The Keeper (Ellie Jordan, Ghost Trapper Book 8)

by JL Bryan

  I almost mentioned the figure I'd seen as a kid, but kept silent instead, letting her continue.

  “Some people said it was Matty Verish, who served as light-keeper after her husband William died in the storm of '37. That's 1837. Some say it's Callie Verish, the only member of her family to survive the big Sea Island Storm of 1883. That storm washed away most of the original caretaker's cottage, leaving just the foundation."

  "Did you find out what happened to Callie after that?" I asked.

  "She was sixteen when she lost her family. She married a sailor named Jessup Starch, three years older than her. It happened fairly quickly, like within a couple months. Maybe she was desperate to get a new family for herself. There's speculation she was already having an affair with the sailor, and maybe her parents hadn't been especially supportive of the relationship."

  "And where did Lighthouse Girl and Sailor Boy go after that?" I asked.

  "Apparently they petitioned the United States Lighthouse Board to appoint them as the official new light-keepers, once the cottage and lighthouse were rebuilt after the hurricane. But the Board was like, nah, we're giving that job to this other guy. So that was the end of the Verish family's long tenure there."

  "Callie could be one unhappy ghost," I said. "If she felt she had unfairly lost her family, her home—the place where she'd grown up—and her job all at once."

  "Unless she murdered them all!" Stacey said. "Right?"

  "I doubt she arranged the hurricane of '83," I said. "That would take some serious witchcraft."

  "Ooh...is there witchcraft?" Stacey's voice dropped to an even lower whisper in the library room. "Have you ever heard of someone like casting a spell to control the weather?"

  "Nope. What else do we know about them? Facts, not speculation."

  "Facts? Well, uh..." Stacey glanced at her digital tablet—she's not a paper note-taker like me. "Looks like they had some children...I found a couple birth announcements in the newspapers...but I don't know if I caught them all."

  "Did you find the obituaries for them?" I asked. "That will usually list all the descendants."

  "I haven't quite reached those yet, I don't think. I was thinking of checking the genealogy databases...but then Jacob sent me this hilarious cat video, so I had to show him that one with the monkey and the rubber ducks—"

  "Keep going," I said. "Find out whatever you can."

  "Do I have to? I don't mind...really...but I'm going to have to ask the librarian for a little Scotch tape to help hold my eyes open. I mean, it's getting close to noon, Ellie, and we have to be back at Alyssa Wagner's house tonight—"

  "I get it. I'm being a tough boss."

  "Technically, I'm not sure you're really my boss anymore."

  "That's right. You're the A/V technician now, which means you technically answer to the technical supervisor...Hayden."

  "Why do you have to say it out loud like that?" Stacey shook her head as if hurt. "I already miss the old days. Even though they only lasted a few months, since I got here..."

  "Okay. You can quit for the day. I'll be fine."

  "Huh. Now it sounds like you're sneakily guilting me into staying and working."

  "I didn't tell you to stay."

  "That's what makes it sneaky."

  "I'm just going to ask about the missing book, then go home." I stood and stretched to make my point. "Honestly."

  "Okay. As long as you promise not to work anymore."

  "Go home, Stacey. Or I'll ask you to look through the insurance history of these properties—"

  "I'm outta here." She grabbed her tablet and quick-timed it toward the library lobby.

  I inquired with a circulation librarian about the missing book, which was called Lost Magic: The Vanishing City. It was mostly about Savannah's buildings and traditions that had been lost to time and demolition, especially before the advent of the historical preservation movement in the middle of the twentieth century.

  "I just can't seem to find out more. I'm so sorry," said the librarian, a no-nonsense-looking woman who reminded me a bit of Bea Arthur from Golden Girls. "Missing means nobody knows. It could be stolen. It could be misplaced. Not by any shelvers that I trained, I can assure you, but Ethel's shelvers are a different story." She cut a look towards another librarian down the way, with a piled-high gray beehive and big smile for the young man she was chatting with. I couldn't tell whether he was a library customer or one of the shelvers. "Hmph," my librarian commented.

  "So...do you know if a replacement copy has been ordered?" I asked.

  "It has not. Apparently the book was not often checked out before it was lost. It probably would have been sold at a library sale eventually, or recycled."

  "Maybe I can find one on Amazon." I searched on my phone. "It's out of print. Nothing available." I read the description, which held no surprises, and then the About the Author description. The book had been written by someone named Tim Szabo, described as "local pop-culture historian, guitarist, and part-time beekeeper." His picture showed an unemployedish-looking man in his forties with an unkempt red beard. He lived in Hinesville, less than an hour outside Savannah, near the Army post at Fort Stewart. "Looks like he also wrote another book on how to imitate the calls of Lowcountry birds. Whistle While You Watch! That's out of print, too. And so's his third book: Dead Roads and Medicine Shows."

  "I could contact other library systems if you like," the librarian said. "It could take a few days to have it sent over, even if someone does have a copy."

  "That would be great!"

  "They appear to have been out of print for quite some time, though, so I don't want to make any promises."

  "No promises required. Thank you."

  I left the library feeling exhausted. It was nearly noon, as Stacey had pointed out, and I was supposed to be in my bed asleep, the blackout curtains creating a blissful night inside my small apartment.

  I headed home, where I fed my cat, ate a few canned almonds—Blue Diamonds, my one true love—and sprawled out on my bed. Too many things spun in my head. There were major threats in my life, Anton Clay foremost among them, but the magician ghost who might be inadvertently protecting or hiding him was shaping up to be a dark and twisted entity in its own right.

  The haunting we were actually supposed to be investigating seemed pretty tame so far. There might be two ghosts wandering the property, possibly one or two old lighthouse keepers or their relatives. Or possibly shipwreck victims. Regardless of who they were, they hadn't done much except wander around the property and scare people by their presence. Not pleasant, sure, but I've seen much worse.

  Of course, a haunting that seems innocuous could easily turn out to be something worse, especially once you went poking at it like a kid banging a stick on a wasp's nest. Any number of horrible things might emerge and attack.

  That was my last thought before falling asleep—me standing at the old lighthouse, banging it with a stick, trying to get the ghosts to come out.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back at Alyssa Wagner's place, it was time for Stacey, Hayden, and me to take up our night's watch, looking for evidence of any ghosties or ghoulies. If I encountered one, I had a few names to try out from the history of the lighthouse. A number of past residents had died tragically; any of them could be haunting the area.

  Sometimes, knowing a ghost's name can give you some influence over it, or at least help you get its attention. If I encountered one, I could see if it responded to any particular name. Maybe it would come closer to me, or it would flee, or something about its temperature or electromagnetic field would fluctuate. Maybe there would even be a strong response, such as an apparition or direct communication that I could hear with my own ears, or that we could find on carefully analyzed audio playback.

  It was also possible that the ghost would be indifferent to its name, or even grow hostile.

  “Okay, ladies,” Hayden greeted us when he caught up to us in the outdoor hallway. Stacey and I had been making th
e rounds, checking the battery packs on our cameras and other gear. Most of it was plugged right into electrical sockets, so fresh batteries weren't necessary. Usually we had a few cameras that were in difficult to reach areas, attics and basements and closets that weren't necessarily set up with convenient outlets.

  “We have names, you know,” Stacey said.

  “Okay, Ellster, Staceynator—” he began.

  “Let's go back to 'ladies,'” Stacey quickly interrupted.

  “Ladies, I have a special treat for you. These just came in.” He set a heavy black-shelled electronics carrier, about the size of a small suitcase, down on the floor. “Everybody gather round. Pretend it's a campfire, and I'm going to tell you a story. A story of three intrepid ghost hunters and an entity that refused to be found—”

  “Let's just open the case and see what you've got,” I said.

  Hayden opened his mouth a little, and I could tell he was thinking about making a lame joke about “seeing what you've got.” His smile died a little when he saw the strictly unamused look on my face.

  “Okay, party people.” Hayden popped the latches loose on his case. “Or maybe I should say party poopers, because I had a whole cool intro presentation planned out here—”

  Stacey reached past him and opened the case. Black padding foam lined the interior. Two devices, roughly the size of Dirt Devils or Dustbusters, sat inside, cradled in cutouts in the foam. A display screen was mounted on the back.

  “Tell me these are for vacuuming up ghosts,” Stacey said, scooping one up. She worked at a small control panel just below the screen until the screen lit up. The words LOURDES TECH appeared briefly, then the PSI logo with a Saturn ring around a pyramid. Then the screen, about three inches on a side, showed a live video of the floor and part of Stacey's shoe.

  “Wouldn't that be sweet, yo?” Hayden asked, which I suppose was his way of saying no. “What we have here, chicas—”

  “Ladies,” Stacey interrupted.

  “Totally equal female co-workers,” Hayden said. “What we have here is a little device I call the Monster Sniffer. Though I'm also toying with calling it the 'everything bagel.' Want to know why?”

  Neither of us answered.

  “Okay, I'll tell you!” he continued. “This baby carries out all the basic functions you could want. Thermal imaging, night imaging, thermometer, EMF meter. This multi-detector is the only handheld ghost-finder you'll ever need.”

  “Well, let's check this baby out, then.” Stacey handed me the one she was holding and grabbed the other for herself.

  “Wait, I need one for myself, to demonstrate,” Hayden said, but Stacey and I were already heading into the unoccupied guest house with our devices. We stepped from the outdoor connecting hallway and into the house, turning the lights out as we entered.

  “Mine works,” Stacey said, and I nodded. The dark house around us was rendered in greenish detail by the night vision cameras. It was a smaller scale version of the main house, with similar stonework and antique hardwoods for the floors and trim.

  “Let's try thermal.” I toggled my screen to thermal mode and pointed it at Stacey. Her head and one arm appeared in yellows and reds.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “Pretty small, though,” I replied.

  “Feel that heft?” Hayden asked. “This is a dense, dense piece of machinery. If the screen was bigger, it would probably be too heavy for you to carry.”

  “You'd be amazed by the kinds of burdens I can carry,” I said.

  “Anyway, it's called a multi-spectrum portable sensor,” Hayden said, tailing us as we explored the living and kitchen area. “It has a built-in flashlight, too. Pretty sweet.”

  “How many lumens?” I asked, looking for the flashlight button.

  “Eh, it's not tactical. But it'll help you find your way in the dark.”

  “What an innovative function for a flashlight,” I said. I clicked it on. The device projected a fairly feeble yellow glow. Good enough for a kid reading comic books under the bedsheets at night, but that's about it.

  “Yeah, well, they had to compromise on power somewhere,” Hayden said. “Otherwise the battery compartment would be huge, and it would be way too heavy, you know.”

  “You seemed to be convinced that a lot of things would be too heavy for us,” Stacey said.

  “Hey, hey, I didn't design the thing, yo. I'm just going over some critical tech specs with you here.”

  “Who did?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Who designed it? I notice a lot of your gear and computers come from Lourdes Tech.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Are they a related entity?”

  “Wha?” he asked, scratching his head.

  “Is Lourdes Tech owned by Paranormal Solutions, Inc?” I asked. “Nick said the companies were related. When I looked them up, I found a vaguely described Silicon Valley company with dealings in 'electronic security for the corporate and governmental sectors.'”

  “Well, yeah,” Hayden said, scratching his chin and looking altogether like a mildly confused David Hasselhoff. “That makes sense. All this high-sensitivity gear, you know. You can use it for more than ghost hunting. Ghost hunting is probably around the least profitable use of it, really.”

  “They're a very private company,” I said. “I didn't call them up and ask questions, but I didn't get the impression they would be forthcoming types. They seem to have some hushy dealings around the world. Including with one or more European intelligence agencies.”

  “So we use the best stuff,” Hayden said. “What's your point?”

  “Just curious,” I said. “I keep running into businesses and organizations that don't seem to want anybody to know about them.” I was thinking of the oddball entities that owned Anton's old properties, obscure real estate companies and, in one case, a "church" that appeared to be no more than a P.O. box, possibly a kind of tax shelter. "Like Lourdes Tech. And yours. Paranormal Solutions. Low-key, but with a presence in cities all along the eastern seaboard. Expanding southward. Especially recently. Like they just want to poke around in the older cities of the country."

  "Where the ghosts are," Stacey said.

  We headed upstairs. There were three bedrooms, each with a private bath, one with its own fireplace and bay window with a padded window seat and a great view of the stars and the ocean. That would be the place to curl up with a book on a rainy day. Or a sunny day. Or pretty much anytime. My little pseudo-balcony at my apartment, just big enough for a cheap lawn chair, didn't begin to compare as a reading nook.

  "There are ghosts all over," Hayden said. "North America's been inhabited for, you know, like a thousand years or something by Indians."

  "More like tens of thousands of years," Stacey said. "You were obviously never a Scout."

  "And slept through all your American history classes," I said.

  "Hey, I killed at A/V club, okay?" Hayden said. "It wasn't really a class, but if it was, I would've totally nailed the A. Plus I was the bowling team champ at community college."

  I opened a closet in one of the bedrooms and peered inside. I slowly waved the camera from one side to another, looking for any hint of a cold spot.

  "Well, Hayden, either your gadgets are highly overrated, or this house is underhaunted," I said. "It's hard to capture what we can't find."

  "It's not the gadgets," he said quickly. Then he hopped onto the crisply made-up bed, landing in a lying on his side position. "Wow, this is nice. Probably a down mattress or something. You guys should try this out."

  "I'm going back downstairs," I said, and Stacey followed me to the steps.

  "Well, this guest house probably wouldn't be too haunted, anyway, since it's brand new," Stacey said. "I mean, unless it's built on some kind of old burial ground or pet cemetery that we don't know about. We should be focusing on the main house."

  "The client's still in town. She's flying back to L.A. in the morning, but she'll be back in a few days.
So let's stick to the bottom floor and keep quiet."

  "We're heading to the main house?" Hayden asked, hurrying to catch up as Stacey and I exited the guest house. "Cool. I want to snap some selfies of me hanging out with a movie star's stuff."

  "Maybe it should just be Stacey and me," I said. "You know. You're a guy, so crawling around a female client's house at night..."

  "I won't be crawling," he said. "I'll be walking. Maybe skipping."

  "Just wait until she's out of town," I said. "Then you can hang out and take pictures with her famous...furniture all you want."

  "Really? Wait?" Hayden looked deeply saddened at the thought.

  "If you wait now, I'll look the other way while you raid her refrigerator tomorrow night," I proposed. "We won't even make fun of your gross eating habits."

  Hayden opened his mouth as if to argue back. It hung open for a moment, then closed as what I'd said sank in.

  "You mean it?" he finally asked.

  "Would I lie?" I countered.

  "I'll just head out to the van," he said. "I can...calibrate the...uh, calibrators."

  With Hayden heading for the nearest exit through the garden, Stacey and I followed the outdoor hallways the rest of the way to the side door of the main house.

  When we were a few feet away, the door opened silently, swinging into the darkness of the big house ahead.

  I held up my handheld scanner, looking for cold spots. Instead, a tall, muscular red spot emerged.

  "D-Train!" Stacey said, beaming, still obviously feeling some celebrity shock in his presence. It was a late hour, and her voice could have been softer. Less squeaky and overwrought, too.

  "Can I help you?" he asked. His voice was smooth and very low, just loud enough to cross the few feet left between us. That was the right way to speak at a client's house at night—he clearly had a greater sense of professional decorum than Stacey. Then again, so does my cat.

  "We're doing a hand scan of the house," I said. I kept my voice to a stage whisper; hopefully Stacey would learn from my example. I waved the scanner in my hand for added emphasis.