Blue Moon Investigations Ten Book Bundle

by steve higgs

  At almost the furthest point of the walk, fifteen minutes from the house, a gentle drizzle started. An ominous dark cloud had been visible over Bluebell Hill as we set off, my guess that it would move towards Maidstone had ultimately proven erroneous as it had instead made a beeline for me and the two Dachshunds.

  Had we been closer to home and still on the outward leg, I would have turned around and headed for home. As it was, all I could do was quicken my pace and call instructions to hurry the dogs along. The rain picked up, driven by a breeze, fat blobs of it hitting the top of my head and visibly getting the dogs wet. I quickened my pace a little more, then noticed that the dogs were not with me. Calling them had no effect, so I turned around and went back to find them safe and dry under a thick bush. They refused to come out, forcing me to get on my knees to clip their leads on so I could drag them from their refuge.

  Ten minutes later, we were all back in the house, the walls of my entrance lobby were sprayed with muddy marks where they had shaken themselves, and the kettle was burbling away to make a nice cup of warming tea. I was soaked. However, I had to put up with my own wetness as the dogs would dry themselves on the sofa if I did not intercept them with a towel.

  As my tea brewed, I slowly pulled off my wet garments to throw them into the washer. Then, taking the hot beverage upstairs, I ran the bath I had already felt I needed. My ribs were hurting, the soreness there accented by having to struggle out of clothes that were sticking to my skin. I popped two of the strong painkillers I had been given at the hospital and swallowed them with a slurp of tea.

  The painkillers did their magic, easing the pain in my side and spreading a general feeling of relaxed contentedness throughout my body. I awoke in the bath sometime later, confused by the darkness. I had no watch or phone with me so had no idea what time it was. Sliding out of the bath to flick the light on, I popped my head around the bathroom door to see the clock in my bedroom.

  It was 1807hrs!

  I needed to leave in a few minutes and had not fed the dogs or sorted out anything to wear. I fumbled and fiddled as fast as I could to get myself dressed, then had to convince the dogs to go into the garden and pee quickly – not a concept a Dachshund understands.

  I drove a little more swiftly than I otherwise might have and somehow arrived on time. My rigid discipline that I was never late anywhere remained intact.

  Fenucci's Italian Family Restaurant, Faversham. Monday, October 24th 1900hrs

  Having called the proprietor earlier, he knew to expect me and had set out a table at a point that intersected where he claimed the footsteps usually tracked. The restaurant was completely empty, I was the only patron. Okay, it was 1900hrs on a Monday evening but even so, a successful place would have people in it. The owner's name was Georgio Fenucci which sounded very Italian, unlike the man himself who sounded like he hailed from Essex. I wondered if the name was fake but refrained from asking.

  He had opened the restaurant five years ago and had enjoyed a steady stream of clients ever since. That was until three weeks ago when the footsteps started to occur. On the first night that they manifested, he was in the kitchen when he heard a rush of people coming down the stairs from the upper dining room. Worried there might be a fire or some other disaster unfolding, he had rushed out into the restaurant still clutching a spatula in one hand, then watched in horror as almost all his customers disappeared out of the door. His staff had gone also, all except his wife and the slightly deaf barman.

  He found his wait staff outside in the street and slowly convinced most of them to come back inside. Maria, one of the girls that had been working upstairs, explained what she had heard. They went back upstairs and, of course, there were no ghostly noises to listen to. Maria and the others had been adamant that they had not imagined it and corroborated each other's stories.

  Georgio described being angry at the time because he suddenly had an empty restaurant and he had to throw food away. He did nothing about it though and since so many of his staff were telling him the same thing, he felt that he could not hold them to account or call them liars. Then the same thing happened the next night, after which, some of his staff quit and then the night after that. It was on the third night that he witnessed the phenomenon himself. By then he had become convinced that this was an elaborate hoax and had seated himself in the upper dining room to see if they dared to perpetrate it with him there.

  Instead, he got the fright of his life as, clear as anything, an invisible person walked across the room, their footsteps audibly striking the floorboards. A few seconds later, he was alone in the room still rooted to the spot when the ghost ambled back again.

  I listened to all this with my notebook out, taking notes while we were still downstairs in the bar area. He regaled Amanda with the same story on Saturday morning, but her shift pattern had not permitted her to stay for the evening to witness the event. There was one detail missing though.

  ‘My colleague made a note that you heard music,’ I prompted.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘The ghost walks across the room several times most nights. Some nights not at all, but more often than not now the haunting occurs. It is usually accompanied by the sound of someone playing the cello. It is much fainter than the footsteps and I dismissed it the first time I heard it. After three weeks though, I believe the two noises are linked and I have the ghost of a musician haunting my restaurant.’

  Georgio went on to complain about how his business was suffering and how he could not sustain the current level of income for very long. The phenomenon only occurred in the evenings, so he was able to conduct lunch trade, but the word was getting out and a number of customers that he had considered regulars because they came in most weeks, had already stopped visiting.

  I thanked him for his detailed explanation and went upstairs to find a seat. There was a lot of choice as I was the only person in the restaurant. Presently, a waitress appeared and took my order, returning a few moments later with a glass of ice and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. I had ordered carpaccio to start and a seafood pizza as my main course. I was hungry and looked forward to the food. While I waited, I pulled out a few items I felt I might need: a piece of chalk, a tape measure, a stopwatch and a tuning fork. I placed each on the table at the seat adjacent and to the left of mine so that they were within easy reach when I needed them, and so that I could grab them with my uninjured side.

  Idly wondering how long I would have to wait for my food, I remembered that there was something niggling at me. I had forgotten to do something or was supposed to do something. It was the same feeling I had been wondering about earlier, but the memory still refused to coalesce. It was hiding in the corner of my mind, showing me glimpses but not revealing itself. I told myself that if I concentrated the answer would come to me. Just then I heard the door open downstairs. That I could hear the entrance door moving was a clear demonstration of just how quiet the restaurant was. I had instructed Georgio to not play any music tonight – I wanted as little background noise as possible, but the silence in the building was striking. Then I realised that it was Frank's voice coming from downstairs. He was talking with Georgio and there was a third man's voice in the conversation.

  Clomping footsteps on the wooden stairs preceded the appearance of Georgio, then Frank and then Dr. Lyndon Parrish.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,' I said to attract their attention. Frank and Lyndon both looked surprised to see me, so they were not deliberately gate crashing. ‘What a pleasant surprise. Won't you please join me?'

  ‘Tempest,’ beamed Frank. ‘Lyndon plans to catch the ghost.’

  I nodded, unsure what I could say to that announcement. I had my own theory about what was causing the phenomenon and it was a little less than paranormal.

  Lyndon said, ‘Mr. Michaels, I must apologise. I had no idea you would be here.'

  ‘Did Mr. Fenucci hire you?' I asked

  ‘Goodness no, this is pro bono work. I am new to the game unlike you, Mr. Mich
aels. I need to build up my reputation. This will do me no harm at all. Of course, had I known you were here I might have come along anyway to watch the master at work.' Lyndon strode across the room to shake my hand. Both he and Frank were carrying bags.

  ‘Do you mind if Frank and I remain and attempt to catch the spirit?’ he asked.

  ‘No, please.’ I indicated that they should carry on. I wanted to see what he planned to do.

  Lyndon spoke briefly with Georgio who then departed. Then he laid his bag on the floor. From it he extracted a piece of equipment I recognised – it was a PKE meter. Mr. Reginald Parker had tried to sell it to me recently. I had all but laughed at him, but it seemed that he had found himself a customer after all.

  Next out was a piece of clunky steel with a lid and a long electrical lead. Frank was emptying his bag at the same time. Onto the floor, he spilled several items of recording equipment and what looked like motion sensors with accessories like tripods to mount them on.

  I looked at the few items I had on the table and smiled to myself. ‘How is it that you plan to catch the ghost, Lyndon?’ I asked.

  Lyndon stopped what he was doing on the floor and stood up. ‘First, we have to establish that there is a ghost. Not every report of supernatural activity has a genuine entity at the end of it,’ he lectured knowingly.

  Or none at all. Ever. I thought.

  ‘Then I shall trap it inside a circle, and using this,’ he showed me a fancy leather pouch with a drawstring at the top, ‘I will anchor it to a new object and remove it from the premises.’

  Frank saw me looking at the little pouch and answered my question just as I was opening my mouth to ask it. ‘It’s ghost dust, Tempest.’ When he saw my continued curiosity, he spoke again. ‘It is created from ectoplasmic slime by a process of desiccation, but it can only be performed by a single shaman in South America. The secret is passed down to only one member of the tribe on his death bed. It is incredibly rare.’

  ‘No doubt.’ I was continuously amazed at the odd stuff that Frank came out with and the vast variety of weird things he knew.

  The waitress reappeared with drinks for Frank and Lyndon and my carpaccio. Frank and Lyndon showed no interest in food, but I tucked into my starter hungrily. It was as delicious as the dish always is and a generous portion as well.

  Just a few bites in though, I heard the noise that had brought me to the restaurant. A very distinctive set of footsteps walked across the room towards me. The waitress screamed and fled, running down the stairs and very possibly out of the restaurant and into the street. Frank and Lyndon both jumped up from the floor and I had to go around them with my piece of chalk. Lyndon was shouting hasty instructions to get the recording equipment ready and fiddling with the little bag of super expensive ghost dust. Wincing at my ribs because I was trying to move fast, I got to where I believed the noise has started and made a mark on the floor, then drew a line across the floor following the footsteps that were still travelling across the room.

  They went right through the table I had been sat at but terminated just a few feet beyond. I caught up with them and crouched down. Reaching up with one hand, and without looking, I found and grabbed the tuning fork. I marked another spot on the floor with the chalk, ignoring the ruckus behind me: Frank and Lyndon were doing something complicated.

  The footsteps started up again but this time I was ready for them. My hands were on the floorboards feeling the vibrations the footsteps were making.

  ‘It’s a classic non-forming, type three entity!’ yelled Frank to Lyndon, excitement in his voice. ‘This is huge!’

  I had a different theory.

  ‘Can you trap its energy?’ Frank asked Lyndon.

  ‘Yes, I think so. I just need to…' Lyndon scrambled across the floor ahead of where the steps were going. He was scribbling odd symbols on the floor with a silver marker pen. I stood up and followed the direction the floorboards went rather than following the footsteps. The boards went to the wall but looking down it did not look like they stopped there.

  Using the tuning fork, I tapped on a board then held the butt end of it against the board as it vibrated. Then I did the same again on the board next to it and the one next to that. Then I walked across the room to beyond where the footsteps had started and tried again. I got a very different result.

  ‘Dammit,’ Lyndon swore. ‘It didn’t work.’ Whatever hokum he had been trying to do had failed apparently. He looked quite despondent.

  I went back to the table and picked up the tape measure. I measured to the wall. Then I went to the point where the footsteps had started again and measured to the front on the building. The sound of someone playing the cello started. It was faint and sounded like it was coming through the floorboards. I smiled to myself, pocketed my tools and went downstairs.

  I looked around for Georgio, but he was outside in the street. I could see him through the window with his arm around a lady wearing chef’s clothing. I exited the restaurant and joined them in the street.

  ‘Mr. Fenucci. Shall we put an end to your ghost problem?' My question was met with quizzical expressions. I ignored him for the moment and turned around to look back at the building. The restaurant sat in a long row of very old looking buildings all joined together like terraced houses. I would guess that they were easily four hundred years old and possibly even older than that. The front façade was constructed using solid looking wooden beams – I believe Tudor design is the correct term. The plaster between the black beams was bright white but that was not what I was looking at. I was looking at the windows of the upper dining room and what was adjacent to them on either side.

  To the left, as I looked at it, was a shop that sold antique clocks and watches. The shutters were down to cover the large windows and protect the goods inside. On the upper floor there were lights on. I also noted that the shop had a new look to it.

  ‘How long has the clock business been there, Mr. Fenucci?' I asked, pointing at it to remove any ambiguity.

  ‘Oh. Err. Just a few weeks. I think. It has been empty since before we bought the restaurant. Nice girl that owns it now.’

  ‘Is there really? Would you be so kind as to introduce me?’

  ‘Oh. Err. I suppose I could.' He seemed skeptical.

  ‘Indulge me please, Mr. Fenucci. I believe your neighbour holds the key to ridding you of the spirit that is haunting your premises.' I had already made my way to her door, which was a separate and unassuming flat wooden object with a door number and a doorbell. It was set at the leftmost edge of the building but had to be the door that led up to the apartment above the business.

  I rang the bell and stood back to wait as Mr. Fenucci joined me. I was just about to ring the bell again when I heard someone approaching from the other side. The sound of someone putting on a security chain and unlocking the door preceded the door opening and the face of a lady appearing on the other side. She was tall and thin and wore glasses that made her eyes look oversized.

  ‘Good evening,' I said in my most congenial tone. ‘Your neighbour, Mr. Fenucci has a small problem with his restaurant and I was hoping I could ask you a couple of questions. My name is Tempest Michaels.'

  ‘Hello, Tanya,' said Mr. Fenucci from his position by my right shoulder.

  ‘Just a second,' she replied. She closed the door, fiddled with the chain and opened it again. Now that the chain was not attached, she could open the door more fully. She was wearing a pair of saggy looking tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. Her arms were exposed, and the skin was already doing goose pimples from the cool October air. ‘How can I help you?'

  ‘Do you play the cello?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I was just upstairs practising.’ Her answer pretty much confirmed my theory.

  ‘I am really sorry for the intrusion, Tanya. Would you be so kind as to let us come inside for a moment?’ She looked very unsure. ‘I am sure this will not take long,’ I added.

  I thought for a moment that she was going to say no, bu
t perhaps realising that the cold would be once again shut outside, she nodded and led the way back up the narrow flight of stairs to her apartment.

  ‘What did you say this was all about, Georgio?’ she asked as we emerged from the stairwell into a living area.

  ‘Um,’ Georgio started to mumble since I hadn’t explained why were in his neighbour’s place now.

  I was looking around the room. ‘Can you show me where you keep your cello please?’ I asked

  Confused, she looked between Georgio and me, then shrugged and led us further back into the living space. ‘It's in here,' Tanya said as we moved from one room into a short corridor and then into another room. ‘I haven't got around to decorating yet,' she explained as if embarrassed by the raw nature of the room.

  It was bare floorboards. I walked to the window at the front of the building to check where I was.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what this is about,’ Tanya said, getting a little impatient.

  ‘My apologies. It is a little difficult to explain. We can hear you playing your cello from next door.’

  ‘Oh goodness. Can you? I’m so sorry, Georgio. I never realised,’ she replied sounding genuinely horrified.

  ‘You play beautifully, Tanya. Please feel no reason to apologise. The bigger issue is the footsteps?’

  ‘Footsteps?’ she asked, utterly mystified.