Invisible Terror Collection (3 page)

Darryl glared at Cornelius as the bird continued bobbing up and down, a particularly satisfied gleam in his beady black eyes.

       “MAKE MY DAY, MAKE MY DAY, MAKE MY DAY.”

**********

3:23 p.m.

When Ryan had suggested ghost hunting, the last place in the world Becka thought they’d wind up was in the public library.

But here they were, inside the dimly lit microfilm-viewing room. Before them were a dozen boxes of microfilm envelopes, with one packet of envelopes for each year that the
Crescent Bay
Gazette
had been in publication.

“Here’s the last of them,” the librarian said with a grin as he hauled in the final two boxes and placed them atop the others.

“All one hundred and forty three years. If there’s anything about your little girl or her murder, it’ll be right here.” Becka and Ryan stared blankly at the boxes. “But where?” Ryan asked. “Where do we start?”

“Well, son,” the old man chuckled, “that’s your job now, isn’t it?” With that he turned and shuffled out of the room. He stuck his head back in to say, “We close at six,” then gave them a wink and shut the door behind him.

At first Becka and Ryan were overwhelmed. But soon they started to make headway. Well, sort of …

Becka remembered the Ascension Lady wanting the séance the day after tomorrow; that was Friday, the twenty-first. “She’d said the twenty-first was some sort of window,” Becka explained.

“The anniversary of the girl’s murder.”

Ryan nodded. “Then that’s the date to check.” Becka moaned. “But that’s one hundred and forty-three issues.”

Ryan flashed her his famous grin. “Guess we’d better get started, then.”

Reluctantly she reached down and turned on the bulky microfilm machine in front of her. The screen glowed and a little fan inside began to whir. Ryan followed suit with his own machine.

“Let’s start with last year and work backward,” Becka suggested.

The hours dragged on as they went through year after year.

Some of the history was interesting, but for the most part it was a continual stream of boring who-did-what-to-whom or who-built-this-and-bought-that.

Because of the date, there were frequent articles on the Easter season and various church ser vices. This got Becka to thinking about their previous conversation. “Hey, Ryan, how come you believe all this stuff happened — ” she nodded at the pile of microfilm — “but you don’t believe the Bible?” Ryan threw her a glance. “Run that past me again.”

“Why do you accept all this stuff as history, but not the Bible?”

“Well, this stuff was accurately reported. It was witnessed by the people who lived here.”

“And the Bible?”

“It’s thousands of years old.”

“And?”

“Well, there’s nobody around to prove it.” Becka thought this over as she continued going through the microfilm. Ryan had a point. And yet, no one was alive today who could prove George Washington was the first president. Or that Columbus had sailed to America. Before she could put these thoughts into words, Ryan let out a groan.

“What’s wrong?” She looked over to his machine. He was on the last microfilm. “There’s nothing here; we missed it.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “We’ve gone through every April twenty-first issue, and there’s nothing, not a thing.”

Rebecca closed her eyes. She hadn’t realized how tired she was.

      “So,” Ryan continued, “for all these years that murder has only been a rumor? No one was really killed at the mansion?” He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “That means your theory about no ghosts might be correct.”

Becka nodded, grateful that she’d been proven right. But the victory was short-lived. Soon Ryan was tapping his finger on his jaw, the way he always did when he thought. “Unless …” She watched. He continued, “If the murder took place on the twenty-first … Oh, man …”

“What?” Becka asked. “What’s wrong?”

“It wouldn’t be in the papers on April twenty-first. That’s the night it happened. If it was a murder, it would be in the paper the next day or the day after that.”

It was Becka’s turn to groan. Her eyes were tired and her neck was stiff. But he was right. “Does that mean we have to start all over again?”

“Not if you don’t want to.” She caught the twinkle in his eye.

“If you want to concede and admit you were wrong, that’s okay with me.”

“No way, bucko.” She grinned. “If you can hang on, I can hang on.”

“What a man.” He smirked. “What a man.”

She gave him a look, and they started all over again from the top — this time checking out April twenty-second and twenty-third.

In less than an hour, Becka found it. The article was dated April 23, 1939, and the headline read, “Man Arrested for Murder of Maid’s Daughter.”

“Take a look,” she said. Ryan joined her, and they read the article together:

Mr. Daniel Hawthorne was arrested Friday evening and charged with the murder of his housekeeper’s daughter, Juanita Garcia, age eight. Juanita’s mother, Mrs. Maria Garcia, had been employed by Hawthorne for nine months.

Both mother and daughter were citizens of Mexico. Friday evening, around 10:00 p.m., neighbors heard what was described as the screaming of a little girl and telephoned the police. Juanita was found on the second-story bedroom fl oor, lying in a pool of blood. She had been stabbed count-less times. Police Chief Warren believes the girl underwent extreme suffering before her demise. Hawthorne has denied all charges despite the fact that when police arrested him, his face and neck were scratched, his clothing was torn, and he was covered in blood. Hawthorne offered no explanation for his condition.

The more Becka read, the lower her heart sank. Not only over the little girl’s fate, but also because of her own defeat. And maybe the Bible’s. Granted, just because a girl was murdered in that house didn’t automatically mean the place was haunted by her ghost. But there was something else gnawing at Becka.

Ryan noticed her expression. “Beck, you okay?” She continued staring at the screen. “That girl, Juanita, was from Mexico.”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah. So?”

“The little girl I saw up in the window … she had dark hair and skin. She could have easily been Mexican.” 

Chapter 3

11:54 p.m.

Once again Scott had a difficult time getting to sleep. His mind churned with anger — and with thoughts of revenge.

He ran scene after scene through his head, thinking of ways to get even, to make the Ascension Lady look like a fool.

He rolled over and looked at his radio clock. It was hard to make out the exact time through his dirty socks, but he knew it was late. A thought came to mind. He threw off the covers and padded across to his computer. He snapped it on, typed in a few command strokes, and entered the chat room. He moved and clicked the mouse only to discover that Z had left a message.

To: New Kid

From: Z

Topic: Astrology

Good to hear from you. Most occult experts think astrology is foolishness. Even your Bible mocks those who believe it: “All the counsel you have received has only worn you out! Let your astrologers come forward, those stargazers who make predictions month by month, let them save you from what is coming upon you. Surely they are like stubble; the fi re will burn them up. They cannot even save themselves from the power of the fl ame. Here are no coals to warm anyone; here is no fi re to sit by” (Isaiah 47:13 – 14).

FACTS:

• Astrology is the belief that lives are controlled by the position of the stars. The theory has several holes. First, it was conceived and based on the idea that the stars rotated around the earth. (Most of us have discovered that’s not true.) Second, there are different versions of astrology with many directly opposing each other. Some believe there are 8 signs of the zodiac; others believe 12, 14, or even 24. Third, it is diffi cult to fi nd any two astrologers who will give the same advice to the same person on the same day.

Even with these holes and a lack of any supporting scientifi c evidence, people still believe.

• God is opposed to practicing astrology for many reasons:

1. It takes away our freedom of choice. After all, “It was in the stars — what could I do?”

2. It’s turning to sources other than God for your hope, future, and well-being.

3. It’s a form of manipulation. Since we’re all open to suggestions if somebody or something tells us we will be doing a certain thing, we may just fi nd ourselves starting to do it.

As far as supernatural powers, astrology is like any other superstition: It has no power unless people allow it to direct their lives. For this reason, although it is one of the silliest forms of the occult, it can still harm those who insist upon believing it.

Z

       Scott read the final line again: “It can still harm those who insist upon believing it.” A smile slowly crept across his lips.

“It can still harm those who insist upon believing it.” He reached over and shut off the machine.

Somewhere in the back of his head that still, small voice was whispering,
It’s wrong. Stop seeking revenge.
But as he crossed back to bed and crawled under the covers, he was able to push that voice aside and replace it with another: It can harm those who insist upon believing it.

**********

12:10 a.m. THURSDAY

Rebecca’s mind reeled with the new information on the little girl. Maybe Ryan was right; maybe the Bible couldn’t always be trusted. Maybe with the big picture, yes. But after all those years, maybe some of the details had been tweaked or changed.

She slept restlessly, tossing and turning, dreaming of pretty little Mexican girls with long black hair and pleading eyes. Then she heard knocking. Reluctantly she pried open her eyes.

Knock-knock-knock-knock.

For the second night in a row, Becka threw off her covers, staggered into the hall, and stumbled down the steps. By the time she reached the door, the knocking had stopped. She snapped on the porch light and checked through the peephole. Nobody.

She unlocked the door and stepped outside. The air was cold and the fog was thick, but nobody was in sight. With a sigh she stepped back in. Then, just before closing the door, she noticed a small black case on the doormat. Frowning, she bent down and picked up a videocassette. An envelope was taped to the top.

Becka took one last look up and down the street, then closed the door. As usual she had to give it an extra push before it would shut. She fumbled to snap on the light in the entry hall, then squinted under the glaring brightness. She opened the envelope and pulled out a letter.

Dear Rebecca,

The alignment is less than 48 hours away. I understand
your fears and doubts. But please, please remember the
child desperately needs our help. This video documents
research by a group of parapsychologists who investigated
the house back in 1993. Please look it over and get back to
me. We have so little time remaining.

Priscilla

Becka stared at the letter, feeling a chill — along with her growing doubts.

**********

10:15 a.m.

Scott and Darryl crossed town, entered a dilapidated two-story house that hadn’t seen paint since Columbus took up sailing, waded up a stairway covered in thousands of electronic gizmos and gadgets (not to mention empty pizza boxes), and finally entered the room where Darryl’s cousin, Hubert, worked his computer magic. To say Hubert was an eccentric hermit might be rude. To say that the guy ate, drank, slept, and breathed computers (while never bothering to shower) would at least be accurate.

Scott and Darryl had used Hubert’s computer genius once before to track down Z. Of course, they’d failed, but that wasn’t Hubert’s fault. Hubert was good. Very good. Z was just better.

A lot better.

“So …” Hubert wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He didn’t bother looking up. He was too busy soldering something from the mountain of electro-junk before him. “You want this Priscilla person to pull up a bunch of bogus zodiac info on her computer in hopes that she’ll follow it, right?” He gave a loud sniff and pushed up his glasses, which looked identical to Darryl’s except for the masking tape holding them together.

       “Yeah.” Darryl gave a sniff back to him. “Can you do it?” As if to answer Darryl’s sniff, Hubert gave another sniff (it was easy to tell these two were related). “No sweat. I build you a Remote Data Acquisition Device, you break into her place, hard-wire it directly to her CPU’s database, make sure she calls up all necessary data onto her monitor, then you break back into her place, remove the R-DAD, and return it to me.” Scott and Darryl traded uneasy looks.

Darryl cleared his throat and asked hopefully, “And then you’ll be able to make her do what we want, right?”

“No way.” Hubert took another swipe at his nose. “Next I’ll need to rewrite her existing program, give it to you, you’ll have to break back in the place for a third time, load it into her computer, and exit without being detected.” Scott’s heart sank. “Isn’t there, you know, any easier way?”

“Easier?” Hubert scoffed. “You want easier!?”

“Well, yeah …”

“You didn’t say you wanted it easy.” Hubert sighed his best why-am-I-surrounded-by-morons sigh. Then, still without looking up, he produced a single computer disk. He handed it to Scott and said, “Just stick this into her computer.” Scott and Darryl stood dumbfounded. “That’s it?”

“Of course that’s it.” Hubert gave a louder-than-normal sniff.

“It will provide me access to her main database and mass storage through her modem, where I can ascertain the specific astrological program and download it to my system. Most likely it will be a program from which I can surreptitiously procure the source code, which is no doubt written in language C+, thereby allowing me to reconfigure her program to produce any response you desire.”

“Oh,” Darryl said, exchanging blank looks with Scott.

“Of course.” Scott nodded.