What's a Ghoul to Do?

"Good morning, Miss Holliday," the real estate agent cheerfully greeted me outside 84 Dartmouth Street.

"Hi, there. You must be Cassandra," I said, shaking her hand. "Please call me M.J."

"You're younger and prettier than I thought you'd be," she commented as she nervously twisted the pearls at her neck.

"Thank you," I said, then quickly got down to business. "I know we talked a little on the phone, but what can you tell me about this house?"

Cassandra paled slightly and looked up at the three-story brownstone, a turn-of-the-century gem that was right at home in Boston's opulent Back Bay neighborhood. "I've had the listing for almost a year, which, as you can imagine, is unheard-of here in the Back Bay. Brownstones like this one sell around here in a matter of weeks, not months."

"Sticker shock?" I asked.

"No, nothing like that. At one million it's an absolute steal! And we've had a lot of interest in it, despite its history. But every time we get close to making a deal, the buyer backs out. They all say the same thing: The place just has bad energy."

"You said someone was killed inside?"

Cassandra nodded. "Yes, the daughter of the current owners was raped and murdered a little over a year ago."

"That's awful," I said, looking back toward the brownstone. "Did they catch the killer?"

"He was shot by police as he tried to make a getaway out the back. Unfortunately, they arrived too late to save the girl."

"So, really, two people died in the house."

"Yes, I suppose so," she said.

"And what's been happening since then?"

"Well," she said, her hand going back to twist the pearls, "every time I show the house I get the feeling I'm being watched. And more than that, sometimes I feel like I'm being followed. People come in and don't seem to want to stay. Most folks just take a tour of one or two rooms; then they leave like they're being chased out."

"I see," I said, but I had a feeling there was more. "Is that all?"

"No," she said after a moment. "The other day I was showing the house to this couple who really seemed to be okay with the history of the place. They considered it a good trade-off for such a bargain. But just as we were getting ready to leave, we all heard a woman's scream from one of the bedrooms upstairs. I thought someone had come in while I was showing the couple around, so I ran up there and looked all over but no one was there. Then, just as I was coming back downstairs, I felt…" She paused.

"What?"

"I felt someone
touch
me."

"Like a hand on your shoulder or something?"

"No," she whispered, her eyes large and frightened. "Like someone touched me
inappropriately."

"Ah," I said with a nod. Now I knew who the aggressor was. "Okay, if you'll unlock the door I'll get to work."

"Can you really help us, M.J.?"

"That's what I do, Cassandra," I said. "I'm a ghostbuster. Give me a few hours and let me see what I can do."

Cassandra followed me up the six steps to the front door and unlocked it for me. "You'll be all right in there by yourself?" she asked, her face suddenly worried.

"I'll be fine," I said confidently. I'd faced scarier stuff than this before. Pausing as the door swung shut behind me, I moved into the foyer and, looked around, setting my duffel bag down in the corner by the staircase. I wanted to get the lay of things before reaching into my bag of tricks.

I let my eyes travel around the room, getting a feel for the brownstone's configuration. The front foyer had several doorways leading to the rest of the house. To my right a corridor led to the kitchen. The living room was directly in front of me, and off to my left was what looked like a study. From my back pocket I pulled out my electrostatic meter, a small gadget that measures variances in electrostatic energy. I held my arm out and waved it in a circle around the foyer, noting the thick, luxurious carpet, high ceilings, crown molding, and expensive wall covering. The digs were definitely opulent, and even without furniture you could tell this place oozed money. And, according to my electrostatic meter, the place oozed something else, too.

With an eye on the needle bouncing back and forth across the gauge, I moved ahead through the foyer and into the living room. The needle gave a jolt as I edged over to the French doors that swung out onto the terrace. The needle bounced again. I put the little gadget in the back pocket of my jeans and closed my eyes for a moment and got myself centered.

Before I was a ghostbuster, I was a professional medium, which has proven to be the most beneficial skill for my success rate as a top-notch buster. In other words, I can sense energies that both have crossed over to the other side successfully, and those that have become stuck, or "grounded," as we like to call it. In 84 Dartmouth I had immediately picked up the energies of two grounded spirits, one female and one male. I decided to focus on the female first.

Moving away from the French doors, I followed the small tug in my solar plexus, heading through the hallway and up the stairs. As I closed in on the female energy, something slightly disturbing happened. I felt the male energy, which was thick with ill will, begin to follow me. "Back off a little, pal," I said quietly to him. "I'll deal with you in a moment."

The male energy didn't want to listen, but continued to shadow me up to the second floor, where I paused on the landing before continuing up to the third floor. There, at the end of the hallway, I saw a dark shadow dart into one of the bedrooms. "It's okay," I said to the shadow. "I'm not going to hurt you." I walked down the hall and into the bedroom, and noticed an immediate dip in temperature. I crossed my arms and shivered slightly, feeling the icy coolness penetrate my clothing and my skin, seeping into my bones. I'd never gotten used to the deep chill that comes with rubbing up against spectral activity, but I pushed my discomfort aside and focused hard on the task at hand. "What's your name, sweetheart?" I asked the empty bedroom softly.   '

There was no response, but I could feel the fear emanating from the woman's spirit. I sensed her in the corner of the room, and sure enough, my mind's eye flashed an image of a young woman in her early twenties, crouched and cowering by the window. I moved over to that area and felt the temperature dip even lower. I knelt down and closed my eyes to concentrate. I said aloud, "I'm here to help you. He can't hurt you anymore, honey. And I'll make sure he doesn't get away with what he's done. Please talk to me. Tell me your name."

With relief I felt the name Carolyn float into my mind. I smiled sadly. The poor thing—not only had she been raped and killed by the beast behind me, but now she was stuck in a confusing state of limbo.
Where are my parents?
she asked me desperately.

"They're safe, but they're very worried about you, Carolyn. They've asked me to help you. Will you allow me to?"

I opened my eyes and stared at the blank space in front of me. I couldn't see Carolyn, but I could definitely feel and hear her. She didn't answer me right away, so I continued to try to win her over. "I promise to keep you safe, but you've got to trust me. I will guide you home, but I can't do that if you're unwilling. Will you trust me?"

He promised!

"He promised what, honey?" I knew she was talking about her attacker.

He promised not to hurt me if I cooperated!

I sighed heavily. The rat bastard. I was going to enjoy dealing with him. "I know, my friend, I know," I said gravely. "He lied. But that's in the past. He cannot hurt you again. I absolutely forbid it."

Where are my parents?
This plea was even more urgent in my head than the first time she'd asked me. Carolyn was coming close to panicking, and if she did I'd lose contact with her. She would no doubt seek the comfort of the limbo plane that hovered just beyond the one we existed on. This was where lost spirits typically hung out, coming into our reality only when they were strong enough to deal with what had happened to them.