In the Dead of Night (47 page)

Lots of impressed murmurs followed, despite our being a bit spoiled by the Todd Carter video capture from earlier that evening.

“My picture shows more soldiers,” said Ricky. “I took the photograph over by the pond at the McFadden Farm.”

“Well…your pic is coming up in a moment,” said Tom. Ricky hasn’t had the chance to become acquainted with Tom like those of us who have known our surliest member for the past few years. One more impatient mention of his frigging Hasselblad’s merits and Tom was likely to go off on him. “But first, we have something that we haven’t seen in quite a while. This comes from Tony’s camera right after Fiona, Michelle, and Jimmy joined him in leaving The Slaughter Pen.”

It was an interesting clip that began with Tony’s collision with the wagon wheel after he claimed to be pushed into it. At the moment, his Canon camcorder hung from the strap around his neck. Great shots of the long grass and the wheel’s wooden spokes. Yeah, that’s me being facetious…and to be honest, I thought this might be a spoof by Tom at Tony’s expense. In addition to the limited scope of images, all we heard for the next couple of minutes was my former coworker’s incessant complaining about being mysteriously shoved into the wheel by some unseen assailant. Everyone in the room fought hard to keep from laughing at his expense. Yet, as Tony tried to re-explain to his present audience what he experienced, an enormous blanket of darkness filled the LCD screen. It brought all the sidebar conversations in the room and even Tony’s entreaty to a sudden halt.

The footage must’ve been captured as we climbed out of the pen and headed for the main pathway. But the darkness was as impenetrable as anything I’d ever seen before. It spread quickly, and at one point the camera’s view was utterly obscured in thick blackness. Granted, dusk was upon us…but that in no way explained the soft orange, purple, and gray of twilight being totally obliterated by a wave of black. The pen below us disappeared, as did the path ahead. It was as if the video function had ceased to work, leaving us to listen to Tony’s and my small talk, and Fiona’s panicked reaction to the news from Jackie about Ed.

Maybe it was an equipment malfunction…maybe not. I recalled the ominous feeling emanating toward us from The Slaughter Pen, and how I kept looking over my shoulder. But I never saw the darkness. I only felt it.

Trying to decipher this mystery, I pretty much missed the last portion of our review that had been reserved for Stones River. Not that I didn’t see Ricky’s cool shot on the big screen, but something about the other, undefined image affected me more. Enough to where I absently responded ‘It could be’ when asked by my peers if the four smoke-like mists in a row contained faces in them, or was this another case of matrixing?

“Well, I disagree—I think those are faces, and if you guys are too blind to see them, then that’s your problem,” said Ricky, angrily. “I’m still voting for this shot to be included in tomorrow’s lineup!”

“Maybe your picture will be included, Ricky,” said Fiona, applying some of the soft skills she uses well as manager for the three bookstores she overseas. “But, let’s see how it stacks up against the Carnton evidence before making that decision. Remember, we want to have the very best blend of evidence tomorrow since we’ve only got a few more opportunities to make a great impression on New York.”

Ricky continued to sulk, and it was one of the few occasions where I felt quite grateful for Tom’s no-nonsense approach to keeping the program moving forward. Without waiting to see if Fiona could un-ruffle Ricky’s feathers, Tom moved on to the Carnton investigation. I immediately tensed up, wondering if I would have my own meltdown moment when Angie’s angry glare appeared on the screen.

“You all have heard about the ghost of the little McGavock girl…correct?”

“We actually got her photographed? Are you frigging kidding me??” Justin’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Man, I’ve got to see this!”

“Okay…here it is,” said Tom, pointing his red laser into the top right portion of the screen. The image on display was of the Carnton’s grand staircase, and he circled the laser in a tight circle just beyond the top of the staircase on the second floor landing. “Say hello to the first full image ever recorded of Mary McGavock’s ghost.”

At first, there was nothing definable atop the stairs. But a moment later, I could make out movement…and then what looked like a child’s nightgown from that era. Still, it could’ve been a curious trick of light and shadow—the hallmarks of what the human brain will use to find a familiar form, such as a face. A subconscious attempt to impose logic on an image that is incomplete, and nothing real.

But then we saw the eyes of the little girl…just for a moment. But long enough to see their luminous reflection as one of the cops’ flashlights suddenly threw a beam toward the top of the stairs. Perhaps it was influenced by the lawman’s gut instinct, and that he suddenly sensed a presence lurking above.

Regardless of the reason, when the light hit the little girl’s eyes, they lit up like a cat or raccoon caught rummaging in an attic.

Everyone gasped.

“Oh, but this gets better…much,
much
better!” Tom enthused. “Watch what is going on across the hall, on the other side of the stairs.”

“Holy shit!”
whispered Michelle. Ghost hunters and professional camera people alike soon echoed her sentiment around the room.

I admit, even I wasn’t ready for the bigger apparition to make its way to the ‘lost’ little girl. The turban and heavier build were as telling as this ghost’s darker features. Known to some researchers as the McGavock’s nanny, my wife’s friend knew the spirit only as ‘the kitchen ghost’. But no matter, this one smiled and bowed toward the stationary camera, as if knowing we would eventually see her and the little girl’s image. Then she took the little girl by the hand, and the two specters vanished before our eyes.

“Oh my God, that’s amazing! Just
frigging
incredible!!”

Ricky was the one to say this, and I was pleased that he had all but forgotten the earlier slight he had felt in regard to his impressive photograph from Stones River. But even he could see where the more recent images we witnessed were of a higher caliber. Only devout skeptics who believe in nothing outside our physical senses, and who would readily bury their heads in a pile of sand could deny such evidence.

“You said we have one more ghost, when really it’s two, right?” I asked, thinking that the only thing we had not gone over yet was the image of the Confederate officer and Angie peering in through the back porch windows at us. “So, really there are two more, and we have a total of four ghosts from this investigation…right?”

“Wrong.”

Tom pulled off his glasses to rub his eyes as he said this. When he replaced his specs, he regarded me solemnly.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner, Jimmy,” he said. “And I guess I assumed that Fiona would’ve told you the news on the way over here.”

“News about what? What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Hon’, I wanted to see it first to make sure…and I still haven’t seen it for myself,” said Fiona, reaching over and grasping my right hand with both of hers. “Apparently we were mistaken the other night. There was only one face and not two captured by Tom’s camera.”

“What?!
But, we all saw it…we all saw Angie’s glaring face!”

I was trying very hard not to get mad, and without warning, Tom ran the footage for us. Soon the back window was visible through his infrared camera, as was the aforementioned Confederate officer. In fact, the officer’s image was even more lucid than I recalled it being last Sunday night. Just as I also remembered, he was looking in the window with his hands pressed against the glass around his eyes, as if he were a physical being affected by the glare from our flashlights and camera lamps.

But where Angie—the devilish Delores Cabrini—had been, there now was only a shadow. Maybe one could make out the contours of an expensive patent leather bodysuit…but more likely not. There was a reddish hue near the shoulder of the officer, but it was too vague to tell if it surrounded a woman’s head or not, or even if there was a head there at all.

This was a terrible development.

Had the image I swore I saw the other night been in reality a matrixed composite that my brain had invented? In truth, had we
all
done that?

“I think I’m feeling sick…we should go home.”

Just like that, the wind had been knocked out of me, and the robust feeling of joy from just minutes earlier had been replaced by terrible nausea. My wife and I had been duped by some misguided desire to see my tormentor…or at least I had.

The way Fiona looked at me told me that she shared my disappointment, as well as the bitter feeling of betrayal. It was as if Angie had figured out how to put one over on us once again.

Chapter Nine

I call it a paranormal hangover.

What else could define the feeling of being duped by a ghost? After all, if everyone said we saw her image in the camera’s infrared display that night, how could it no longer be visible when it came time to process the evidence a week later? It made no sense, and unfortunately, my brain desperately needed for it to make at least some sense.

Not unlike a hangover from a night of bingeing on booze, I had a horrible headache for much of Monday. Never one to call out for that sort of thing, I suffered through it as best I could at the bookstore that day. Praying my smiles didn’t look like grimaces to my customers, Four-thirty couldn’t get there quickly enough.

But finally it did arrive, and then it was on to dinner and our show. Yeah, you better believe I was petitioning God for just a few pain-free hours, as in no way did I want to blow anything for my wife and the rest of my ghost hunting pals.

“Welcome back, NVP!”

Nick was in a particularly bright mood. He didn’t seem in a hurry this time to shoo us on stage and be rid of our presence. If Jackie hadn’t already announced that our ratings had nearly doubled in one week—especially in regard to the re-airing of last Monday’s show on Wednesday and Friday—I might’ve thought our least cordial of the show’s two producers had stumbled onto some Hillbilly Speed.

“Got a moment, Jimmy? Let’s talk.”

He loosened his tie as he stepped away from the stage and over to the hallway that led to his and Lisa’s offices. Nick Rhodes had said maybe five words to me during the past four and a half months, and most of those came on the day we signed our contract for
Paranormal This Week
. He preferred speaking with the gals in our group—mainly Jackie, but also Fiona. Other than Tom, the rest of us guys were just props for NVP’s triumvirate leadership. And, yet, we had been told on several occasions that the playful banter between Justin and me was what had sold the suits in New York on our show’s potential. So…maybe the latest six words he spoke to me had something to do with that dynamic. Unless this was like in pro ball, when a statement like that was soon followed by “and be sure to bring your playbook with you.”

“What’s up, Nick?”

I made sure I had stepped out of earshot of everyone else, who were making their way up onto the stage to join Lisa. The curtain call would come in just a few minutes for tonight’s program.

“Rumor has it that Justin isn’t fond of our adding the Pulaski Paranormal Posse to the mix,” said Nick, lowering his voice while his deep blue eyes darted back and forth as if looking for some secret clue in my facial reaction. “A confrontation on the set would be most unfortunate for him… as well as for everyone else. Do you agree?”

He wasn’t going to find confirmation in my nonchalant expression, and I could’ve kept him on the hook indefinitely. But since I knew all too well what he was getting at, and with the show about to begin at any moment, I told him what I assumed he wanted to hear.

“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Usually all it will take is to keep things light…and if that doesn’t work, I’ll threaten his life.”

Oh, how I wish I had worn the tiny pen camera Tony bought me for my birthday a few months ago. Nick’s mortified expression would’ve been fantastic fun and created some great laughs in private with my best buds.

“Just kidding, Nick. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Besides, I heard him cutting up with Jerry and Jason the other night at Stones River.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah…seriously.”

I offered a slight smile and then he excused himself from my presence while reaching for his cell phone that had just buzzed. Rather than wait to see if he wanted to discuss anything else, I rejoined the others on stage. Our diminutive announcer, Dino, had already begun welcoming the crowd that sounded much larger than last Monday’s record setter.

Everyone else was looking at me as if my tardiness was my fault. But before the curtain rose, I had taken my place next to Justin and was ready to rock n’ roll.

“So what was that about?” asked Justin, quietly.

“Apparently, our benevolent producers want me to muzzle you a bit.”

“What the f—”

“Shhhh! Just be kind to the Blondie Twins, and life will be grand.”