The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion (24 page)

What a worm!
Jack snorted.
You want me to scare this goomer into next week?

“No!” I silently whispered. “And will you
please
go away! Ophelia saw you. What do you think would happen if this guy did, too?”

“No, Jack!”

But my stubborn ghost was on a mission. His mildly breezy presence began to whip up a furious chill. I rubbed my arms, my gaze fixed on Kenny Vorzon, whose attention remained on his clipboard.

“How has the spiritual presence manifested itself since you’ve been here, Mr. Tarnish?”

“Well . . .”

As Seymour crossed his heavy arms, thinking it over, Jack’s chill became downright arctic. Kenny actually began to shiver. “Sure is cold tonight for summer, isn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Seymour said. “As for the spirit world manifesting, I haven’t seen or heard anything yet. But my friend Penelope Thornton-McClure here found a cold spot in the salon.”

Kenny nodded and scribbled vigorously. “Cold spots are good.”

“It’s gone now. Like it was never there,” I added quickly. The man frowned. I could feel Jack’s cold presence flowing more energetically around me and right toward Kenny.

He reached up and closed his collar. “Brrrr!”

“It
is
getting chilly tonight,” Seymour said, glancing at the night sky. “No storm clouds. Must be a front coming down from Canada.”

“So what leads you to believe the property is haunted?” the Spirit Zapper asked, reading from the canned question sheet.

“Well, by reputation, mostly,” Seymour said. “And the fact that a number of people believe the woman who lived here before me may have been frightened to death.”

“Frightened to death!” Kenny’s sleepy eyes suddenly woke up. “The network will love that!”

“The medical examiner didn’t rule that,” I warned. “He said she died of natural causes.”

“Doesn’t matter. We can challenge the local medical examiner’s opinion, cast doubt on his findings. We can bring in our own experts, too.”

“Wow,” said Seymour.

“Next question,” said Kenny, his voice more animated.

For the next ten minutes, Kenny went down his list, asking Seymour about strange noises, electronic voice phenomenon, mysterious movement of objects, and ectoplasmic manifestations. I got the distinct impression that Seymour’s answers were starting to disappoint the newly enlivened Spirit Zapper, which was fine with me. I certainly didn’t want the “entity eliminators” anywhere near Quindicott, my bookshop, or my ghost.

“Shut up,” I told Jack. “And will you cut the refrigerator act. You’re drawing attention to yourself!”

“One last question, Mr. Tarnish.”

“Hit me.”

“Have you noticed any increase in pest problems. Rats? Mice? Ants? Termites? Swarms of bees on the property? Even trouble from bats, birds, squirrels, or raccoons? Think hard before you answer.”

“I haven’t done an inspection of the property yet. I’ve only just moved in.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “Are these things indications of supernatural activity?”

“Nah!” Kenny waved his hand. “By day we’re exterminators—you know, the regular bug kind—and we want you to know we can handle any pest problems while investigating your alleged haunting.”

“Oh.”

“Be sure to keep Spirit Zappers in mind for all your pest-control needs! Here—” He handed over a business card. “In the meantime, our exec producer will review these notes and someone will get back to you.”

“Great,” Seymour said. “How soon?”

“A couple weeks. Then we’ll begin the vetting process, and our lawyers will contact you to sign the releases and waivers—”

“Waivers?”

“Sure,” Kenny said. “Spirit Zappers needs permission to bring in digital cameras, recorders, temperature gauges, EVP and volt monitors, ultraviolet and infrared lights, electromagnetic detectors, not to mention the cameras, lights, and our camera crews.”

“I see.”

“But I do think you’ve got a good shot at being approved for a segment. Your frightened-to-death story’s a real grabber. And the look of this house is fantastic, real
Dark Shadows
creepy.”

“Thanks!” Seymour said.

“After the papers are signed, we should get around to filming in, say, six to eight months.”

“Six to eight
months
!”

“We only do thirteen shows a season, Mr. Tarnish, and two segments a show. We’ve got a huge backlog.”

“Thank goodness,” I muttered.

Kenny waved and headed for the steps. “So long,” he called. “We’ll be in touch.”

Seymour closed the door and faced me. “I need action now. Not in six or eight months.” He slapped his forehead. “Damn, I forgot to tell him about the magic circle!”

I touched his arm. “Don’t worry about it. You heard Kenny. He said you were a good enough prospect anyway. But now that you mention it, didn’t you say something earlier? Something about finding that fleur-de-lis pentagram design in another part of the house?”

He nodded. “Upstairs.”

“Show me.”

We climbed the wide wooden staircase to the second floor, passed through a long, dim hallway dominated by a suit of armor at one end and a loudly ticking grandfather clock on the other. Seymour guided me through a door and into the master bedroom.

“Check out the front of that nightstand,” he said, pointing to a boxy piece of furniture beside a massive canopied bed.

About the size of an old-fashioned television set, the stand appeared to be mahogany stained in black. Bolted to the front of the piece was a sterling silver relief the size of a serving platter. Just as Seymour said, the relief’s design was that odd fleur-de-lis pentagram. I bent down to touch the metal, and discovered the design had a use. It was a handle.

“This isn’t just a nightstand, Seymour. It’s a cabinet.” I tugged the handle and the front opened wide.

“Holy secret compartment, Batman!”

Inside the cabinet were three glass tiers. A delicate tiara made of silver rested on the top shelf; the middle held a silver hatbox. A leather-bound book rested on the bottom shelf. Embossed in silver on its cover was the fleur-de-lis pentagram. There was no title above the design, and the spine was blank. I lifted the book and paged through handwritten incantations and drawings of magical circles as well as other occult symbols.

“Did Miss Todd write that?” Seymour asked, peering over my shoulder.

I shook my head. “The person who scribbled these notes had a much bolder hand. Heavier, too. See the large size of the letters and numbers? I’ll bet this was written by a man.”

Seymour took the book from my hand and paged through it. “I see some Latin in here and some Greek, but almost everything else is gibberish. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“It must be important, because Miss Todd wanted you to have it.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you remember the ‘special book’ she cited in her will? I have a pretty strong feeling this is the book.”

Seymour glanced at the cabinet. “What’s in that hat box?”

As I pulled out the box, my eyes drifted to the object behind it—a polished steel dagger with the pentagram design on its hilt.

“Leo Rollins has a dagger like this one!” I lifted the blade and examined it. “It looks exactly like the one J. J.’s mother had, too.”

“Whose mother?”

“Not so long,” I silently replied. “This very dagger—or Leo’s, for that matter—could be the very same one you showed me from your case.”

“Earth to Pen? Who is J. J.?”

“J. J.? Oh, he’s, um, a—”

“A customer, doll,” I repeated to Seymour. “I mean, a customer of the bookshop! Anyway, don’t you think it’s odd that Leo has a knife just like this?”

“I guess.” Seymour took the knife. “I wonder where Rollins got it.”

“According to him, an antiques store in Newport.”

I pulled out the hatbox, moved it onto the bed, and opened the lid. The box contained a tape recorder. I took it out.

“There’re audiotapes in here, too.” Seymour grabbed the tapes and scanned them. “They’re all dated recently—a few days apart.”

I shuffled through the four plastic cases and recognized Miss Todd’s tiny, precise handwriting on each label. The tapes were time coded, each starting at around nine or ten P.M. and ending at midnight or later.

“There’s a tape left in the machine, too.” I pointed.

Seymour read the label. “It’s dated June 8.”

“That’s the night before Miss Todd’s body was found.”

We exchanged glances. Then, by silent consent, Seymour pressed Play.

No sound greeted us. After a minute, my fingers spun up the volume control and we suddenly heard the whispered thoughts of a person now dead. This was far from a unique occurrence for me, but it clearly unnerved Seymour. He swallowed hard.

“I am now inside the circle where the spirit cannot harm me.” Miss Todd’s voice was quiet, tremulous yet determined. “The candles burn and I am holding the sacred dagger in my hand. I am waiting for the spirit to make itself heard . . .”

After a protracted silence, there was a shuffling sound as if the woman were repositioning the tape recorder. More silence. Then—

“Still quiet, yes! But I know he will come because he hates me so. Hates me for what I’ve done. When he does come, I’ll record the noises he makes on this tape and play it for that dolt Bull McCoy. Then that oafish policeman will know I’m not just some delusional old woman!”

“You tell ’em, Timothea!”

“Shhh, Seymour.”

But no sound followed. Once or twice, Miss Todd could be heard clearing her throat. Then came the sound of a car rolling by outside, followed by more silence.

Impatient, Seymour grabbed the tape recorder and fast forwarded. When he hit Play again, we heard a loud rushing noise, like a high wind battering the walls.

“Turn it down!” I shouted.

Even after Seymour lowered the volume, the noise was obviously deafening. Miss Todd had to yell to be heard: “Eleven fifty-five P.M. and the spirit is attacking now! Listen to it roar!”

The noise abruptly ceased. I heard Miss Todd’s gasp of surprise, and then: “You’re clever, but not clever enough! You realized I was recording you, but it’s too late. I have you on tape again!”

Seymour rewound the tape and found the place where the weird sound began. “I can hear him now,” Miss Todd whispered. The rushing noise built slowly, becoming louder until it ceased. Seymour turned off the machine and his bugged-out eyes scanned the other tapes.

My own head was spinning, and it wasn’t just the residual effects of those Long Island Iced Teas. Miss Todd had recorded evidence that this mansion was haunted. So—

“Why in the world did she stay here?”

Seymour exhaled. “You heard Mr. Stoddard. She had an emotional attachment to this house. The noises only started a few weeks ago. Seems to me she was trying to use magic to get rid of this spirit, or whatever it was. Or maybe there’s a logical explanation for these weird sounds.”

I shook my head. “However you want to explain it, she had to be frightened, and to face that kind of fright alone for all those nights? Imagine the strain. It’s no wonder the poor woman’s body gave out.”

“I
wish
she would have said something to me!”

“Seymour, do you realize what we have here?” I held up one of the audiotapes. “This is proof that the strange sounds Miss Todd heard were real. Not some figment of her imagination.”

Seymour nodded dumbly.

“We have to call Eddie! We have to turn this over to the authorities—”

“No!” Seymour grabbed the tape from my hand and threw it back into the box. “These tapes will only make things worse.”

“What! How?”

“Dr. Rubino claimed Miss Todd was suffering from dementia. He ruled her death to be from natural causes. But Chief Ciders is still convinced I frightened Miss Todd to death with fake noises. The only thing these tapes will prove is that Miss Todd wasn’t suffering from dementia! There really were noises.” Seymour grimaced. “I know Ciders is just waiting for some kind of evidence like this. If he gets hold of these tapes, he’ll just say I made the noises to kill Miss Todd so I could inherit her house. He’ll use these to frame me for murder!”

I closed my eyes. “My God, Seymour, you’re right. But we should at least listen to every one of these tapes.”

“We will.” Seymour stifled a yawn. “Just not now. In the morning when the sun is up, and the house won’t seem so . . .”

“Creepy?”

Seymour nodded and returned the tape recorder to the hatbox. He put the lid on the box and shoved the thing back into the cabinet, right next to the dagger. As he closed the cabinet up again, the grandfather clock in the hallway gonged the hour.

“Ouch,” I said. “Two in the morning and my head’s still fuzzy.”

“Then you better sleep over.”

“I couldn’t impose, really,” I said, even though I was pretty sure my blood-alcohol level was high enough for a DWI charge. The thought brought a vision to mind: Bull McCoy pulling me over and demanding I walk a straight line.
Eesh.
That did it.

“Where would I sleep?”

“Right here in the master bedroom. The same guys who delivered my new king-sized mattress also transported my bed from my old place. I set that one up in one of the guest rooms.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I can sleep in there and you can sleep here in the king canopy bed. It’s where Timothea slept.”

Just the answer I
didn’t
want to hear.

CHAPTER 18