Adrift on Ethereal Seas

Chapter 5

"And that is?" Bart tapped out a drum roll on the table. For a second I thought of smacking him.

"The fact that they were smiling means they 're happy where they are. The different clothes and hair styles indicate that they have been changed in some way, and their silence reflects the gospel teaching that there is no direct communication between the next life and this one. A great chasm has been fixed between us that cannot be crossed. But, as a gesture of mercy from God, the deceased are allowed to project a picture from beyond, which is what I mean by a psychic projection."

"So, you're saying mediums are bogus," Chris muttered.

"And we're chasing our tails in this business," Bart added sourly.

"I didn't say it. Jesus said it. I assume that's why you invited me."

Jason began, "So the Lewises are projecting . . .?"

I stopped him. "No. The Lewises are gone. The projection is coming from someplace else and for a different reason."

When they pressed me for more, I assured them I needed only one more day to verify my suspicions, one more day to interview the remaining neighbors.

That being a Saturday morning I found someone home in all of the remaining residences surrounding seventy-four Melanie Lane.

My spring jacket, yanked prematurely from storage, proved insufficient protection from the damp cold, so I chose not to press a highly paranoid Janice Burdyk into opening her front door. "Go away! I don't want to talk about it," she cried when I announced my purpose. "I mean it! Go away, or I'll call the cops!"

Okay, okay.

The Weltons proved considerably more friendly. Tom stepped out onto his front porch to chat for some minutes. He seemed oblivious to the wind and my clear discomfort in the path of it. "I'd invite you in, but the house is a mess and Darlene gets very upset every time she's reminded of that night. Even after all these months, she still breaks down in sobs when she thinks of Lacey and the girls. We were actually contemplating an intervention - us and the Manellis next door - because we were so worried about Mike's condition. Needless to say, we were too late."

The Manellis delayed their weekly shopping trip to echo Tom's words. Fiona teared up and had to leave the room, while Edward gently ushered me to the door.

This left only the Carsons, another senior couple preparing to leave for a cruise. Sam Carson, a retired real estate agent, actually secured the house for the young Lewis family, and became somewhat of a confidant for Mike. Repeatedly, Sam urged the alcoholic father to seek help, which the latter promised to do. He and his wife Doris, who were childless, virtually adopted their new neighbors. A month rarely passed when they didn't share a meal together. Mike's drinking paralyzed them, however, because they felt they should be more forceful in their efforts to help, but feared alienating the young couple as a consequence.

"I just wish . . ." Sam left the sentence dangling.

He didn't have to finish it. I knew all I needed.

That afternoon I paid a visit to Irving's hospital room, but the genial old man had already fallen into a coma. With Iris' permission I said a silent prayer by his bedside, then left her in the company of her two sisters who comforted her as they stood at the foot of the bed.

Like Sam, I too felt conflicted, but in a different way. The pastor in me insisted it was time to get home and prepare for tomorrow - Sunday - my work day. And the other pastor in me demanded that I stay and see this through.

I called Marguerite and promised I would be returning home early the next morning.

"So I get one more night with Bruno! How nice," she said.

"I thought it was Otis," I inquired.

"That was Thursday," she smirked, as if I should have known that.

To my surprise, Audrey rejoined the team late that afternoon. Her red eyes and sniffles verified her temporary absence for reasons of health. I wish she had stayed away one more night because I came down with the same thing three days later, although standing in the cold was probably more the culprit than Audrey.

"Any new findings, Detective Finchley?" Bart asked as the witching hour of midnight approached. I allowed the suspense to build by deflecting earlier inquiries. Telling them now would heighten the effect and provide me an excuse to beat a hasty exit if I proved wrong. Watch out, Bruno.

"Yes, Messrs. Mortensen, Tarpley and Winter, and Ms. Fletcher, I do. And let me say by way of introduction what I already promised: that we will hear absolutely nothing tonight."

"The projector's turned off?" Bart chuckled humorlessly.

"Some of the projectors are turned off. Others have left the neighborhood."

Silence.

"The projectors are the neighbors, each one laden down by the burden of guilt, each one reliving the horror of that night, but under very particular conditions. It came to me while I was standing upstairs, feeling no presences and watching the breeze ruffle the curtains, enjoying the unseasonably warm air. The night Mike killed his family was also unseasonably warm, but cool enough to make sleeping with the windows open a comfortable alternative to air conditioning. Thanksgiving weekend, as you might remember was also unseasonably warm, especially the night the Del Vecchios fled from their home.

"The warmth created three conditions that contributed to our little haunting. It provided a subtle reminder of that terrible night, punctuated by a gentle breeze. The memory burst into full blossom upon the sound of the church bells chiming 2 a.m. And then guilt stormed into the hearts of everyone living close by, overwhelming them, drawing their attention to its source. Last night, the night before, Thanksgiving weekend, were all just like that night, the night when they realized they had waited too long, that a tragedy which may have been averted, had finally played out according to their worst fears.

"Most nights they were able to put it behind them, or at least suppress the memories, but when the conditions duplicated those of last October, they could not withstand the surge of guilt.

"What we have here, what this house has become is a veritable psychic cistern into which flows ten, perhaps twelve torrents of guilt, if the conditions are just right. This is a person-to-person projection, proof perhaps of extra-sensory perception shared by many but amplified enormously by the intense nature of the memories and the emotion behind it. That explains why the recorder is blank. This is strictly a human thing."

"How do you know it'll stop?" Bart asked quietly.

"I figured it out when last night's episode was much quieter than the night before. Mrs. Montana moved to an assisted living facility the next day. Irving Markowitz was taken to the hospital. I urged the Smiths to accept forgiveness, as I hope Ms. Burdyk, the Weltons and Manellis do when I pay them all a visit next week. The Carsons will be leaving on a cruise tomorrow. Tonight, the windows will all be closed due to the cold weather. And pretty soon the trigger will be silenced - when those church bells chiming 2 a.m. fall victim to a court injunction."

The others pondered my theory. Even though we tried our darnedest to stay awake, sleep claimed us all well before twelve-thirty. When we all awoke to a brilliant pink dawn after several hours of uninterrupted sleep, my theory was confirmed.

My four fellow detectives offered restrained, but amiable adieus, thankful for solving their mystery, but subdued by the promise of future futility.

Although our experience lent further proof to the reality of psychic phenomena, the lack of verifiable evidence made it only a story. We knew the truth, but who else would believe it?

I took a cab. When I strode through our front door, feeling smug but humbled at the same time, I was relieved to see that Bruno had departed.

Of course, there is no Bruno, or Otis, or Max, or Simon (I don't know where she got Simon from. Maybe he was a real flame from years ago.)

Marguerite has always been a true heart, as I am to her, as tough as it is for both of us sometime. I looked passed her over-dyed black hair and wrinkled bathrobe at the eggs frying on the kitchen stove, a process that began when she heard the cab door slam.

I crept up behind her and gave her a peck on the cheek.

What can I say? I love the old girl.

The Ghost Next Door

Part 1

It began as an amusing conversation piece, eliciting a smile, an occasional chuckle among those who claimed to see her, and a barely perceptible shake of the head from those who listened with gentle mockery.

The ghost of Gladys Timms - or something - manifested itself just enough over the decades, in unusual and unexpected ways, to keep the legend alive throughout generations of inhabitants of the old parsonage where Gladys met her suspicious end in 1850. The slamming of an upstairs door on a still night, the trill of piano keys in an empty living room, the sound of - what? - muffled crying from the attic, and even the unshakable sense of another presence in the dining room startled the Whitneys, terrified the Magnussons, perplexed the Howards and invigorated the De Leos. "There's Gladys again," Sandra De Leo announced whenever a phenomenon occurred. "Hello, Gladys," she'd continue with genuine affection.

Supposedly, none of those who lived in the old parsonage spoke of their experiences to subsequent buyers. It could sour the deal, after all. When Shirley Howard called Wilma Magnusson and asked, "Is there something strange about this house?' Wilma's answer prompted Victor Howard to consult a real estate agent the very next day. The Howard's sold the place at far below market value.

The De Leos reveled in their good fortune, stemming they were told from the sudden transfer of Victor Howard overseas. Only when Sandra saw an indistinct figure sitting on the attic stairs late one night did she finally connect the Howard's rationale for selling with their purchase of a new home less than three miles away.

It had to be the ghost of Gladys Timms. Like dogs and cats, some people were and were not "ghost friendly."

It was Mary and Walter Trainor who lived in the house and served the Baileysburg Church in the late 19th century who uncovered what they believed to be the source of the haunting. Gladys was the wife of the church's third minister, Dominie Wolfgang Timms, a stern demanding and often unforgiving cleric, if the tenor of his sole existing sermons and the fact that he engineered the excommunication of at least three elders was any indication.

Gladys, a retiring only child was herself unable to produce children, which occasionally made her an object of public scorn by her husband, who may or may not have been the actual "problem." Some parishioners saw it as a blessing when Gladys took sick in late February of 1850 and fought an ill-fated battle for life which ended in defeat four months later. Her spirit finally departed a body that weighed less than sixty pounds and appeared to be twice her thirty-six years of age. Shortly before a lifted sheet removed her from human sight for eternity, her neighbor Constance Sharp, who had been preparing some chicken broth downstairs, entered the noxious bedroom and threw her hands across her face, letting the tray, bowl and spoon crash to the floor. She later testified to all but Wolfgang that she had never seen such a heart-rending expression of despair on what should have been a countenance awash in peace, given the onrush of paradise. Her eyes bulged and her mouth, which should have been agape to allow for the exit of the soul was instead clenched tightly shut.