My ghost client

The unbeliever

My hand hovered over the keypad, shaking so violently I had to grip the phone with both hands. The name on the screen was Arthur Vance. The number was from a New York Times article I had bookmarked months ago, an exposé on the city's most haunted locales that was half history, half cynical exposé. He was a journalist, a historian, a skeptic with a reputation for being an expert on the city's grim past and a professional disbeliever of anything that couldn’t be documented. He was my last resort, and the thought of calling him made my blood run cold.

What was I even going to say? "Hello, Mr. Vance? I'm a psychologist, and a ghost just broke a photo of my dead brother while threatening me over a paper clip holder." It sounded insane. It was insane. My entire professional identity, my years of education and practice, were screaming at me to delete the number and go to bed. But the image of the angry dockworker, his face a mask of furious contempt, flashed in my mind. The scattered pieces of glass still glittered on the floor like broken promises. I wasn't just afraid anymore; I was furious. This wasn't a spiritual crisis; it was an invasion.

With a newfound, desperate resolve, I pressed the call button.

It rang three times before a gruff, gravelly voice answered. “Vance.”

“Mr. Vance, my name is Evelyn Reed. I’m a psychologist.” I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “I found your article on the historical hauntings in the city. I… I think I need your help.”

There was a long pause, filled only with a faint static and the distant sound of what could have been a jazz club. “Lady, I get calls like this once a week. The usual drill: house is making weird noises, grandpa’s chair is rocking on its own. I write about history, not fiction.”

The cynicism was like a splash of cold water. It was a perfect, rational defense against my insanity, and for a moment, I almost hung up. But then, I remembered the cold, the growl, and the look of pure rage in the ghost’s eyes.

“This isn't my house, Mr. Vance. It’s my office. In Midtown. And the ghost didn’t just rock a chair. He broke a picture of my dead brother. He didn’t want me to get out; he wanted something from me.” I took a deep breath. “He was a dockworker from the late 1800s, I think. And he was furious about a small, carved wooden box with a tarnished brass clasp.”

The silence on the other end was different this time. It was a silence of genuine thought, not dismissal.

“A dockworker?” he finally said, the gruffness replaced by a low rumble of curiosity. “From the late 1800s? You’re not talking about just any old dockworker. Are you talking about the gangs?”

“Gangs?” I was baffled.

“Look, I’m not saying I believe a word you’re saying,” Vance said, a hint of grudging interest in his voice. “But if you’re seeing dockworkers from that era, then you’re not talking about run-of-the-mill ghosts. The docks were a different world back then. They were ruled by gangs, and not the kind you think. They ran everything. The unions, the protection rackets, the smuggling. What did you say the box looked like again?”

I described it to him, the carved wood, the tarnished brass clasp, the size of a jewelry box.

"Huh," he said. "That sounds like a tally box."

“A what?”

“A tally box,” he repeated. “They were used to keep track of the cargo coming and going, a kind of primitive ledger. But in the dock gangs, they used them to keep track of something else. Favors. Debts. Secrets. They were invaluable, and if one went missing, it meant someone was dead. Or about to be.”

A chill, different from the ghost’s cold, ran down my spine. This was real. This was a piece of history, and it was connected to the ghost’s rage. It meant that my "client" was tied to a larger, more dangerous story.

“I don’t know why he’s angry,” I said, my voice now a plea for understanding. “But he’s not looking for therapy. He’s looking for something. And for some reason, he thinks I can help him find it.”

Vance was quiet for a long moment. I could hear him breathing, the pause filled with the unspoken weight of a life spent chasing shadows. “I’m a skeptic, doctor. But you just gave me a detail I’ve never heard a fake use. No one talks about tally boxes anymore.”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?”

“It means I’ll buy you a drink,” he said, the gruffness returning. “At a place with a good story. We’ll meet at the bar at the Olde City Library. It’s got more history than you can shake a stick at. And if I find out you’re a fraud, I’ll write a column about it that’ll make you the laughingstock of the city.”

He hung up before I could respond. I stood in the dark of my office, the city lights a silent witness to my new reality. The terror I had felt was gone, replaced by a cold, unsettling certainty. I had just traded a quiet, haunting secret for a public, dangerous one. I had crossed a line, leaving behind my world of logic and reason for one of gangs, ghosts, and a bitter journalist.

My practice had just expanded far beyond the walls of my office, and my first field trip was about to begin.