Call Me Dreamer

by Ryan Maitland

  “Do you know who they were?” she asked. “Was anything damaged?”

  “No and no,” I shrugged. “The wind must have caught the rocks because they never made it to the house.”

  “Okay,” she sighed. “Tell me about the man that Tim saw after the séance, the one with the large bag.”

  “He’s just a friend that got the times mixed-up,” I repeated.

  “And what was in the bag?” she asked, looking like she didn’t believe me.

  “Stuff for the party,” I lied, feeling bad about it.

  “So, he doesn’t work for the government?” she asked, flooring me.

  “Why would you think that?” I asked desperately.

  The sheriff looked at me incredulously, before finally answering, “Jane, I know what you can do. I’d be supremely surprised if intelligence agencies weren’t clamoring to get you to work for them!”

  “Hell and blast, sheriff!” I whispered, debating whether I should deny the whole thing or come clean. Part of me was screaming at me to lie my ass off, while another part was whispering that the sheriff was my friend and had kept our secret so far, even to the point of embarrassing herself to the little town.

  Sometimes the quietest voices can be the loudest…

  “The man that came that night calls himself Earl,” I started, terrified at what I was doing. “He calls himself my handler, but I prefer the term liaison, since that doesn’t make me sound like a wild animal. He… well, we work for the CIA, but you cannot tell anyone about this! Technically, I shouldn’t even be telling you this! The only reason I’m doing it is because you figured it out on your own…”

  “I understand,” the sheriff nodded gravely.

  “And now I need to report this,” I sighed, digging out my phone from the bag I had left in the usual seat.

  “Report what?” she asked, sounding only mildly concerned.

  “That you know about him,” I told her, hesitating with the phone. “It’s policy. They’ll probably do some kind of background check and warn you about telling anyone about me…”

  “So… you really do work for the CIA?” she asked, seeking confirmation.

  “I’m a freelancer,” I told her, nodding. “Basically, they pay me a retainer to keep me from going to anybody else, then I get paid on a job-by-job basis.”

  “And you had a job that night of the séance?” she asked, sounding intrigued.

  “I can neither confirm, nor deny, that,” I told her, doing an imitation of Earl telling me the standard line I was to use in such a situation. “Seriously, though, I can’t tell you; it’s classified.”

  “I understand,” she sighed, clearly not liking this. “One more thing, then, do the numbers 2, 23, and 1 mean anything to you?”

  I thought for a moment, then recited, “You shall not spread a false report. You shall not join hands with a wicked man to be a malicious witness.”

  “Where is that from?” she asked, not recognizing the verse.

  “Exodus, chapter 23, verse 1,” I told her with a shrug, like it was no big deal. “Why? Where did you get those numbers?” I asked, more snottily than I probably should have.

  “They were burned onto the body,” she retorted menacingly.

  “Oh,” I squeaked, feeling bad. “Sorry…”

  “Now,” she sighed, coming back to the issue she really wanted to discuss, “I see where 23 and 1 came from, but where did you get Exodus from?” she asked, wanting me to outline my thinking.

  “It’s the second book of the bible,” I told her, trying not to lecture.

  “And you just happen to know it, off the top of your head?” she asked, sounding skeptical.

  “I was homeschooled,” I told her by way of explanation.

  “See, now, you say that as if that’s an explanation,” she half-joked.

  “Would you prefer I say that I was held prisoner by crazy, devout, people? That I memorized the damned books of the bible in order to keep from getting whipped with a bamboo switch?” I sneered.

  The sheriff’s eyes went wide with horror as pieces clicked into place. Suddenly, the name-change, moving to the middle of nowhere, the desperate need to rescue people no matter the personal price, and even the existence of a serenity room must have begun to make sense to her as she added long-term imprisonment and expert-level knowledge of the bible to the list.

  “I don’t like talking about it,” I muttered, turning my back to her so she wouldn’t see my embarrassment.

  “Jane…” she soothed. I could hear her getting up, but I moved out of her reach, my emotions too raw to be safe. What if I touched her and sent some truly awful memories into her head? I’d never be able to forgive myself!

  “I need to call Earl,” I told her, trying to redirect the conversation. “You should stay as I’m sure he’ll want to talk to you…”

  “Okay,” the sheriff answered simply, sounding a little hurt that she couldn’t help me.

  And now I’ve hurt my friend… Great! I was going to need to sleep with Mr. Fluffybutt tonight to ward off the nightmares I was sure to get from all this…

  Could this day get any worse?

  Ask and ye shall receive!

  Chapter 8

  Earl E. Warning System

  I dialed the number Earl had given me, a number that isn’t in the phone book. “Charlie’s Italian Afternoons!” came a cheery voice from the other end.

  “Sorry, wrong number!” I told the anonymous voice on the phone, “I was trying to reach Charlie’s Tuna Factory!”

  I disconnected the phone, having followed the script Earl had given me, and waited.

  “What was that about?” the sheriff asked, looking perplexed.

  “It’s procedure,” I shrugged, unwilling to go into details.

  The phone rang a few minutes later, showing a blocked number. I put the call on speakerphone and set it on the table between the two of us. “Hi Earl! It’s Jane!” I called.

  “Hello Jane…” Earl’s voice came through clearly before pausing. “Why am I on speakerphone?” he asked, sounding slightly alarmed.

  “Sheriff Carter is with me,” I told him, resigning myself to having this conversation whether I wanted to or not. “She figured out who you are.”

  “What?” he asked, now sounding fully alarmed. “How?”

  “A man named Tim Foyle saw you come to my house after the party,” I confessed. “He told the sheriff about it and she took it from there.”

  “How does that lead to the sheriff figuring out who I am?” he asked, sounding utterly lost.

  I gave a deep sigh, before confessing something I knew Earl wouldn’t want to hear. “She knows that I’m a psychic…”

  “Jane…” he warned.

  “Look!” I scolded, demanding his attention. “This was before I met you! It was either prove to her I’m psychic or go to jail for kidnapping!”

  “This was after Miss Doe had found the missing girl,” the sheriff added. “Given what I knew, at the time, I thought Miss Doe had staged the whole thing to look like a hero.”

  “I see…” Earl groused. “And so now you’re calling to let me know that the sheriff knows about your other job…”

  “Yes,” I confessed. “And to warn you about Tim Foyle spying on me…”

  “Okay,” he sighed before typing on something. “We’ve been watching him anyway…”

  “You have?” the sheriff asked, sounding surprised. “Why?”

  “He’s a conspiracy theorist blogger in the same town as Jane,” Earl told us matter-of-factly. “The fact that he’s also a journalist means he’s got access to a few more resources than the average tinfoil hatter. That makes him a risk to our program.”

  “Sir,” the sheriff intoned, using her professional cop voice, “Would you happen to have Miss Doe under surveillance?”

  “What? No!” I gasped, not seeing how it was still possible for Earl to keep me under that level of surveillance.

  “Is this about the body you found?�
� he asked, his tone turning deadly serious.

  “It is,” the sheriff confirmed.

  “Jane didn’t do it,” Earl declared. “Spookies hate cemeteries, especially around Halloween.”

  “Spookies?” the sheriff asked while I groaned.

  “Earl!” I shouted into the phone. “I haven’t told her about that part!”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line as Earl realized what he had just done. He had outed me as a spooky to the sheriff.

  “Spooky is a slang term for someone that can sense ghosts,” I moaned, saving Earl from having to explain it. “People like me…”

  The sheriff’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief as she stared at me.

  “What do you mean sense?” she asked slowly.

  “Most spookies can only see or hear ghosts,” Earl explained. “But Jane, there, can do both!”

  I felt like a used car at that point and my anger at Earl was only increasing…

  “Is this true?” the sheriff asked me.

  “Yes,” I declared, resolving to tell the sheriff everything after this call. “I can see and hear ghosts and I hate cemeteries, and hospitals for that matter, especially around Halloween…”

  “Why is Halloween significant?” the sheriff asked, sounding only mildly curious.

  “According to the spookies,” Earl mansplained, even though I was sitting right there, “ghosts tend to get stronger as belief in them goes up. Since everyone believes that the time around Halloween makes the ‘veil’, or whatever, between the world of the living and the world of the dead thinner, they believe that ghosts are more numerous. This, in turn, makes said ghosts stronger than they would be otherwise.”

  The sheriff looked to me, wanting confirmation. “It’s true,” I muttered. “I was planning on spending Halloween night holed up in the house. I do not want to spend it in the store with Mr. Roadkill…”

  “Mr. Roadkill?” Earl and the sheriff asked together.

  “There’s some ghost that looks like the victim of a motorcycle accident,” I told them, shuddering at the memory. “Half his face, and his jaw, are gone. He’s been hanging around the antique shop and I can’t get him to go away!”

  “Sheriff, if you’re looking for an alibi for Jane…” Earl announced, “one you can use in court without exposing Jane’s secrets,” he added, sounding hesitant, “then I can confirm that Jane was in her home all night.”

  “What?!” I shrieked. “Earl! Have you bugged my place again?”

  “I can neither confirm, nor deny,” he told us smugly.

  “That’s it!” I declared. “Kids!” I shouted to the ceiling. “New game! Find the CIA bugs!”

  I could hear Peter and Wendy giggling as they did a thorough search of the house, flying through walls, ceilings, and floors. Accentuating their giggles and hoots of delight were periodic crashes, rumbles, and at least one zap!

  “All done!” Peter declared, looking immensely proud.

  “Dammit Jane!” Earl flared. “Do you know how expensive those were?”

  “Good job kids!” I crooned to the two of them floating in the doorway.

  I glanced at the sheriff, who was looking close to panicking. She was alternating her stare between me and the doorway, where I was looking at, and apparently speaking to, someone she couldn’t see. The ghost was out of the crypt, now, and I knew I’d have to explain everything to her, but in a moment… First, I had to deal with Earl…

  “Now, Earl…” I warned, my voice turning menacing. “How did you even plant those bugs without the kids knowing?”

  “Trade secret!” Earl retorted, his tone turning smug again.

  “Dammit to the pits of hell, Earl!” I nearly shouted at him. “You know I hate it when you spy on me!”

  “Tough,” Earl snorted. “You’re a prized asset, Jane. We can’t have you batting for another team.”

  “Grrrr!” I growled at the phone before violently disconnecting the phone, which is not nearly dramatic enough for me, given the circumstances.

  “Um… what just happened?” the sheriff asked, looking like she was reigning in her terror as best as she could.

  “You know those stories about this house being haunted?” I asked with a sigh.

  The sheriff nodded her head, her eyes going wider as she understood what was coming next.

  “Well, they’re true…” I finished.

  “You’re serious,” she declared, seeing me in a new light.

  “I am,” I confessed. “I’ve been able to see and hear ghosts all my life. Hell and blast! My first friend was a ghost! I didn’t even know he was a ghost until… until I got caned for witchcraft…”

  “Witchcraft?” the sheriff asked, a different kind of horror entering her voice.

  “My stepmom believed in that sort of thing,” I confessed, feeling embarrassed again. “She hated when I spoke to her… her dead brother… She thought I was evil…”

  “Jane…” the sheriff soothed, reaching out a hand. I pulled away, still fearful of my other ability. I was too much of an emotional wreck to be safe.

  “Anyway,” I waved away like I was clearing a foul bit of smoke. “The ghosts are Peter and Wendy Wilson. They used to live here before they died. And now that you know that, you know almost everything about me!”

  “Almost?” she asked, inviting me to continue.

  “A girl’s got to have her secrets!” I declared.

  “Like how you bought this house outright?” she asked, teasing a little.

  “That was a grant!” I answered, sticking to the story the foundation had given me.

  “Sure it was…” the sheriff mocked, clearly not believing me.

  “I am not at liberty to discuss it…” I whined, hoping the sheriff would understand.

  “Okay,” the sheriff surrendered. “I believe you…”

  “So…” I drawled slowly, not quite sure where to go from here. “I’m guessing you have questions… about ghosts…”

  “Are you willing to answer them?” the sheriff asked, sounding suspicious.

  “I suppose I’ll have to…” I sighed. “But first, let me rinse off these dishes!”

  I got up, gathered the plates and silverware, and was leaving for the kitchen when the sheriff called out, “Wait! Are you just going to leave me with the…”

  “Ghosts?” I asked, smiling a little. She nodded, looking around like she might be able to see them. “Don’t worry. Peter and Wendy know you and they know you won’t hurt me. You’ll be fine!”

  The sheriff looked less than convinced…

  Chapter 9

  A Lesson Interrupted

  “So, I’m guessing you have questions…” I state as I come back into the dining room, holding out a cup of coffee for her, while also holding one of my own.

  “Will you answer them?” she asked, taking the coffee seemingly more out of politeness than anything else.

  “Those I can,” I tell her, shrugging as I sit down opposite her. “I think if we stick with ghosts, we should be okay. Anything else will run us into dangerous waters.”

  “Okay,” the sheriff sighed. “So, first off, ghosts are real?”

  “They are,” I confirm around a sip of coffee. “But not everyone that dies leaves a ghost behind. If they did, the world would be overrun with them!”

  “So, that must mean that there’s an afterlife!” the sheriff smiled, sounding relieved.

  “Not necessarily,” I grimace. “I know that ghosts exist, but I don’t know anything beyond that. For all I know, once a ghost fades, that’s it.”

  “Aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine?” she muttered, looking at her mug of coffee.

  “Sorry,” I shrug. “But you wanted to know the truth, right?”

  “I guess so,” she sighed.

  “So, I’ll tell you what I told Sarah, my… let’s say legal guardian, okay?” I ask, feeling awkward about the whole thing.

  “Okay, shoot,” she commanded, her voice edging into her she
riff voice.

  “Okay, so ghosts are real,” I start, ticking off the points on my fingers. “Not everyone that dies leaves a ghost behind. Painful deaths seem to make it more likely to produce a ghost. Ghosts are bound to our world through a kind of anchor. This anchor is usually a person, place, or object. A ghost cannot move much beyond whatever, or whomever, they’re anchored to… without outside assistance.” I added this last part, glancing at Wendy, who I brought to this house after briefly anchoring her to me.

  “Next,” I continue, “ghosts gain power through belief. If somebody believes a house is haunted, then whatever ghost is there becomes stronger, and may affect the environment.”

  “Which then strengthens the belief that the house is haunted,” the sheriff finished.

  “Exactly!” I coo, glad she understands.

  “So, this house has always been haunted by…” here she searched for the names I had used earlier. “Peter and Wendy?”

  “Peter was here when I first toured the house,” I clarified. “He was pretty strong even then, able to knock on walls and move objects. I made a deal with him that if I found his sister, Wendy, and brought her back, he’d let me live here without trying to drive me out.”

  “So, that’s why you’ve been able to stay here?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Because you made a deal with a ghost?”

  “You make it sound easier than it was,” I groused. “I moved Wendy here by anchoring her to me, briefly, then walking back here. She had been anchored to the place of her death… When she was anchored to me…” I took a long pull of hot coffee to help dispel the cold shiver running through me at the memory of freezing to death over and over. “I felt how she froze to death…” I finished.

  “Wait…” the sheriff commanded, thinking through something. “The night of the séance… one of the upper doors slammed on me… Was that them?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I mumbled. “I asked them to shut the door to the serenity room. It’s kind of a private space…”

  “Then they were there at the séance?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  “They were,” I chuckled. “They were making goofy faces at me! It took a lot to keep from laughing!”