Ghost Killer Collection

Chapter 13

The majority of people seemed to believe that ghosts were mostly visible at night. I, of course, knew that wasn"t true. I saw them day or night, rain or shine. But Mr. James was capitalizing on the theme of darkness, and his tour ran from seven to ten in the evening. I arrived at the designated meeting place at 6:45 in the hopes of getting a few moments with him before the tour started. Unfortunately, I wasn"t the only one with this idea and many of the tour"s patrons were lingering about, waiting for a chance to ask questions of the colorful character.

Phil James was a tall man with large, expressive eyes that appeared to protrude from their sockets when he spoke passionately, which was often. His hair hung in frizzy curls almost to his shoulders, his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, and he wore a worn top hat, long wool coat, and black biker boots. I guessed he was somewhere in his mid-to-late forties. He also had on a black leather vest that was adorned by a silver pocket watch, the chain neatly attached to a button with the watch itself tucked into the vest pocket. He was constantly pulling it out and glancing at it, which I assumed was his subtle way of letting the patrons know it was time to get started.

Most of the questions from the tourists revolved around the building we were standing in front of. It was a large Victorian that had been used for a variety of businesses since its completion in the late 1800s, and was now a boutique hotel, having been fully refurbished in the period style of its origin; in all honesty, it was quite beautiful. As Phil gathered everyone around him, he again looked at his pocket watch, and then announced in a deep but whimsical tone (which caused his eyes to bug out to the point of escape) that the “ghost tour” would begin. He explained the origins of the building, the ghosts that haunted it, and then invited us all to wander about the public areas inside, keeping our eyes peeled for the ghosts that he assured us were in residence. I never saw a single one, but perhaps they were just tired of being sought after four nights a week.

After the brief tour of the hotel, Phil gathered us in the lobby and directed us out the door and up the mild hill toward California Street, all the while pointing out several stunning Victorian houses and stopping occasionally to explain a ghost sighting and give us a particular building"s history to boot. It was all very interesting, but for the first hour or so, I didn"t see a single ghost—I was beginning to doubt Phil"s connections to the paranormal.

When we reached California Street, Phil stopped in front of a spectacular Victorian mansion perched above the street on a slight hill that was surrounded by a granite retaining wall. The lower portion of the building was obscured by bushes and trees, but you could clearly see the upper story, which was dark and a bit ominous. Phil explained that the original owner, an eccentric and wealthy woman in her mid-thirties, had died by throwing herself from the uppermost parapet. Her life had been riddled with familial strife and betrayal, adulterous relationships, and shady business deals, all of which led to her suspicious suicide, which Phil explained was more likely a murder committed by her nemesis and much disdained sister. Phil gathered us in closer, all the while describing a spooky occurrence with a key that he attributed to her ghostly visits.

He selected a young lady out of the crowd and placed an old skeleton key in her hand. The key was laid flat, with the bow hanging off and the blade in the center of her palm, facing due west. I divided my attention between Phil"s parlor trick and the sidewalk directly in front of the building. Standing in all her glory was a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a white, lace adorned floor-length dress with a high collar, wide puffed sleeves that tapered as they descended to the wrist, and a tiny wasp like waist-line. Her hair was swept up in an elegant but slightly loose bun atop her head, and of course, she was wearing round eyeglasses.

Phil explained that when the spirit of the woman was present, she would announce herself by moving the key, which he believed was the original key that opened the door to the very parapet she fell to her death from. As I watched, the key began to slowly but surely turn in an eastward direction, and all the while our ghostly visitor was raising her hand in sync with the key"s movement. Mesmerized by the ghost"s ability, I hadn"t noticed that a man had moved next to me until I actually felt his shoulder against mine.

I had surveyed the crowd before we began our tour; it consisted of our guide, Phil, three couples ranging in age from their mid-twenties to their early fifties, two single women, and of course, myself. However, the man that was now encroaching on my personal space had not been part of our little group when we set off. I stepped away, putting much needed distance between us, but before I did, I noticed that his gaze was fixed on our Victorian apparition, and I was absolutely sure he could see her. That startled me, and when he looked over at me, I was sure of one more thing…he knew that I could see her too. He turned abruptly and headed up the street, his dark-skinned bald head gleaming as he walked under a street light, and although he was wearing a heavy wool overcoat, I could tell that he was broad and muscular.

When I turned my attention back to our tour guide, the crowd was oohing and awing at the key. It had completely turned itself so that the blade was now facing east and lying flat again in the young woman"s palm. I looked over at the ghost, who smirked and tipped her hand in a two fingered salute, then turned and disappeared into the retaining wall.

To say that I was confused and a bit disturbed was an understatement. So far I"d never seen a ghost move anything in the physical world, and that confused me, because now I wondered if they could move something that could hurt yours truly…after all, I was killing them. They might decide at some point to start defending themselves. The disturbing part was the dark-skinned bald man. I couldn"t tell his age from our brief encounter, but he looked strong and a bit dangerous, and as I said earlier, I was positive he saw what I"d seen, and maybe he even knew what I was.

These thoughts kept me occupied through the remainder of the tour, and when we reached our starting point, I"d completely forgotten the questions I wanted to ask Phil. Most of the tourists were thanking our guide as I stood on the outskirts of our little crowd, desperately trying to remember what I needed to ask.

Before I knew it, everyone was gone and Phil was asking me a question. “You got a minute to chat?”

meI gave him a perplexed and questioning look, and he smiled and said, “I know you saw her. Which means you probably can see them all, I also saw Edgar nudge you, which means he knows you can see them, and buddy, that ain"t a good thing.”

Phil asked my name and pointed to a neon bar sign across the street.