The Summoning

by Heather Graham

  “Good Lord, people, the Civil War ended in 1865. I’m sure as hell not still fighting it—like I said,” Kristi reminded them, “no one knows what really happened here! Don’t feel sorry for me, and please, think whatever you want to think.” She was too aggravated to sit any longer. With a smile she rose. “Matthew, please feel free to stay at the house as long as you like for your camera angles and whatever. I’m sorry we don’t have another room, but I’m in love with the 17Hundred90 House myself, and I know you’ll be comfortable there. I have some work, so, if you don’t mind, I have to go, but... I’ll see all of you later!”

  She managed a gracious smile, grabbed up her handbag and headed out.

  She realized she had gotten angry and walked out of her own house—with nowhere really to go. She didn’t know where Dallas Wicker had got to, but she did know she needed to leave—or else she’d turn into a truly horrible hostess.

  She dug out her phone; Jamie Murphy had gotten back to her. Kristi was more than welcome to spend all the time she needed at the house. He hoped all was well with her and if she made any “cool” discoveries, she was to let him know.

  She texted back a thank-you.

  He texted in return.

  Keith Hollis the yard guy has key, but I think there’s one at your house, too, in a drawer in the kitchen. Gramps always told me that if I was locked out, there was a key at McLane House. Let me know if you find it—on some kind of cartoon character keychain.

  She was happy to go to Ian Murphy’s house—if he was haunting the place, he’d be one nice ghost. And he’d make life easy—she’d just ask him if he’d been pushed off the balcony!

  She didn’t want to go back inside—she’d just escaped. Sad, to think that she wanted to escape her own house—a place she loved.

  But if she wanted to see if she had a key, she had to go back. She hadn’t walked that far, just over to the obelisk in the square, the one that honored Nathanael Greene.

  She turned and headed back, but didn’t go to the front. She walked around to the side entrance and fumbled with her own keychain to find the key to the side door. When she entered, Genie was in the kitchen rinsing the morning dishes and setting them into the dishwasher.

  “Sneaking in, eh?” Genie asked her.

  “Yes.”

  Genie sniffed, “Frankly, you want my opinion? You shouldn’t sit that séance out.”

  “Genie—what if I freak out and tell everyone that Shelley is moving the table with her knee?”

  “You’re not going to freak out—you never freak out. But if you don’t become involved, God knows where those people will lead Shelley. Before you know it, they’ll have every McLane who ever lived doing something wicked. Or worse—they’ll create some kind of evil ghost or do something awful. I mean, Sydney and I can try to lead things in the right direction, but we’re not you.” She studied a plate, decided it was rinsed well enough and set in it in the dishwasher.

  “Haven’t you realized yet that people believe what they want to believe?” Kristi asked her.

  “I believe Sydney has a crush on our young actor. Oh, and a crush on the PI guy, too. Not in a bad way—you know Sydney. But if the actor wants her to see a ghost, she’s going to see a ghost. It will just be better if you’re part of it.”

  “Have you worked on Jonah yet?”

  “You heard Jonah—crushed glass. He’d crawl through it buck naked. But no séance. I think he means it. When Jedidiah was so sick and Jonah was answering for him, Jonah allowed the séances, but he always hated them.”

  “Um, maybe. I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” Kristi said, moving over toward the counter and rummaging through the drawers.

  “Kristi, what are you doing? Can I help you any?”

  “I’m looking for the spare key to the Murphy place.”

  “Oh—here,” Genie said, walking over to the drawer next to the refrigerator. “It’s on some kind of a cartoon keychain.” Genie paused and stared at her, frowning. “You going over to the Murphy place?”

  “I am.”

  Genie opened the drawer and produced the keychain, handing it to Kristi. She shivered. “You think you should go over there alone?”

  “Why not? Ian Murphy and Jedidiah were best friends.”

  “Bad juju,” Genie said.

  “Bad juju—from a nice man? And since when did you believe in juju?”

  “I don’t know,” Genie said. “Lately, I guess. Anyway—”

  “Not to worry. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. Why are you going over there?”

  “There’s just been a lot of speculation lately...about this house.”

  “And you think you’re going to find answers—when Ian and Jedidiah looked for them over and over again throughout the years, and came up blank?”

  “Who knows?” Kristi said. She gave Genie a quick hug.

  “That was nice—but what was it for?” Genie asked her.

  Kristi laughed. “Caring!” she told her.

  Key in hand, she hurried out of the house and toward the square. A tour guide was talking about Oglethorpe and the founding of Savannah.

  Oglethorpe had been quite a man, Kristi thought. He’d founded the colony with a tremendous generosity of spirit, lived in a tent for a very long time, and made friends with the Yamacraw, the local Native American tribe, and meant it and stayed friends. He’d outlawed slavery; he’d planned the city as the old town still stood, with the beautiful squares and symmetrical design.

  The Murphy house was on the other side of the square and technically—like McLane House—on a side street.

  Kristi paused in front of it; the yard had been kept up. It could use new paint, but it wasn’t peeling badly in any way. It still looked forlorn. As if the house itself knew the master was gone and would not come home again.

  Kristi thought of Genie’s words as she headed up the walk and the few steps that led to a porch very much like her own. Bad juju.

  There was plenty of voodoo in the city, and Kristi knew a number of people who practiced voodoo as their religion—using it just as lovingly and respectfully as any other religion or sect. No one practiced bad juju—at least, not in her circles.

  She slipped the key into the door and then stepped into the front hallway.

  She’d been in the house so very many times. As a child, as a teen—babysitting Jamie Murphy. As an adult, sitting with Jedidiah and Ian as they argued. They were both well-educated; they agreed on so much, and yet, they were quick to take on arguments for the sake of debate, but always ending their conversations as friends.

  Ian’s bedroom and office were both upstairs.

  Kristi was surprised to discover she didn’t really want to go to the second floor—and she was more surprised when she spoke aloud to herself. “Dallas Wicker is the one who wants to be here—and he disappeared on me!”

  The house remained silent.

  Because of her recent discovery of the McLane ghosts, she still hesitated in the entry. Feeling ridiculous, she called out. “Ian... Ian Murphy, are you...here?”

  And still, the house was silent.

  Shaking off her caution, she ran up the stairs. She burst into Ian’s office, where little had changed since he died. His desk was massive, and the entire office was lined with bookshelves. Ian had history books that ranged from ancient China to Africa, Europe and the New World. He’d collected reference books on subjects from anatomy, biology and chemistry to zoology. He’d visited museums all over the world, and from every single one, he’d brought back the catalog. One of her tasks, for an allowance Ian had insisted on giving her when she had been young, had been to organize some of his bookshelves. It had been an easy task—she’d been enamored with his library.

  Despite the range of his interests, Ian Murphy had always kept an entire wall dedicated to the United States—and to the
wars that his country had fought, from the revolution to the present. Several shelves were dedicated to the Civil War.

  “Where to begin?” she murmured. It was dim in the office, faint daylight sneaking in through half-shuttered blinds. A little dust had started to coat the room.

  While she stood there contemplating, she heard a strange skittering sound; it seemed to come from downstairs, directly beneath her.

  The kitchen was right below.

  She froze, wondering if someone could be in the house. There could easily be someone in the house, she told herself. Jamie had told her a caretaker was looking after the place—Keith Hollis. She should have called him to begin with, so she didn’t scare or startle anyone.

  She turned to head back down the stairs and then froze; she thought she heard the back door open and close. Again, she tried to assure herself it was perfectly natural.

  But why would the yard guy slip out quietly—especially if he had heard her? Or had someone just slipped in?

  Suddenly frightened, she went flying back down the stairs. Throwing the door open, she launched herself outside—and nearly plowed right into Dallas Wicker.

  He caught her by the shoulders, half-smiling as he looked into her eyes.

  “More ghosts?”

  She shook her head. “I—I tried to find a ghost.”

  “Really?” He seemed surprised. And then immediately worried. “What happened—why are you running out?”

  Sunlight was streaming down. It was a beautiful day. There was no darkness, and no shadows whatsoever surrounding them.

  She felt silly.

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “It’s an old house, and it creaks and...I scared myself.”

  “I don’t think of you as being a nervous person,” he told her.

  “Even after I nearly knocked you over?”

  He was quiet for a minute, then indicated the door. “Want to go in?”

  “Okay. How did you know I was here?”

  “Genie—I asked her at the house.”

  They entered; he closed and locked the door and looked around the entry, the stairs that led up and the hallway that led off to the kitchen and dining rooms.

  “No one should be in here, right?”

  “No, not unless the guy watching over the place had to come in for some reason. The yard guy—his name is Keith Hollis. As far as I know, he’s the only one. But then again, until I texted Jamie Murphy today, I didn’t know I had a key.”

  “Your uncle had a spare?”

  “Right. Ian had told Jamie if he ever locked himself out, he could come over and get a key from Jedidiah.”

  “Okay, two things—call or text Jamie Murphy, and then ask if it’s all right to call the yard guy and find out if he’s been in here. Then you can let him know you’re going to be going through some of Ian’s notes and papers.”

  Kristi wished she didn’t feel quite so much like leaning against Dallas. Wished she wasn’t so aware of the weight of his hands on her shoulders, or even the feeling created by his small smile as he reacted to her, looked at her. He was a guest; she barely knew him. No, he was worse than a guest. He’d admitted to her that he was FBI. That meant he was looking for...for very bad things.

  She shouldn’t be feeling so powerfully attracted to him.

  She moved away quickly, pulling out her phone. Jamie responded to her right away, telling her he was in class, but if she needed to talk, he’d be free later. She texted she just wanted to let Hollis know she was in the house, and Jamie texted her a phone number.

  She’d met Hollis before—he did some of the yards in the area. While Jonah had done most of the work at McLane House—along with boys hired now and then to give him a hand—she’d considered hiring Hollis. Jonah was getting too old for a lot of the heavier labor.

  She just hadn’t managed to tell that to Jonah yet.

  As she made her call to Hollis, Dallas moved off, looking into the kitchen and dining room. She was surprised to feel an uneasy tingle of fear as he disappeared from view through the archway to the dining room.

  Hollis answered; Kristi identified herself and he seemed glad to hear from her, and he thanked her for letting him know Jamie had said it was all right for her to go through Ian’s papers.

  “Great to hear from you, Kristi. You doing okay? I always knew what store both Ian and old Jedidiah had in you—they’d be happy to hear you were going through all the books. I helped Jamie—saw to it that an old Enfield, a cache of buttons and all kinds of other stuff went to the museum, but...well, you know. Jamie wanted time to go through the books and notes and all. I’m sure he’s happy you’re there.”

  “Thanks, Keith,” she said. Dallas was still in another room. “Hey, has anyone been in here?”

  “Just me. I come in once a week and check the doors and windows. I was thinking to call Jamie about bringing someone in to dust, but haven’t gotten to it yet. You use the key Jedidiah had?” Hollis asked.

  She actually pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at it for a second. Apparently, everyone but her seemed to have known she had a key to the Murphy house.

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “I talked to Jamie before I came in, of course.”

  “Of course,” he said easily.

  “Keith, does anyone else have a key?” she asked.

  “Not that I know about,” he told her. “Why?” he asked worriedly. “Does it look like somebody broke in there?”

  “No, no, everything is fine,” she assured him.

  “Well, good luck with those books and papers, Kristi,” he said. “And thanks for letting me know what’s going on.” She hung up and hesitated, looking at the archway off the hall.

  She headed into the dining room. The drapes were closed, and while little pieces of sunlight made their way through, the room was in shadow. Lace covered the table, which held a candelabra centerpiece, candles long put out. The old cabinets held dishes, just waiting to be set upon the table for a dinner party. All looked as it had when Ian had been alive. Except there seemed to be an aura of death, of lives lived and lost, of something just a shade eerie, and just a shade sad, about the whole place.

  “Ian?” she said softly, but there was no reply. And yet, she had a feeling someone had been there, someone moving through the closed and lost world who didn’t belong there.

  Kristi walked into the kitchen; the coffeemaker stood on the counter, the butcher-block table was clean.

  There was a sudden rustling sound, as if the wind had picked up beyond the house, and as if it hid a multitude of other sounds, whispers within the house...

  There was someone near.

  She bolted toward the back door just as it opened, and Dallas Wicker stepped back into the house.

  He looked at her, frowning.

  “Someone is in here!” she whispered.

  6

  “Now?” he asked softly.

  “I—I don’t know. I was just standing here and...well, frankly, if I hadn’t met my own ancestors recently I’d have thought that... I’d have thought that the place was haunted. But... I don’t think that Ian is here, I think he went on... I don’t really know what I’m talking about,” she whispered frantically. “But I had a feeling...”

  “Feelings should never be ignored,” he told her. “Stay behind me, and let’s take a look around.”

  He went cautiously room by room, downstairs first, and then the upstairs. She stuck so close behind him she could feel the warmth radiating from his back.

  “Attic?” he asked.

  “There’s a ladder. It pulls down from the ceiling at the end of the hall,” she told him.

  She showed him; he dragged a chair over from Jamie’s room, stood on it and pulled on the rung that brought the ladder down. He crawled up. She waited just a moment in the silent hallway, then she
quickly followed him.

  The attic was as neat as the rest of the house: old trunks shoved to the side in neat rows; a dressmaker’s Judy by the window, a few cupboards that held more dishes and other pieces of life lived long ago.

  One trunk was labeled Photos. She remembered sitting by the trunk with Jamie after Ian had died, going through the pictures. She knelt down and opened it. The old photos had been carefully stacked; Ian had seen to it that precious photographs—taken in the time near the birth of the art of photography—had carefully been preserved in special glass frames. She dug through them as Dallas Wicker knelt down by her side. Finding the old photograph she wanted to show Dallas, she slipped it carefully from the pile.

  “That was before the war—the Civil War,” she said.

  He smiled. “I figured that,” he told her.

  “That’s the McLane family—Monty, Trinity and Josiah. Josiah wasn’t in the house when his parents and grandfather were gunned down. Thank God. He might have died, too, and then...well, none of us after would have existed. I always loved this photo. Jedidiah never claimed to know the truth—he liked to believe that Monty wouldn’t have killed his family, but he always told me he just didn’t know the truth. I only know now because...” She sat back on her haunches. “This is real. I’m really talking to ghosts—and you really see them, too.”

  “Yes, it’s real,” he said.

  “Why now?” she whispered. “Why—right when you arrived, and I crashed into you on my front porch?”

  “We have no answers beyond the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, the essence or soul of a man or woman stays behind. For some of us, we see ghosts from a very early age, and with others, we see them when it suddenly becomes important in our lives to see them. I wish I could tell you more.”

  “So—there are a lot of people who see the dead?”

  “I don’t know about a lot. Maybe it’s one percent of the population—it’s not the kind of thing you can ask in census surveys,” he said, smiling.

  “But you know others.”

  “I work with forty or so people who all...are gifted. Sometimes, different ghosts appear to different people and...hey! I think you’re extraordinary, you know. You only freaked out a little when ghosts started talking to you.”