What Hunts Me

Chapter 4

Chapter 4The old haunt was really called Seymour's, a Victorian themed bar where I'd first gotten to know Phil. From that point on, it had become our local watering hole and informal debriefing station. Phil referred to it as the “old haunt,” pun intended, because of what we usually discussed there…ghosts. I arrived first and took up residence in our usual booth towards the back of the bar.

A few minutes later Phil sauntered through the door, stopping at the bar to order a beer, then made his way over to the table, removing his heavy top coat and hanging it on the ornate hook behind the booth. Phil's in his mid-forties and is a tall guy, towering over me by more than an inch, which would put him in the six-foot-three neighborhood. He has large expressive eyes that appear to protrude from their sockets when he speaks passionately, which is often. His hair hangs in frizzy curls almost to his shoulders, and his beard and mustache are always neatly trimmed. His apparel consists of a few constants; he always wears a hat of some sort, a vest with a silver pocket watch tucked into the left pocket, jeans, and biker boots. He has an energetic personality that some might mistake for hyperactive, or at the very least enthusiastic about everything…good or bad.

“Hey man, good to see you!” His smile was wide and welcoming. He shook my hand vigorously, as if it had been months since we'd last seen each other; it had been less than a week. “How are you? How was Hawaii? Did Billy like her surprise?”

I laughed and shook my head; his habit of hitting you with rapid-fire questions always amused me.

“I'm good. Hawaii was good, too short though. Billy was quite pleased. How are you?”

Phil laughed heartily, making his hat of the day (a brown felt bowler with a happy face pin stuck in the silk band) bounce on his head along with his wildly curly hair.

“So, tell me everything.” He pulled his phone out and opened the recorder app, ready to document the details of our latest battle. As I mentioned earlier, most ghost killers are diarists; Billy and I are not. But no one need worry that our adventures wouldn't be memorialized in the supernatural annals of history. Phil was keeping a journal of our every move, and he'd made a regular habit of interrogating and recording us, all of which he transcribed onto his computer later.

I shrugged. “Nothing special. We flew in, polished off some ghosts and demons, left a slew of soldiers in complete confusion, then hit the hotel bar for a drink.”

He shook his head in mock dismay, curls flying riotously, and twirled his hand around. “Details, my friend, details.”

I leaned forward, speaking toward his phone, and laid out the particulars of our latest skirmish. By the time I'd finished, we'd both downed our beers and Phil signaled the bartender, Ed, for another round. While we waited I looked around the bar, taking in its restored Victorian beauty, my eyes finally settling on the far corner. Sadness seeped in fast and furiously. That particular corner was where I'd first seen GG…her real name was Amelia, but we didn't know that initially. She had been a ghost when I knew her, and a ghost when she'd befriended my mother. She hadn't been haunting the place or anyone in it; she was a good ghost, and although it was probably all in my head, I could still feel her residual presence, making Phil's moniker for Seymour's all the more poignant. I'd had to vanquish her…it was her decision, but I still missed her, mourned for her.

Phil was snapping his fingers at me, “Earth to George!”

“Huh,” I said dumbly. I hadn't been paying attention to what he'd been saying.

“Dude, this trip to Pennsylvania. Let's nail down the details and get out of here, before Aris comes up with some catastrophic demon infestation and whisks you away somewhere.”

Ed delivered the new beers and we ordered burgers and fries and discussed our impending journey. As I suspected, Phil had already done some research on the town the letters had been addressed to, in the hopes of finding information on 1915 George Sinclair.

“While you were off slaying the enemy in paradise, I did some checking on the addressee on the letters. 1915 George sent them all to a man in Houtzdale, Pennsylvania…his father, I assume. I started off by contacting the local library in Houtzdale. They don't have a historical society or anything, so I figured the library might have some information on the population over the last century, and they did. Nice lady there told me they had all the previous yearbooks, and they've been keeping these informal census books too. She wouldn't do the legwork for us, but she said we were more than welcome to come by and take a look ourselves.”