Ghost Town (18 page)

Trevor had to admit that she had a good point. “Maybe. Or maybe Greg is playing games with us. He's been known to do that. Or worse, maybe he's responsible for the murders.”

“He did tell you that he carried the Darkness that had possessed him to the Other Side,” Drew said, “and that he'd merged with it.”

“If that's true, then maybe he only wants us to think he's helping us,” Trevor said. “Maybe he's been biding his time for the last couple of months, waiting for a chance to get revenge.”

Connie let out a derisive snort. “You watch too many bad horror movies.”

“I believe he's sincere,” Amber said. “He didn't have to admit that the Darkness was still a part of him. If he intended to manipulate us, why would he plant doubt about himself in our minds?”

“Games within games,” Trevor said. “It's a classic ‘lull them into a false sense of security' ploy. By sowing doubt, he appears to be confessing everything to us. Paradoxically, because we doubt him, we end up trusting him more.”

Drew thought about that for a moment. “Your reasoning is psychologically sound. Unfortunately, there's no way to determine the truth for ourselves. And that's assuming the spirit that appeared to Amber was even Greg in the first place. It could have been something else masquerading as him.”

Amber shook her head. “It was him. I'm sure of it.”

“Fine,” Trevor said. “But that doesn't mean we can trust him.”

Amber sighed. “No, I suppose it doesn't.”

Connie looked irritated, although Trevor couldn't understand why. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could speak, Carrington said, “I think you should all hear this.”

They all turned their attention to Carrington. He walked into the center of the room but without his usual air of showmanship. He looked shaken, and when he held up his digital audio recorder, Trevor could see that the man's hand was trembling.

“While you were talking, I decided to play back the audio and see if we caught any EVP.” Without further explanation, he activated the recorder.

At first, there was silence, and then Carrington's voice issued from the tiny speaker.

“Are you there?”
No response.
“What do you want?”
Again, nothing.
“Do you wish to send us a message?”

Silence for a few seconds, this time followed by a second voice—a woman's.

“Stop,”
she whispered. And then, louder,
“Stop!”

Trevor had heard EVP before—had even picked up some himself once or twice—but he had never heard any this clear and distinct. It sounded as if the woman had been speaking directly into the recorder.

“That was a woman's voice,” he said. “Do you suppose it belonged to the Dark Lady?”

Before anyone could respond, he felt a sudden chill, as if a light coating of frost had settled over his body. At first, he thought the sensation was a reaction to listening to the eerie voice, but then he realized that what he was feeling was an actual drop in temperature.

He was still holding the IR scanner, and he raised it, intending to scan for cold spots in the room. But before he could activate the
device, cracking sounds filled the air. Tiny fissures shot through the floor, walls, and ceiling, as if the museum was experiencing a mild earthquake. It was over in seconds, and when the noise died away, the entire room was covered with a single word formed from fissures etched into its surfaces. Some of the words were large, some small, but they all said the same thing.

STOP
.

“Message received,” Connie said.

“I can't believe
we got that on video!” Erin said. “That was absolutely a-fucking-mazing!”

“I wouldn't get excited just yet,” Trevor said. “Remember, the chief confirmed that the video from the security camera was ruined by electronic interference. The same thing could have happened here.”

“Who cares if it did?” Erin said. “As a matter of fact, it'll be even better if the footage
is
distorted. If viewers see the letters forming, they'll just put it down to special effects. But to hear that spooky voice, see our reaction to it, then see the video cut out, and when it comes back, the audience sees that it's covered with the word
Stop
 . . . that is one-hundred-percent pure gold! You know that old theater adage, ‘Less is more.' In this case, not only is less
way
more mysterious and dramatic, it's also more believable. It allows people to use their imaginations, makes them wonder, could it be real? That's what people love most about the paranormal, playing the what-if game.”

They stood on the sidewalk outside the museum. The police cars were still there, although their lights had been turned off. A small crowd of rubberneckers still stuck around, but they numbered considerably fewer than before. As soon as Trevor and the others had exited the museum, the two news reporters had swooped in on them like starving birds of prey. Carrington had been only too
happy to oblige them both with interviews, and he stood off to the side with them now, blabbing away at their cameras. Ray, Sarah, and Pattie had followed, shooting video of Carrington being interviewed. The whole thing struck Trevor as more than a bit surreal, one camera operator filming two others, like some media version of an
ouroboros
devouring its own tail. Erin left her crew to it and stood talking with the rest of them.

Everyone had reacted differently to the psychokinetic event they had witnessed. Drew and Amber didn't exactly take it in stride, but they had experienced far worse things in the Lowry House. Connie didn't seem scared, just thoughtful. Erin was giddy with excitement, although her crew seemed less thrilled. It looked to Trevor as if they were concentrating extra hard on their work so they could avoid thinking about what they had seen. Carrington had appeared disturbed at the time of the event, but he had quickly recovered and now affected an I-knew-it-all-along air.

Jenn was the one Trevor was most worried about.

She looked shell-shocked, her face slack and expressionless, displaying what Drew would have called flat affect. Despite the fact that she owned a bookstore called Forgotten Lore and lived in a town whose prime industry was paranormal-themed tourism, she didn't believe in the supernatural on any level, not even in a religious sense. Jenn was clearly having difficulty dealing with the experience, unlike Connie, who seemed to be having no problem readjusting her worldview to include the existence of the paranormal. Add this to the trauma of Jenn's employee being killed the night before, perhaps by the same supernatural force whose power she had just witnessed, and it was no wonder she looked almost catatonic.

Trevor took hold of her elbow and gently steered her away from the others so they could talk in private. She allowed him to lead her without comment, her gaze distant, as if she were looking at a point far away.

Trevor turned to the others to tell them that he wanted to leave, but he stopped when he saw Amber looking back at the museum, Drew on one side, Connie on the other. The three of them were talking, but Trevor couldn't make out what they were saying. He wanted to join them, but he didn't want to abandon Jenn.

When she saw where he was looking, she smiled. “I'll be all right. Go see what's up with them.”

Trevor flashed her a grateful smile and hurried over to join his friends.

“Sorry I'm late. I didn't get the memo that you guys were going to hold a meeting.”

“I was just wondering about the buildings that house the museum,” Amber said. “How old do you think they are?”

“We didn't spend much time in the lobby,” Trevor said. “If we had, you might've seen the placard that tells about the history of the buildings. Both date from before the flood. They needed extensive repairs, of course, but much of the original structure is intact. It's the same for a lot of the buildings downtown. The townspeople who stayed to rebuild were determined to save as many of the original buildings as they could, especially here in downtown. It was important to them to keep the heart of Exeter alive.”

“So the building where Jenn's bookstore is also predates the flood?” Amber asked.

“That's right,” Trevor said. “Why? Do you think that's important?”

She shrugged. “I don't know, but it
feels
like it might be.”

“We'll have to file that away for later discussion,” Drew said. He glanced in Jenn's direction. “I think it would be best if we got her away from here as soon as possible.”

“I suggested we could go back to the hotel,” Trevor said.

“I'd rather she go somewhere that doesn't constantly remind
her of death, but I doubt anywhere in town fits that qualification right now. Once we get her to the hotel, we can see if she has any friends or relatives she can stay with, preferably someone who lives outside of town.”

Trevor didn't want Jenn to pack up and leave, but that was just his own selfishness talking. If it would be better for her to get out of Exeter for a time, then that's what she should do.

“Any thought about what the Dark Lady's message might mean?” Connie asked.

“One word isn't much to go on,” Drew said.

“Yeah,” Trevor agreed. “At least in Amityville, they got two words: ‘Get out.' ”

“And that's a clear enough message when you've recently moved into a house,” Amber said. “But ‘Stop' could mean any number of things.”

“I wish ghosts would learn to write simple declarative sentences containing specific details,” Trevor said. “It would make things so much easier for us poor mortals.”

“You try sending a message from one plane of existence to another,” Connie said. “It's like trying to throw a paper airplane from the earth to the moon. You're lucky if even the tiniest portion of your message gets through.”

Trevor bristled at the woman's know-it-all tone. “You don't need to lecture me about the paranormal. I've been researching and writing about it my entire professional life.”

“I don't mean to denigrate your credentials,” she said, “but I'm not aware of any universities that hand out degrees in ghostology.”

“My degree's in journalism, and when it comes to the paranormal, I know what the hell I'm talking about, because I've seen shit that would make you pee your panties.”

Connie smiled. “What makes you think I wear any?”

Drew stepped in then. “Bickering like this isn't helpful. Let's get Jenn settled in at the hotel, and then we can plan our next move.”

“By
we,
” Trevor said, “I assume you mean the three of us.” He gave Connie a pointed look.

“Don't think you can leave me out now,” Connie said, almost smirking. “I'm having way too much fun.”

“And that's the
last I saw of him until today.”

Amber fell silent after that, and everyone sat quietly as they digested what she had told them. After getting Jenn settled in her room, the others had gathered in the hotel bar. Drew, Amber, Trevor, and Connie had taken a table in the back, while Carrington sat at the bar itself, drinking Scotch and regaling the bartender with tales of his exploits. Erin and her crew had gone up to her room to go over the footage they had shot, but not before Erin had made the others promise they wouldn't leave the hotel without informing her.

When Amber began to tell them about Mitch, Drew asked Connie to give the three of them some privacy, but Amber said that it was OK with her if Connie stayed. “She's a psychologist,” Amber said. “I'm sure she's heard the same story a hundred times.” Drew wasn't comfortable with Connie being privy to such an intimate conversation, though. It was different with Trevor. He was like a brother to both Drew and Amber, but Connie was Drew's supervisor, and while they were colleagues, he didn't consider her a friend. To make matters even more confusing, today she had admitted to being attracted to him. And while she seemed to have adjusted to the fact that he didn't return her romantic feelings, having her sit there while the woman he
did
love told her tale of abuse was, not to put too fine a point on it, damned weird. But it was Amber's choice, and since she didn't mind that Connie stayed, Drew didn't object. From the scowls Trevor had directed Connie's way as Amber spoke,
it was clear that he was even less happy about her presence than Drew was, but he didn't say anything, either.

An instrumental version of “Misty” played on the bar's sound system, the song's overdone sentimentality almost seeming like an ironic commentary on Amber's story.

“I assume this was the gentleman you were speaking to outside the hotel.” Connie made a face. “He seemed like a real charmer.” She nodded toward Drew. “Kudos to you for realizing you could do better.”

Drew would have preferred to steer the conversation away from Mitch. He understood why Amber hadn't told him about the man, but he couldn't help feeling—or perhaps
fearing
was a better word—that the reason she had been reluctant to tell him about Mitch was that she didn't fully trust him yet. They were close as teenagers, but after high school, they hadn't seen each other for fifteen years. They had been dating for a couple of months, but as strong as their bond had grown, it was only natural that she should still be hesitant to share certain things with him. But knowing this didn't make him feel any better.

“Quite a coincidence that Mitch should turn up the same time as the murders start,” Trevor said. “Not to mention that both times Amber saw him, he was in the presence of the Dark Lady. And those are the
only
times Amber has seen her.”

“It really
could
be a coincidence,” Drew said. “But I have to admit, I was thinking along the same lines you were.”