Pipeline (3 page)

Marcia stood, sat closer, and embraced her.
“It’s all right now,” she said, shushing her. Tracy’s crying was an
overload expelled and released to its fullest capacity, then calmed
as her closest friend consoled her.

“Here, let me get you a drink,” Marcia
said.

“I have one,” she said, raising the glass to
her lips and sipping.

“I meant water, smart ass.”

Tracy reassured her and, in a calmer effort,
continued. “Then, you’re not going to believe what happened when I
left work today. I was driving home, and I turned on the car radio.
I didn’t pick a station—I just drove while the commercials were on.
The stations began flipping around, changing from one to another on
their own, and I wasn’t touching the dial! It finally stopped on
that song”

Marcia looked at her, not comprehending.

“The song that was playing at the party,
right before we left. That song was still in my head when the crash
happened.”

“So, what you’re saying is that the radio
turned to that song all by itself?”

Tracy nodded. She couldn’t decipher the look
she was getting from Marcia, who sighed and shook her head back and
forth in a slow, grave manner.

Something from another realm had invaded
Tracy’s life within the past twenty- four hours, and now she’d
stumbled along the dividing line between reality and the unknown.
The preceding events far exceeded anything that her thoughts or
imagination could conjure, and while she couldn’t explain, the
questionable stares from Kemp and others were depleting her
patience.

“Tracy, I know you. I can’t say you’re right,
but I know you’re not the type to imagine things. That would be
enough to drive anyone to drinking, but are you sure that maybe a
string of coincidences hasn’t overwhelmed you?”

Tracy gasped and shook her head.

“So, you think I’m crazy?”

“I don’t like the word,” she said with a
laugh. “I’m just saying that maybe the memories of David and the
accident are still unresolved, and those memories are so strong
that maybe they left an overwhelming and powerful burden upon
you.”

“That doesn’t explain Mr. Richardson!”
Tracy’s voice rose with the persistence of a child who wasn’t to be
believed.

“You’re right, Tracy,” Marcia said. “It
doesn’t explain Richardson; and how he could have known David’s
nickname for you, I don’t know. But I do know you’re not a
crackpot; you’re the best nurse I know.” There was a pause before
Marcia continued.

“You know, there are people who deal with
these things, Tracy. I would say there is no harm in exploring it.
It may even be a cathartic experience.”

Tracy’s eyebrows arched. Marcia’s years of
experience made her sound more like a doctor than a nurse; Tracy
never expected to hear the suggestion from her.

“You mean an exorcism?” Tracy chuckled at the
thought.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything quite so
dramatic,” Marcia said. “What I meant is there are people who are
involved in paranormal research.”

Tracy’s eyes fixed upon her friend in excited
disbelief, and the faintest crack of a smile dawned upon her
lips.

“You mean a ghost hunter?” A small hiss of
laughter escaped her. “No shit—a ghost hunter?!”

Marcia lowered her eyes to the table top.

“I never would have guessed,” Tracy said. Her
relief now came in a howl of laughter. “I can’t believe it, you, of
all people?”

“Look, Tracy,” she said. “I’ve been a nurse
for twenty-five years. “Doctors, nurses, scientists, we all know
that when a person dies, energy leaves the body. As a nurse, I can
sense it, almost feel it. So let me ask you, where does it go?”

Tracy’s face was now blank and straightened,
as Marcia spoke in her “Head Nurse” voice: the tone of the wiser,
inquisitive mentor testing her pupil.

“It has to go somewhere,” Marcia said. “Where
does it go? Where? The truth is, we don’t know.”

Tracy, stunned, shook her head and spoke.

“Then why doesn’t the medical community talk
about this?”

“Now that really wouldn’t be appropriate, now
would it?” Marcia said. “Truth is often hidden in favor of
discretion.”

Tracy’s jaw dropped.

Chapter Four

Tracy awoke the
following morning as a bitter orange burst of sunlight broke
through the curtains, piercing her eyes with a stabbing pain, and
stirring her from the cozy, makeshift swaddling where she tried to
forget the day before. She’d slept hard through the night, and the
neon green numbers of the alarm read 11:34.

She rose from the bed, reluctant, her eyes
adjusting to the sunburst of the new day, until the weight of her
head overwhelmed her. Dizzying spirals swept her back down onto the
bed, and the spin in her head made her groan. A wave of sweat
surged down her face as her temperature soared, and the parched,
cracked, desert of her mouth ached for an oasis.

The hangover was an act of war declared on
her, and she sagged back into the soft bed for a few moments,
breathing in great, heaving gasps. She forced herself up to fight
the enemy and made her way to the shower. The hot water washed away
the sludge of sleep. Afterward, Tracy stood before the mirror,
staring back with bloodshot eyes.

She gulped down a glass of ice water, knowing
that it wasn’t the proper hangover remedy, and gasped in relief.
She set a sobering pot of coffee to boil, and then turned on her
computer to check her e-mail.

Tracy sorted through the various spam ads
that continually infested her inbox:
Buy One, Get One FREE; Give
us YOUR opinion for $50; Get your degree online.
She deleted
them one by one until one e-mail stood out. It was from
Marcia...

Just checking to see how you were holding up.
How’s your head feel?

Marcia.

She would respond later. Right now, she had
something to do.

It took only seconds to initiate the search
engine, type the words “ghost hunters, and click for results. Many
options filled the screen; she scrolled until an unexpected ad met
her eye. It was from the local university. She clicked on the blue
link and read the ad...

Have you had a paranormal experience? Do you
consider yourself to be the subject of a haunting? If you have had
any interaction or activity that could be considered “paranormal,”
we would like to speak with you. We are experienced investigators
and scholars interested in documenting your situation. Our goals
are to seek, study, and assist. If we can help you, please send an
e-mail and tell us your story. All information is confidential. No
fees ever.

She clicked on a blue link that read,
“Contact Us,” and up popped a blank e-mail self addressed to
“
drasche
.” The email server for the strange address belonged
to the university. She did an internet search of the name, as well
as the university, and discovered their established team of
paranormal investigators. A headline concerning the team of four
stood out amid the online items...

University’s Paranormal Investigators “Ghost
Bust” former Sanctuary Hospital.

The article detailed how this team had rid a
haunted hotel, which had been a hospital during the Civil War, of
its long-time ghosts. The hotel manager had labeled them
“astounding.”

She filled in the subject line and after a
few moments, she decided that a personal introduction worked best.
She was finishing the last sentence of the first paragraph when the
phone rang.

The unfinished e-mail was left open when she
rose from the chair to answer the phone. Tracy stopped short,
noticing the caller id. It was that number again: 000-000-0000 and
the same words, NO DATA SENT. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

Nothing, then a slight static. Suddenly, the
sound was rapid, inaudible. A voice, twisted and warbled, came from
the opposite end of the phone line.

“HRMMA...”

“Hello?!” Fear and agitation rose in her
voice at the sound of the bizarre, alien attempt at speech.

“RRRMAA...”

Then the static grew louder and died... and
then silence.

She replaced the receiver and trembled. Why
was this happening? She was sure she’d heard someone trying to
speak until the sound became overwhelmed by the static. Could it
really be David?

Tracy closed her eyes and wished it all away,
and then mustering her strength, she turned back to the computer;
she had an e-mail to finish. Her body burned with the heat of alarm
when she saw the e-mail she’d left open on the screen, and her
pounding heart played percussion in her ears while her breath
quivered.

This can’t be. But it was, and she was
staring straight at it.

Strange typing had appeared after hers. She
sat in disbelief, stretching her fingers toward the screen. It read
in capital letters:

TRACYTRACYTRACYTRACYTRACYTRACYTRACYTRACY

Everything she’d ever known or been taught
about certainty in life suddenly slipped away, seeing the letters
of her own name typed across the screen. Her mind responded fast as
she clicked the Print icon, and the inch by inch process finally
shot the paper out with one quick flash. She snatched it from the
carriage.

What was displayed on the screen had copied
exactly on the page, and the magnitude of what she held in her
hands felt like colossal triumph. Here was her proof that she was
sane, or was it? She chuckled at the thought of Dr. Logan claiming
that she typed it herself, but at least now she knew she wasn’t
insane, not completely. She saved the e-mail in a special file and
started typing another to the mysterious “drasche.”

She documented the entire experience,
starting from the beginning with the TV, the phone calls, Mr.
Richardson, and the radio, then debated whether or not to include
this new incident. She supposed it might all sound exaggerated,
crazy, but as of right now, the prospect became irrelevant.

She added a post-script at the end, and then
clicked “SEND,” realizing its finality and continuing to stare at
the screen. How long would it take for “drasche” to respond? A
cool, quick, rush of air suddenly swept her, along with the feeling
of someone standing over her shoulder. How absurd it was to feel
that sensation, being all alone in the house. She stood up from the
chair, stretched her legs, and took a deep breath. Then, she turned
around and saw him.

All of the distinctions of his face were
present: his chestnut shaped eyes, the upward arch of his eyebrows,
the layers of shaggy, sandy colored hair. She closed her tired,
uneasy eyes and fought to re-focus, shaking her head to clear her
cluttered mind, telling herself it was only an image etched into
her subconscious mind and nothing more.

She opened her eyes and discovered she was
wrong. David was even more visible now, and she could see the
shape, the outline of him. He was there, yet he wasn’t there, and
she could see her living room through him. There he stood as a
vague outline, a complex configuration of atoms and energy with no
physical host to anchor it, no longer part of this world but
separate from it.

A lightning bolt of shock struck her, and an
electrifying force charged her heart, pulsated her soul, and raised
the skin and hair from her shaking body. Her jaw quivered, and out
of her mouth came a high pitched wail of paralyzed fear, the only
sound she could muster.

He moved with a flash, but Tracy didn’t take
her eyes away from the fleeting entity. He moved again, faster,
fearful of her startled cry. Then he was gone. The room seemed
whole again, no longer hiding his ghostly presence.

A stream of guilt washed over her in a new
cold sweat. Why did she scream? Why didn’t she talk to him? I blew
it, she thought, her eyes still searching the scene for signs of
him.

“No!” she said to the empty room. “David?!
Come back, come back!” She slouched down in a chair, reduced to one
of the unknowing, crying out through a cascade of tears.

Chapter Five

Dylan Rasche sat
behind his desk at the computer, reading and deleting two days
worth of e-mail. It was his job as chief investigator of the
university’s Paranormal Research & Investigative Society, to
oversee all outside communication addressed to the group. Much of
the e-mail that day had been the usual advertisements, but one
e-mail’s subject line jumped out at him.

I need your help!

He clicked it open.

The e-mail was from a nurse at University
Hospital who explained that she and her fiancée had been in a car
accident six months ago, in which he was killed. The young woman
was experiencing strange and unexplainable occurrences as of late,
which she detailed in specifics. Dylan’s interest peaked as he read
on about a voice speaking through the static of a television
screen, strange phone calls documented by a caller id, and her
patient’s deathbed ramblings of specific and private
information.

The final paragraph of the e-mail detailed an
incident concerning a car radio, and at the end, a post-script was
added. It was this that spurred his secret excitement; it read in
conclusion...

PS—I just tried to send this e-mail, when I
was interrupted by one of the same phone calls I have described.
When I returned to the computer screen, someone, or something, had
typed my name across the e-mail. I am alone in the house. I have
saved the initial e-mail for you to see, and I am sending this new
one. I really hope you can help me. I feel as though I’m losing my
mind. It was signed...Tracy Kimball, R.N; University Hospital.

An address and telephone number were
left.

He could tell that this wasn’t a crank, or a
fake e-mail sometimes received by the society from everyone
including partying frat boys, to eccentric old ladies overreacting.
This was a young, accredited professional whose one request was a
cry for help. Dylan had read about such experiences from various
sources: the dead communicating through certain technologies but
never had the society been approached on such a case.