Sinister Sites

by Tracy Lane

  “What just happened?”

  “Contact,” Frank said. He approached the front steps and leaned against their rusty metal railing. “First contact with a ghost.”

  “I know that. I meant…why did she get spooked like that and run away?”

  Frank’s eyes were sad as they stared back at Jake. “She’s stuck here,” he said, his tone matching his somber expression. “Like I was back in Dusk until you helped me solve my murder. She probably hasn’t moved any farther than his porch since the day the hotel burned down.”

  Jake wrinkled his nose. “But it’s not the same,” he reasoned as Marley took one cautious step away from his leg and toward Frank. “You didn’t know who killed you. These people know the front desk clerk started the fire.”

  Frank shrugged. “These aren’t people,” he said with a wave of his hand toward the hotel, dark and ghastly and twelve stories tall. “They’re ghosts, and we won’t know what they know until we get to know them better.”

  Jake sighed and nodded in agreement. “So to Clara, it’s just another day and we’re just a couple of guys passing by?”

  He nodded. “She doesn’t see the world, her world, the way we do. She sees a door that she opens, and tables to dust, and beds to make. She sees guests and employees.”

  “Does—does she know about the fire?”

  Frank shook his head gently. “I think she lives in a world just before the fire.”

  “Is that why they’re all still here?” Jake asked. “They think…they don’t know what happened to them?”

  “Not yet.” Then he winked and stood up straight, tugging down on his jacket like he’d just made a plan. “But that’s why we’re here, right? To set them free?”

  Jake nodded, but his heart was heavy after seeing the look on Clara’s face before she disappeared inside. It only seemed right that he and Frank should set Clara and the other occupants of the Balthazar Hotel free from its walls.

  Chapter 5

  “That is the weirdest dog,” Tank said as she watched the pup drift in circles around Frank’s feet. Or, Jake thought, since she couldn’t see Frank, simply drift around in circles next to Jake. “I thought dogs were supposed to be man’s best friend, not…ghost’s best friend.”

  “Good point!” Jake said. Frankly, he was growing tired of Marley’s constant hovering and slobbering. It had been over a week since they’d put up their fliers, and despite Marley’s obvious charms, no one had come to claim the little guy.

  The whole Weir family, Tank and Frank included, had come to the same conclusion: Marley was theirs, plain and simple. Unfortunately, the only family member Marley really cared that much about was Frank.

  “Well,” Jake mused as they strolled casually along the street toward the Balthazar Hotel, “he is kind of an orphan. Maybe he misses his mommy and Frank’s the closest thing.”

  Tank snorted and finished chewing the last of her toaster pastry. “Do you see any ghost dogs wandering around?” she asked with a sly smile.

  He thought for a minute. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a ghost pet. Frank, do ghost pets even exist?”

  “Sure,” Frank said, trying his best to ignore Marley. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  “Good point,” Jake said again, before translating Frank’s answer to Tank.

  Her face was growing redder and redder as she trudged down the hill with them toward the hotel. San Francisco was beautiful, salty and briny, with lots to do and see and eat, but it was all hills and valleys and climbing or tumbling downhill. Tank hadn’t quite gotten used to it yet, and she spent half her time heaving up one hill and holding onto mailboxes and gate railings to keep from toppling down another.

  From halfway down the street, Jake could see Clara standing on the front stoop, absently beating a rug with an antique rug beater. He smirked. Whenever they came around, she was always out front doing something – mostly waiting for Frank.

  “Oh look,” Jake drawled sarcastically, “there’s your ghost girlfriend.”

  “Don’t call her that,” Frank hissed, and Marley yipped in reply. “I mean, she’s not my girlfriend, but even if she was, we don’t want to shock her by calling her a ghost, remember?”

  Tank nudged Jake’s shoulder. “What’s he saying?”

  Jake sighed. “He’s lecturing me about the love lives of ghosts now.”

  “Gross.”

  “Good morning,” Frank called out as they approached the hotel, his voice syrupy and sweet and an octave higher. “How are you today, Clara?”

  “I’m just fine, Mr. Barrone,” Clara said with a stiff little curtsy.

  Frank doffed his hat and returned the greeting with a small bow from his waist. “Please, I keep telling you, call me Frank.”

  She didn’t exactly blush, but the cool air wafting off her thin body felt warmer as she giggled. “I really shouldn’t. Mr. Granger gets upset when I treat guests too familiarly.”

  Jake’s ears perked up. While Frank and Clara ghost-flirted, or whatever it was called, he inched close to Tank. “Does the name Mr. Granger ring a bell?” he whispered.

  The way her face froze told him it did, even before her lips started moving. “Yes,” she said, leaning in a little, “and why are we whispering?”

  “Frank’s talking to one of the maids right now,” he said. “She said some guy named Mr. Granger didn’t like it when she got too familiar with the guests.”

  Tank nodded. “Sounds about right.” She slipped her lemon yellow backpack off her broad shoulders and unzipped it. Jake watched as Clara and Frank talked. They were standing closely now, speaking as quietly amongst themselves as Jake and Tank were a few yards away.

  Between them, poor Marley sat on his haunches, the odd man out. His sparkling black eyes were on high alert, and he shifted his head every few seconds from one pair to the next, like he was watching some otherworldly tennis match.

  When Jake heard paper rustling, he turned back to find Tank flipping the pages in an old green library book. “Here he is,” she said, pointing to the picture of a tall, thin, balding man in what looked like a police mug shot. “Mr. Atticus Granger, died October 7, 1921…”

  “The date of the hotel fire,” Jake whispered as Clara snorted softly at something Frank had just said.

  “He set the fire,” Tank explained.

  Jake stared up at her. “The front desk clerk?”

  “One and the same,” she confirmed. “They found his fingerprints on several gas cans around the lobby and tracked them back to a hardware store on Mott Street.”

  Jake rocked back on his heels in disbelief. This case had bothered him from day one. Why would someone set a fire in a hotel knowing it was full of people: customers, employees, children, innocents?

  “Did they ever find out why he did it?” he pressed.

  Tank shut the book and slid it into her backpack. “They found some love letters in his apartment,” she said. “They’d been sent back to him, unopened. Police theorized he set the fire to kill the woman who scorned him.”

  “Why?” Jake asked. “Was she staying there?”

  She shrugged. “I can do some more research on it,” she said. “I think I lent your dad the book some former cop wrote about Mr. Granger.”

  Jake made a face. “Does it really matter now?”

  “I dunno. Could be a good angle for the show.”

  “What could be a good angle for the show?” Jake leapt at the sound of his father’s voice right over his shoulder.

  “What…how…when did you get here?” he spluttered.

  His mother smiled and crooked her Paranormal Properties hat just so. “We walked,” she said merrily, clinging to her husband’s arm. “The equipment’s all set up inside, so we don’t need the van anymore.”

  “Sweet,” Jake said, his heart still pounding.

  His dad chuckled and reached out to tousle his son’s curly brown hair. “So, what do you and Tank think could be a good angle for the show?”

  As if on cue, a vo
ice bellowed – a ghostly voice – and Jake turned toward the Balthazar Hotel’s front stoop. There, half-in and half-out of the front door, loomed a figure tall and imposing: Atticus Granger.

  “Jake?” his father asked from the land of the living as Jake stared, openmouthed, into the ghostly realm just a few yards away.

  “Clara!” scolded Atticus Granger. “What did I say to you about flirting with guests?”

  “Mr. Granger!” cried Clara. She raised her hand to her cold, milky throat. “I would never. I was just telling Frank here—”

  “Frank, huh?” Granger spat as he came forward. He wore black slacks and a crisp white shirt, a black vest tight against his scrawny frame. “Are we addressing guests by their first name now?”

  Frank took a step toward the clerk, and Jake flinched at how large Frank seemed compared to the other two ghosts. For a moment, he had a vision of Frank Baronne alive, tall and dark and dangerous, an old-time machine gun in his hand, the very picture of the gangster.

  “Sir,” he said firmly, “I’m neither a guest here nor is this woman flirting with me. I was simply inquiring as to room rates for this weekend.”

  Jake watched Atticus Granger shrink back toward the safety of the front door in Frank’s wake. “Oh, well, of course,” he backpedaled, almost sniveling. His sharp nose pointed toward the ground as he groveled. “Well, I apologize for the misunderstanding, sir. If you’d care to step inside, we can discuss availability at the registration desk…”

  Frank turned on his heel instead, doffing his cap to Clara as he quickly descended the steps. “That won’t be necessary,” he huffed. He winked to Jake as he dashed by with Marley in tow. “But I may find it necessary to return this afternoon and speak to your manager about your behavior, Mr. Granger!”

  “Jake!” His dad pulled him away from the ghostly scene. “Answer me!”

  “Tank, grab Marley,” said Mrs. Weir, and Tank dutifully snatched the little German Shepherd puppy up from the street. He squirmed in her arms, desperate to return to the side of his new master.

  “Mr. Granger,” Jake murmured, so the two nearby ghosts wouldn’t hear.

  “Atticus Granger?” Mrs. Weir asked, louder, but Clara and her boss hardly seemed to notice and continued to bicker just outside the hotel door.

  Jake nodded.

  “I’ve been reading about him,” said his dad. He proceeded to tug out a battered paperback from the messenger bag looped over his shoulder. “I’m thinking about making him the centerpiece of our show…”

  Jake’s mom, who started dragging him along by his sleeve toward the hotel, said to her son and Tank, “Speaking of, we’ve got work to do, you two.”

  Jake hesitated, only just, until the force of his mother’s enthusiasm – and the surprising strength of her right arm – dragged him forward. But he needn’t have worried; by the time the Weir family stomped up the front steps of the Balthazar, Clara and Mr. Granger were gone.

  Inside the halls were musty and dank, that particular smell of charred wood and standing water never having left the hotel walls despite the fire having happened nearly seventy years ago.

  Though the hallways and salons and alcoves looked vacant to the unsuspecting eye, Jake quickly spotted the snaking chords and miles of wire carefully hidden among the blackened beams, moldy wallpaper, crown molding, and fancy midcentury wainscoting.

  “Wow.” He had to admire how a bundle of thick cables had been carefully bunched together and taped to the floor behind a giant, cracked vase in the corner. “You guys have been busy.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Weir noted with a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “We all have. Good to see you hard at work, son.”

  Jake blushed and looked at his feet; his new sneakers were covered in the soot that seemed to cling to every inch of the hotel.

  “He’s just teasing, Jakey,” said Mrs. Weir with an irritated glance at her husband. “Right, Dennis?”

  “Kind of.” Mr. Weir closed one eye and focused the other behind the camcorder he had aimed squarely at his wife. “Kind of not.”

  Tank snickered softly and grabbed a boom mike to hold just over Mrs. Weir’s head.

  “Hey,” Jake huffed, watching her. “That used to be my job.”

  “We couldn’t just wait on you, Jake,” his dad said. “Tank was here, she wanted to help, so we put her to work.”

  Jake sighed in defeat. “So what am I supposed to do then?”

  “Just find something.” Mr. Weir sounded distracted. “It’s not like it’s your first time at the rodeo!”

  Just then, a soft moaning rose from the foyer, and Jake turned. At his feet, Marley stirred as mist swirled and Frank appeared. In the real world, his family continued to grumble.

  “I’m not sure why I’m so nervous, hon,” his mother was saying to her husband. “We’ve been rehearsing this all week.”

  “It’s a big show,” Mr. Weir said as, to Jake’s right, Frank rose to his full height. “It’s only natural you’re a little nervous.”

  Jake made a distracted noise in agreement with his dad, then he leaned away slightly to catch what Frank said.

  The ghost nodded toward the stairwell. “It’s Clara. Granger really upset her.”

  Jake couldn’t nod, as his mother was looking, so he merely held his fixed smile and listened.

  “They should leave,” Frank said in a grave voice he rarely used. “Her grief is so profound. I might not be able to help them.”

  Jake’s heart started to race. What does he mean?

  “And she’s not alone,” Frank urged. “Jake, you have to hurry. They must—”

  As if on cue, the room in which Mrs. Weir was standing began to shake. Curtains rasped against the window and a high back chair to her left started skittering across the hardwood floor.

  “Honey!” Mr. Weir rushed to intercept the chair before it could bowl her over.

  “Dad!” Jake said as Frank rushed from the room in the opposite direction.

  “Clara!” he called out as Tank followed Jake to help his dad.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered as they untangled Mr. Weir from the chair. “Are there ghosts in here?”

  Jake looked around, eyes flashing to every corner, but he saw only dust and cobwebs, curtains and shuddering bookshelves.

  “No,” he hissed as Mr. Weir pulled a paranormal pulse meter from one of the pockets of his cheesy safari vest.

  “I’m not picking up anything,” his dad announced as he scanned the room.

  The meter was about the size of a flashlight, with a strip of red, yellow, and green lights up the side. They were small and pulsed in the presence of non-living entities, as his dad liked to call them.

  It was more for show, really, because it rarely signaled whenever Frank was around, let alone “strange ghosts” that “lived” in the haunted houses they had visited all over America. It didn’t seem to be working now; or maybe it was, and there simply weren’t any ghosts.

  So why was the room shaking? Why was Clara crying? Where was the cold chill that seemed to surround Jake coming from?

  He heard a grunt behind him and turned just in time to see a blur pass by his face.

  It was surrounded in mist, gray and eerie, and Jake shivered as he flinched at the sudden rush of freezing gloom. It burst into the room, swirling, and he watched as his mother, father, and Tank all crouched together, talking, completely oblivious.

  Jake took a step forward and cleared his throat, hoping the ghost would hear and give him a chance to do something.

  “Jake?” said Mr. Weir. He glanced at his son, looked straight through the shimmering wall of mist. “Are you…is something wrong?”

  That was when the wailing started; loud and cold and masculine, it sent goosebumps racing up Jake’s arms, and it grew louder and louder by the second. It was different from the earlier sound, and closer, coming straight from the middle of the mist swirling between him and his parents.

  “Mom!” Jake shouted, reaching toward them. “
Dad—!”

  The window behind them exploded. Everyone instinctively dropped to the floor, but the mist caught Jake’s father and tossed him straight up into the air; as he was sagging back to the floor, it seemed to lash out and toss him straight past Jake and into the other room.

  Jake heard a sickening crunch and watched as Tank instinctively grabbed Mrs. Weir and surrounded her, shielding her from whatever was attacking his dad.

  But it was all over.

  The apparition wavered, then vanished, but not before revealing a shimmering figure buried within: tall, narrow, black vest, white shirt, hawk nose…

  It was Atticus Granger!

  Chapter 6

  “You can go in now,” the nurse said to Jake and Tank, who each sat in a chair across from Mr. Weir’s hospital room. “But only one at a time.”

  Jake looked at Tank, who shrugged and slid back down in her chair after sitting up at the appearance of the nurse. “It’s okay,” she said as Jake stood. “I’ll wait my turn.”

  Jake looked past her to Frank, who occupied the chair on Tank’s other side. The ghost doffed his cap and nodded. Swallowing hard, Jake followed the nurse inside the room.

  It was small, but bright, with a large window overlooking the Bay. The broad rays of sunlight pouring in helped Jake feel a little less scared.

  The nurse was beside him, and they were both still a few feet away from the bedside, where his dad lay heavily drugged and sleeping.

  “He took a nasty tumble,” the nurse whispered. “Broke his collar bone and several ribs. I’m afraid he’ll have to stay here a while.”

  Jake nodded, though his stomach was still in a knot.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Not really,” he grumbled before he could take it back.

  She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s your dad,” she said knowingly. “He’s here, he’s safe, and he’ll be all right. All he needs now is to know you’re here. That will make him feel better.”

  “Okay,” he murmured.

  Her hand left his shoulder, and he listened to the soft whisper of the thick white soles of her shoes as they retreated across the linoleum floor.