The Ghost Chronicles (4 page)

Maureen clenched her teeth, seemingly seething in pain. The eerie silence of the moment shattered as another tormented groan echoed off the walls.

That’s it. I’d had enough. Deep in the recess of my mind, somewhere in my subconscious, dwelled an unspeakable fear: that one day we’d confront such evil that no matter how strong my resolve, Maureen would be lost. This would not be that day. Whether she liked it or not, we were done.

“Push him out!” I exclaimed. “Maureen, push him out.”

Once more I commanded as I reached for her arm. “Push—him—out.”

Jacob became enraged by my interference. Taking advantage of my awkward crouch, he shoved me and the powerful thrust hurled me on my ass. Momentarily stunned, I pushed myself up off the cold floor and brushed away the gravel embedded in my palms.

Undisturbed by his attack, I turned my focus to Maureen’s dilemma. “Push him out, Maureen. Push—him—out.”

The sudden whoosh of Maureen’s forearm sent me flying against the uneven surface of the stone wall. Ignoring the stabbing pain
in my back, I forced myself to regain my stance. More determined than ever, I grabbed her arm. She attempted to jerk free of my hold, but this time I was ready—I held my ground.

“I need my—” Jacob stopped mid-growl.

“You need what? You have something to say, than say it!”

Maureen’s body stiffened. Then: “This is my house!”

“Fine,” I replied. “Do you have anything to say? If you don’t, then leave this body—now. I command you. Leave. This. Body. Now. It’s not yours!”

Maureen stood bent over, her nails digging into her faded jeans. And, as always, I waited for the sign, the indication that she’d returned to the living. And then I got it: she raised her head and leveled her stare, and the piercing eyes were gone. Jacob had left.

Her breathing became less labored. “Are you all right?” I asked, my heart still pounding.

“Yes.” Although in her early forties, she flexed her fingers like a sixty-year-old woman stricken with arthritis. Still grasping the pendulum, and slowly gathering strength, she avoided eye contact. Through several more deep breaths, she sighed, “He’s still around.”

“Yeah, I know.” Although my EMF meter had gone deathly silent, somehow I knew that Jacob was still here. The eight years of working with Maureen had opened me up to instinct more than I care to admit.

Drawn to the sound of shattering glass, we suddenly remembered our audience. Melissa, the reporter from Boston.com, and her photographer, Jen, had knocked over some extra dinnerware. Cautiously they stepped over the shards of broken glass and approached us.

“Is she all right?” Melissa asked, her voice not but a whisper. On the hunt for a Halloween story, they had stumbled upon the New England Ghost Project website and called the Ghost Line to see if they could tag along to document an investigation. Perhaps we’d given them more than what they were looking for.

“Yeah. But give us a minute.”

Eager to leave, Maureen took a step toward the stairs, but one leg buckled beneath her. I grabbed her arm and slowly guided her across the cellar. As we reached the stairs I turned to find the two reporters sheepishly following behind. Even in the faint light of the basement their pale faces spoke volumes. “Are you two okay?”

Silently, they turned to each other, exchanging a fleeting look. Almost in unison they answered, “Yes.” Their voices said
yes
but their eyes said
no
. I smirked.

Lula, Vess’s partner in crime, greeted us at the top of the stairs, “What did you do to Vess? He came running up the stairs like a little girl!” she exclaimed in a rich, Greek accent.

We followed Lula down the hallway to the restaurant’s bar. As we approached the staircase that led to the second floor, Maureen sat down on the steps. “I’ll join you guys in a minute.”

Vess was tucked into the farthest corner of the room, a distraught look on his face. “What’s the matter, old man?” I called. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’ll tell you, Ron, you’ve been in here quite a few times, and I’ve never been scared. But tonight…I’ve never seen Maureen like that. If she would have come near me, I would’ve hit her with a two-by-four and gladly gone to jail.”

Maureen poked her head around the corner and peered into the room. “Excuse me, Vess,” Maureen paused. “You were going to do what?”

Stunned, Vess turned around to face Maureen as she stepped closer to him. “I—I—I—You don’t understand. You should have seen how you looked at me. I know it was you. But it wasn’t,” he said.

“You would have hit me? Then what?” Maureen asked, her lips twitching slightly into a smile.

“I would have hit you, then dealt with the consequences later.”

We all burst out laughing.

“Can I ask you a couple of questions?” Melissa asked, timidly approaching Maureen. “I must say, I was a little nervous down there in the basement. I’ve never witnessed someone channel a spirit before.” She paused. “I’m curious. When did you first discover that you could speak to ghosts?”

“My mother tells me that the ability to hear and see spirits has been in our family for generations. But I also think my near-death experience at the age of three opened me up to the paranormal even more.”

“At three years old? You were so young. How could you possibly remember the experience?”

“I realize I was young, but even now, the memories of that day are extremely vivid.” Maureen cleared her throat. “I had come down with spinal meningitis. While in the hospital, I remember the joy I felt at leaving the excruciating pain behind in my heavy, weighted body. The body that felt separate from me. Distant even. It was then that I realized that I’d floated toward the ceiling. I looked on as the doctor and his nurses worked frantically over my pale, still form laying face down on the gurney. Just as a priest began to administer last rites, I thought of my parents and suddenly found myself hovering above them. There they were, huddling beneath a flickering fluorescent light, staring into space. I moved in closer
to get their attention, but instead, they looked right through me, as tears streamed down their cheeks. I tried to reach out to them, to tell them I was okay, that I was there. That they shouldn’t cry. Then, without pause, I felt myself careening backward. Pulled back into the emergency room, and into my body. The sudden onset of pain was so horrific, I blacked out. When I awoke, I felt different somehow. Older.”

“That’s unbelievable,” Melissa said. “But, how do you know it wasn’t a hallucination?”

“Like I said, it was so vivid. Years later, still plagued by the experience, I told it to my parents. To all of our surprise, they validated what I had seen, the description of the doctor, the priest, and even down to the colors of the drab green tiles lining the emergency room. While growing up, I would often tell my mother about the ‘friends’ that were visiting me at all hours of the day and night. She comforted me by giving me a hug, a bottle of holy water, and telling me not to worry about it, that I was normal. I believed her. Until I got older that is and realized that not everyone was experiencing what I was. At least not to the same extreme.”

“So, getting back to what I witnessed downstairs,” Melissa said. “Maureen, could you tell me what it’s like when you channel?”

“Well, when I’m sensing them, my third eye is going crazy.” Maureen placed her index finger to a spot between her eyes. “My whole face and head get tingly. When the energy gets really strong, and I’m letting them trance channel through me, I open a part of me up that lets them come through. But when they do, sometimes the energy is so strong that my arms go numb. My legs go numb. Because the energy is just so intense. It’s almost as if they have a chance to be alive again. So whenever they can, they love to go into a body.”

I chimed in, “Imagine if you couldn’t talk for a hundred and fifty years and you had the opportunity, wouldn’t you be all over it?”

Melissa thumbed on her digital camera, and started scrolling through shots of the night.

“So what are you going to do with this stuff?” Maureen asked.

“We’re going to put together an audio slide show which will permanently be on Boston.com.”

“Cool,” I said, excited that it would be so widely available, and then I saw the look of shock on Maureen’s face. “Oh. Did I forget to tell you that?”

“It’ll be up forever? Great,” Maureen replied. Her reaction reminded me, once again, of her sensitivity about what she does. While an article on the Internet meant “forever” coverage for me, for Maureen it unearthed a host of concerns in terms of her name and reputation being “out there.”

“You two sound like an old married couple,” Melissa said.

“I don’t
think
so,” we blurted out in unison.

The corners of Melissa’s mouth twisted up in a smile. “Yeah,” she laughed. “Anyway, let’s get serious. How did you guys meet?”

As if in response to Melissa’s question, the EMF meter I had left lying on the bar began to blink and beep wildly. I couldn’t help but notice Vess out of the corner of my eye as he fumbled for his shot glass and threw down another one. I looked to Maureen and she to me. We didn’t need words—Jacob had joined us again.

Melissa’s voice quaked over the incessant beeping of the meter. “Is this normal?”

“Define normal.” I placed my hand on my chin, like Sherlock Holmes in
The Hound of the Baskervilles
. “Actually, let me tell you about the first time Maureen joined the New England Ghost Project on an investigation and the first time we met the spirit named Jacob. It was right here at the Windham Restaurant…”

I
t was late at night when we arrived at the Windham for our first Ghost Project investigation with Maureen. We were accompanied by Brian Bates, a reporter for WNDS in Derry, New Hampshire, who wanted to do a four-part series on haunted places in New England. Because I had worked with WNDS television in the past, he asked if he could accompany us on an investigation.

The Windham has an unsettling eeriness to it, which is reflected in the wooden sign hanging above its sturdy white door. “Food and Spirits,” it simply reads.
How damn appropriate
, I thought the first time I saw it.

As we approached the nearly two-hundred-year-old building, a feeling of apprehension swept over the group, and a rather large group it was. In addition to Maureen and me, the Ghost Project contingent included our photographer Leo, our investigator Bob and his wife, Gay, Ron Jr., and our two special guests from WNDS television, Brian and his cameraman Tom.

As we reached the front door, it suddenly swung open. The lights from inside cast a shadow, revealing the silhouettes of our hosts. Lula, although dwarfed by her partner Vess’s presence, beamed with life. She gave me a hug and invited us in. I introduced myself to Vess and shook his hand. One touch of his uncalloused hand, and I knew without a doubt that he was the chef.

Vess had heard about the Ghost Project from one of his patrons. Anxious to verify his and his partner’s belief that the building was
indeed haunted, they called the Ghost Line. Our initial research of the building revealed that the restaurant was located in an old farmhouse built around 1812 by the Dinsmore family. Isaac Dinsmore and then his son, Horace, lived in the house for many years. Later it was occupied by several businesses before finally becoming the Windham Restaurant. We were as anxious to investigate it as Vess and Lula were.

As I entered the restaurant I scanned for a place to set up base camp. I couldn’t help but notice the warm glow of a fireplace through a set of French doors. The chill in my bones made my decision easy: we’d use the dining room.