn't mean that she could control them. There was suddenly something malevolent all around her, choking her; she could sense it in the form of a sick feeling in her stomach and an ice slowly creeping over her body. She wasn't imagining that last part, either; when she let out her breath, it fogged in the air in front of her. Suddenly, she wanted to race back to the nice safe bathroom and huddle there until morning.

  A shriek that sounded like it came from below her pierced the air, then a clattering in the kitchen, a heavy thump that sounded like a bowling ball being thrown across the wood floors upstairs, and then, suddenly—silence. The feeling of dread eased; whatever had caused it was gone. She was able to breathe again and was slowly warming up, and then something touched her skin. Her hair was tugged lightly, like something was pulling on the corner of the towel turban she'd wrapped it in, and she spun around, eyes wide.

  "Don't worry; they won't hurt you," John said. He appeared at her side and took her into his arms gently. "They're only babies. They're curious about you," he explained.

  The sensation of a small hand patting her cheek gently confirmed that, and she relaxed slowly. She felt safer, now that he'd returned.

  "But the noise and the glass?" she asked.

  "That," he said grimly, "was another matter. It becomes necessary at times to remind others who reside here that I am the one who controls the house."

  His tone was firm, determined, and a little scary, if she was honest about it.

  She leaned back and looked up at him. "But who—"

  "No. We won't talk about them now. Another time perhaps, but not now. Attention gives them strength, and they are difficult enough to control, as it is." He turned her around and pushed her gently towards the kitchen.

  "I should clean up the vase," she said faintly. She was suddenly glad for those hated cameras; she wouldn't have wanted to have to explain the breaking of what was likely an expensive piece of art.

  "No. Leave it for the investigators. They will be pleased to study it," he said with a small chuckle.

  She hadn't thought of that. The professor would probably be happier if she left everything right where it was.

  Being confronted by a strange man and spanked in the kitchen had been scary, but it didn't match the level of terror that incident had evoked in her. It took some time before she was calm enough to consider sleep, and she spent it with him, first in the kitchen and then watching a movie together in the media room off the library. It amused her to make him watch a comedy about people in New York City who hunted ghosts, and slowly the fear drifted away.

  By the time she was ready for bed, everything was peaceful. She wasn't sure what had riled them up to begin with, although it would, as he'd pointed out, please the investigators to no end. She curled up in his arms and went to sleep in the giant bed, and always mindful that they were being watched, she kept her sleepy thoughts to herself.

  The late night of movie watching had her getting up not long before they arrived for the morning interrogation, and she struggled to wake up and get dressed. She was alone, or at least she thought so; she didn't see him. Not that she had expected to, since she'd been told the house was only active at night. Though she did wonder if the entities were aware of what happened during the day while they were quiet. Did they still watch? She was aware that she usually only saw spirits when they chose to be seen and she'd willingly given up the one place in the house no one could watch her, including the supernatural inhabitants, by placing the mantel clock in the bathroom.

  She debated removing it, at least while she got dressed, but in the end she decided it didn't matter. John had seen what there was to see, and the rest of the inhabitants, dangerous as they might be, didn't feel real to her. That did give her another question to ask, though, when he returned. Several, actually, now that she thought of it. She was going to have to start writing them down.

  The team had already arrived by the time she got downstairs, and the professor wasn't waiting in the parlor for the morning interview. She stepped over the pottery shards and went to look. As expected, all three were clustered around the monitors in the video room, watching avidly in slow motion as the vase that formerly stood in the entryway was dashed to the floor in front of her.

  "Of course, there's no way to prove it wasn't done with wires, but this is quite amazing," Professor Marlowe was saying as she entered.

  "There's hours of EVP recording from all over the house," Jerome said, excitement in his voice as he paused the recording he was listening to and tugged the headphones down to rest at his neck. "Man, I dunno what happened, but the entire place was rocking all night. I wonder if—" He interrupted himself as he noticed her there listening.

  "Well? If what, doofus?" Carson demanded. She paused to look at her partner and caught sight of April. "Oh. Hey," she said in a flat tone. As always, the pink-haired girl regarded April with disinterest and turned back to the notes she was making.

  The professor, on the other hand, was delighted to see her. He turned to her, all smiles and excitement, as he held out his hands in greeting.

  "April! What an exciting night! The way that vase went flying! And something tugging at your hair? Amazing footage!" he blurted in an excited tone. Then he paused, looking a little embarrassed as he grabbed for her hands and inspected her. "Of course, I'm glad you're safe. I hope you weren't too frightened?" he asked belatedly.

  She had to hold back the snort of amusement. He so obviously was having to force himself to sound concerned for her welfare when he really wanted to interrogate her on the events. She let him hold onto her hands for a minute before she gently disengaged his grip.

  "Don't worry, professor; I'm fine," she assured him. "Not even a scratch."

  He nodded, but there was still a slight frown on his face. "Still, the violence in the kitchen the other day was unexpected but it seemed controlled." His cheeks actually flushed at bringing up the spanking, which was fine because hers did, too. "This seemed wild and dangerous; perhaps the entity is escalating. It's been known to happen in some cases and—"

  April interrupted him, shaking her head firmly. "No, that wasn't John. That was a different ghost. He protected me," she explained.

  Carson and Jerome stopped what they were doing, and three pairs of eyes stared at her in surprise. She wondered what she'd said wrong for a second, and then she realized.

  "Oh, uh, the ghost in the kitchen? The one who— His name is John," she said.

  There was silence for several minutes as they exchanged looks with each other. April had a feeling they thought she was crazy. Finally, the professor cleared his throat awkwardly.

  "Well, it seems like you hav
e a lot to tell us this morning. Why don't we go sit down and do our debriefing, then we can discuss the footage?" he suggested.

  It was a long morning, even with everything she was leaving out, and that was most of it. She didn't tell them about the bathroom at all and hoped she wouldn't have to. It was far too personal to explain what she'd experienced with him, but more importantly, she didn't want them to know there were things happening where they couldn't see.

  Since they were closer to the library, Professor Marlowe suggested they speak in there and he settled himself on the other side of the huge antique desk. He looked uncomfortable in the executive chair and spent some time fussily positioning himself and setting out his tools for the interview. The small tape recorder was placed on his left, with a notepad and pencil directly in front of him.

  "Start from the beginning, April, and—oh, damn. One second, please!" He got up and hurried out of the room. A few minutes later, he came back with a digital camera and a tripod. "Sorry. I forgot we weren't set up to record video in here," he said sheepishly.

  "I thought there were cameras in here?" she asked, confused, as she looked up at the ceiling. There were security cameras in two corners, as she'd thought, their red lights glowing in the shadows.

  "Yes, of course, but those rotate to observe the entire room, and I need something that will focus on our conversation nice and tight," he explained as he spent a couple of minutes adjusting it until he was satisfied. He pushed play and then sat back across from her and turned the voice recorder on, as well. "Now, Miss Cassidy, let's pick things up with our departure yesterday," he suggested as he prepared to take notes.

  He looked exactly like she'd always thought a professor would look, so studious. His sandy hair was starting to gray at the temples, but it suited him. He was a handsome man, if a bit old for her tastes, and his gentle blue eyes settled on her, waiting, with a slight smile to encourage her to speak. She took a second to collect her thoughts and then began with the library.

  "After you left, I thought it was time to learn more about the house so I came in here. I sat there," she said, nodding at the seat he'd taken, "and began to go through the files the lawyer left for me. As I was finishing up, the man from the kitchen appeared—" She trailed off.

  "Yes? And then what happened, Miss Cassidy?" he asked, pushing her eagerly.

  She wondered if he'd already seen the film from that room. If so, he already knew that she'd been spanked again.

  She sighed, face burning with embarrassment. She badly wanted to put off that part for as long as possible. And there was pertinent info she could give him; she'd just realized how. He didn't need to know about the conversation in the bathroom if he knew about the one in the library.

  "Well, he told me that his story wasn't in those files because he never actually lived here and no one knew he died here."

  The Professor began scribbling notes hastily; why he bothered when he was recording it all in two formats, anyway, she didn't know, but the pencil scratched across the paper so violently it stabbed through twice.

  "Continue!" He was no longer being gently urging, but was now demanding in his excitement.

  So she told him John's full name and the sad story of his death. Recounting the tale brought tears to her eyes, and she had to stop to excuse herself to get a glass of water from the kitchen so she could calm down without him making notes about her upset. She wasn't sure why she was so upset. Yes, John’s story was sad, traumatic even, but she barely knew him and yet she was almost in tears.

  But in a way, she felt like she'd always known him. The way they had bonded almost instantly shook her; she wasn't the type to get close to people quickly and here she was contemplating spending her life with a guy she'd known for just days, who had an absurd amount of baggage in his background.

  When she'd calmed and could resume a neutral expression, she went back to the library and sat down, ready to continue. The professor had been impatiently waiting for her return and immediately started the recording again.

  "And after he told you his story, then what?" he asked.

  She cleared her throat, took a sip from the glass of water she'd returned with and tried to control the way her cheeks reddened. "Well, I— He—" There was no hiding what had happened in plain sight of several cameras, so she forced herself to say it in one quick spurt of words, with barely a pause between them. "He spanked me again. Right here, where you're sitting."

  Marlowe nodded; he'd already seen the recordings from this room, then.

  "May I ask why?"

  Of course he could, and by the terms of the contract she'd signed, she was bound to tell him.

  She sighed and shrugged. "He wanted to? It wasn't like the kitchen. It wasn't a punishment. He simply enjoys— He said my trou-uh, jeans were too enticing." She struggled to maintain a tone of unconcern, but inwardly she was squirming with embarrassment.

  The professor looked bemused and somewhat startled. "Your jeans were—oh. I see. So, would you say perhaps he has a fetish for spanking? It seems to be coming up quite often," he pointed out.

  He hadn't written anything down for at least a minute but suddenly he flipped the page and began scribbling intently as he muttered something about a paper concerning supernatural entities and sexual fetishes.

  She wanted to sink through the floor. "Um, I don't know. I mean I suppose that's a possibility. The kitchen was a punishment for acting in a way he thought was inappropriate for a lady and because I insulted him. The library was just for enjoyment so I suppose—"

  "For enjoyment? Yes, and did you enjoy it as well?" He stopped writing long enough to look up and catch her eyes.

  "I—" She took another sip of water, stalling, but he kept looking at her until she finally gave in. "Yes," she said with a sigh. "Yes, I enjoyed this one."

  He studied her for a second longer and then made a couple more notes. "And have you had more of those dreams? The graphic ones with the, erm, sex?" He seemed embarrassed as well, but he handled it valiantly and soldiered through.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, when she realized that she could explain away the bathroom time with a sex dream. It wasn't much less embarrassing, though at least it wouldn't seem like she was such a willing participant that way. It was more that it would keep them from realizing their secret.

  "Yes, actually. Yesterday evening I decided to take a long soak in the tub. I had just gotten in when I suddenly found that I was very tired. I settled down in the hot water to relax and the next thing I knew, I was asleep. And while I slept, I dreamed about John, and we had sex." She hoped the vague description would be enough to ease his curiosity, but just in case, she added, "I really don't remember much, but when I woke up the water was ice cold and I realized I'd been asleep for hours!" And that would nicely explain the long sojourn in the bathroom.

  He frowned, looking disappointed. "You can't remember any more detail than that? Was there spanking, perhaps? If he has a fetish, it's likely he—"

  "I'm sorry, I just don't remember," she interrupted.

  "And did it feel like this was your own dream? Or one that a supernatural entity was manufacturing for you?" he asked.

  "Oh, no, not mine. I definitely think John was controlling it," she said.

  He paused, his eyebrows going up slightly as she used the name again. "Miss Cassidy, you sound as though you are starting to get attached to this—man. I feel I must warn you that such entities are usually trapped here because of negative emotions. They don't feel things as living beings do. In fact, most often they are simply trapped in the past, doomed to repeat sequences of events over and over. Most likely your John doesn't even realize who you are. You may be acting out the part of some woman he knew before his death," he said gently.

  There was wisdom in his words, gleaned from many years of research, but she knew better. She knew the professor had never interacted with a spirit on the level she had reached with John. And John was no typical ghost. He was self-aware and strong.<
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  "Yes, of course, I understand," she assured him. "It's just easier to call him John and not the entity, don't you think?"

  She'd assumed an unemotional expression, and it seemed to convince him. After a second, he nodded.

  "Very well, then. Now, moving on— I'm curious. Why did you take the mantel clock upstairs?" he asked. He gestured towards the expansive marble fireplace where it had previously resided.

  "What?" She tilted her head faking a confused expression and then said, "Oh! I'm sorry. Is that not allowed? There's no clock in the bathroom, and I didn't want to risk bringing my phone in there. I can be so clumsy sometimes, and it's my only contact with the outside world right now."

  He looked skeptical for the briefest second, and then he shook his head. "No, no, I'm sure it's fine. I just like to be thorough. Now, please continue your story with getting out of the tub and realizing how much time you'd been asleep," he ordered, preparing to write again.

  She sighed; these retellings were so tedious, especially when she had to be so careful of every word she said. "I was starving, so I got dressed and went downstairs and just as I got to the bottom step, that huge vase seemed to launch itself! And then there were sounds, screams and banging. I don't mind admitting I was terrified, but—"

  She trailed off, hesitating to finish what she was going to say. She'd already been lectured about trusting John too much.

  "But?" he pressed, waiting for her to finish.

  "But John told me not to worry. That he'd protect me. He said that he controls the other spirits in the house, but it's hard sometimes." Her voice had gotten quieter as she spoke until the final word was barely whispered.

  He frowned and then nodded slowly. "This John of yours does seem to be the strongest here. Has he said how many other entities are attached to this property?" he asked carefully.

  She didn't know if it was because he wasn't sure the information could be trusted or because he'd never had a situation like that before. Wondering if this was one of those things she should have held back, she chose her response carefully.