The Ghost Chronicles Read online

  Janet, who was closest to the door, slowly pushed it shut, its old iron hinges screaming in response. “Oh my God,” she said. “There’s writing on it.”

  I quickly made my way to the door. There, to my surprise, were several words scratched or carved into the rough-hewn wood.

  Maureen leaned in closer. “What’s it say, Ron? I don’t have my glasses.”

  Studying the marks etched in the wood, I said, “This one says ‘die’ and this says ‘kill you.’” Looking back at Samantha I asked, “Who wrote these?”

  “No one,” she replied. “They just appeared out of nowhere one day.”

  I raised my 35mm, checked the flash, looked in the viewfinder to make sure I had the shot, and pressed the shutter. Nothing happened. “What the heck?”

  Maureen chuckled. “Did you bless the camera, Ron?”

  “Would you shut the hell up?” I stammered. Man, if I hear that one more time, I’m going to strangle her. I raised the camera once more and snapped the shutter. “There, see? It worked.”

  “You’re such an ass,” Maureen said.

  Suddenly Maureen pulled me aside and spoke in a low voice, for only me to hear, “There’s something off about this place—and her.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  Unable to get any more answers, I looked at Maureen and spoke up for the group to hear. “What do you think? Are we done in here?”

  * * *

  I met Ron’s gaze. “Yeah, I’m really not picking anything up in here.”

  “Okay,” Ron said. “Samantha, let’s move on.”

  Moments later we were in the next room, a small bedroom with torn flowered wallpaper, white trim, and a wide pine floor, painted brown. The floor was so dark it looked nearly black. Standing in the corner was a lone piece of furniture, an oval, mahogany, freestanding mirror.

  It didn’t take long for Ron’s EMF meter to go off. Like so many times before, it confirmed what I already knew: that there was an entity in the room—or, to be more precise, two. I reached into my jacket pocket and removed the quilted pouch protecting my pendulum and crystals. I pressed the silver chain between my thumb and forefinger and asked the usual questions aloud: What is a yes? What is a no? What is a maybe? Are there any spirits with us now? Are you female? And so forth.

  The spinning crystal pendulum revealed that there was a little girl with us and a little boy as well. By the sudden light and airy feeling I was picking up on, I knew that they were in a playful mood.

  “They’re gone,” Ron exclaimed as his EMF meter went silent.

  “No, Ron. They’re here,” I said as a quick smile shot across my lips. “They want to play with you.”

  Ron began poking the air with his EMF meter looking for signs of our elusive playmates.

  I stood there, nearly bursting out laughing as I watched Ron running to and fro, chasing the readings on his meter. “Ron, hurry up. She’s behind the mirror, giggling. I can hear her.”

  * * *

  The spirits of the twins try to elude Ron behind the freestanding mirror. An infrared shot reveals what appears to be spirit energy.

  Ron darted behind the mirror as his face grew red. Was it the glow of the EMF meter, or was he embarrassed about something? Soon I could tell by the familiar beeping that he’d caught her.

  “Wow, I think I found her,” Ron said with satisfaction. His victory was short-lived, though; his meter went dead.

  “She’s playing a game with you. I can hear her clearly. But it doesn’t make sense.”

  Ron stepped out from behind the mirror. “What doesn’t?”

  “She’s saying, ‘Run and hide.’”

  “You mean hide and seek?”

  “That’s what I think. But in my mind, I hear them saying it differently.”

  “Do you want to try to communicate with the pendulum?”

  As if the children were all too eager to communicate, an onslaught of thoughts and images bombarded my mind. It was becoming difficult to speak. The energy in the room suddenly intensified. If I didn’t know any better I’d have said the room was becoming smaller by the minute. Constricting, suffocating me, like the crush of an eighteen-foot boa. With my pendulum still in hand, I gave a sharp nod to Ron.

  He stepped to my side. “Maureen, what are you picking up?”

  Before he finished his statement her name popped into my mind. “Beth. They call her Beth.”

  The EMF meter came to life once again.

  “I’m picking up the name Thomas. It’s her brother.”

  “No. Michael.” Ron stopped short. Then he looked at me with a blank stare. “I don’t know where that came from,” he said, with the look of embarrassment evident on his face.

  I gave Ron a knowing smile. Working side by side with Ron, our energies mingled; his psychic awakening was bound to happen. “I think they died here, of fever,” I said.

  “Are they buried here?” Ron asked.

  Before I could answer, Frank’s voice broke the silence. “You know what, there’s an abandoned cemetery in the woods.”

  “Ron, I think they want us to go find their graves,” I said.

  “Road trip.” Ron grinned.

  I looked down at my black leather clogs and cringed. “Ron…”

  “What? Where’s your sense of adventure? Who wouldn’t give their right arm to go crawling through the woods to an abandoned cemetery, at midnight, no less?”

  “Me.”

  “Oh, zip it.” Ron chuckled, then walked away.

  Before I knew it, I was tramping through the woods, following directly behind Ron.

  After what seemed like hours but couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes, our flashlights illuminated a moss-covered stone wall cloaked in darkness.

  “We’re here,” Frank announced.

  I stood and stared at the seven-foot wall. “Yeah, but how do we get in?”

  “This way.” We followed Frank’s lead as he strode along the tapering wall. Finally we stood in front of the wrought-iron gate leading to the forgotten graveyard.

  Ron raised his hand, the beam of his flashlight scanning the tombstones on the ill-kept grounds. “Let’s go.” Walking as if he had blinders on, eyes only for the stones in front of us, he climbed over the rusted gate. He turned to us, “You guys coming?”

  The crew of the New England Ghost Project discover the abandoned cemetery deep in the woods.

  Not eager to follow Ron up and over the gate, the rest of us walked along the side, until we found an opening, a fourfoot span of fence missing. Without a flashlight I gingerly maneuvered my way around fallen headstones and cringed as the soft ground squished beneath my feet. “Ron, where are you?”

  “Right here.”

  Straining to hear, I followed the sound of his voice until I stumbled over him as he knelt in front of a headstone. To break my fall I reached out and grabbed the rough, cold surface of the marker in front of us. “What the heck are you doing? Are you trying to bury me here?”

  “That could be arranged,” he chided. “Actually, I’m doing a rubbing. Here, hold this. Make yourself useful.”

  I held the corner of the paper. “What are these for?” I asked, as Ron, using the edge of the pencil, scribbled back and forth.

  “For the research arm. I want to see what they can dig up.” He laughed at his own joke. When finished, he rolled the paper and moved on to the next stone, repeating the process.

  “Maureen, you picking up anything?” Rita called out.

  “No, I’m not feeling much of anything,” I said as I walked over to Rita and her photographer. “For the most part, cemeteries as a rule are pretty quiet. Then again, we have some great pictures from a few of them. Maybe it’s all about timing. For instance, on Halloween, we spent the whole night in a burial ground and nothing happened.”

  Rita frowned as I heard Ron’s voice in the background. “Maureen, come here, quick. Check this out.”


  With Rita and her photographer in my wake, we hurried over to Ron.

  “Touch these and see if you get any impressions,” Ron said as he knelt down beside two small tombstones, their engravings too weathered to read.

  As I listened to him, I felt compelled to lay my hands on the cold slabs of granite. The palms of my hands tingled in response, but before I could get a sense of it, the energy faded as quickly as it had arrived.

  “Do you think the kids are buried here?” Ron asked.

  “I really don’t know. I’m not feeling anything concrete.”

  “All right, I think we’re done now. Let’s get back to the house,” Ron said as he stood up and headed back toward the rusted gate.

  “Hey, Ron, where are you going? No need to climb over the gate, we found an opening. This way.” I motioned for him to follow.

  As we made our way back through the dense brush, Ron turned to look over his shoulder. “Look, there’s a light in the cemetery.” He peered at the group, as if mentally making a note of everyone present. “We’re all here, right?”

  “Well if they weren’t, do you think they’d speak up?” I laughed.

  Ron, ignoring my comment, whipped his 35mm out of his jacket pocket, and clicked the shutter before he took off on a run.

  We hurried after Ron as he scurried through the darkness, back to the cemetery. But just as we reached the wrought-iron gate, the light disappeared.

  Unable to find the source of the light, we made our trek back into the woods and to the house. But our investigation was far from over. We assembled in the dining room. There was plenty of room, since there was no furniture.

  We stood in a circle and chatted about the light that we had seen in the cemetery. Samantha, who was to my left, reached out and clutched my forearm, emphasizing her words. With her touch, a throbbing pain, emanating from her hand, worked its way up my arm and thundered into my chest. Repulsed by her touch, I pulled away. Not wanting to embarrass the woman, I forced a smile, then walked across the room and stood by Ron. Earlier in the night I’d felt something was out of sorts with this house, this woman. Now I couldn’t help but wonder what it was. “Samantha, I was just wondering…is there anything else that you haven’t told us?”

  She lowered her eyes to the floor as she shifted her weight from side to side.

  From the way she reacted, I didn’t need to be psychic to realize there was more to the story.

  “Well, Maureen, I, uh…well, back when I lived in Massachusetts, I used to enjoy a little pot now and then. You know, just to relax…”

  “And?”

  “Once, while I was toking, I started fooling around with the Ouija board.” She glanced up at me, and then nervously looked at her husband. “I made contact with the spirit of a man named Paul. He seemed pleasant enough, and through the board I found out that he was curious about what I was smoking. So, I invited him inside of me, sort of what you do Maureen. You know, so he could experience it for himself…”

  No, that is nothing like what I do. “Samantha,” I interrupted her. “It’s not a good idea to invite a spirit in when you don’t know what you’re doing.” What I do is dangerous enough, never mind inviting a spirit to reside inside of you for any extended length of time. It could lead to possession. And it’s never accepted by the paranormal community to be under the influence of drugs while making contact with the dead.

  As if to break the tension of the moment, Ron asked, “So what happened next?”

  “Not long after, our house burned to the ground.”

  The unexplained pain I’d felt from her touch was beginning to make sense. “Samantha, we can help you. It’s not healthy to walk around with another person’s soul in your body. If you want, we can bring someone in to help you. Don’t you think it’s a little coincidental that after making contact with Paul, your world turned upside down?”

  “No. It’s just bad luck. Besides, he likes it in here. And so do I—he’s my friend. Whenever there’s a sale at Macy’s going on, he tells me about it. I don’t want him to leave.”

  As I stood there, mouth agape, Ron chimed in. “So, how do you communicate with Paul?”

  With a sudden sparkle in her eyes, she said, “Come on, let me show you.”

  We followed her into the next room, which held nothing but a small desk with a computer, a chair, and a floor lamp. Samantha took a seat, splayed her fingers over the keyboard, bent her head as if in deep thought, and began to type.

  Not sure what we were witnessing, Ron began taking pictures as the rest of us stood and stared in disbelief.

  When she finished typing the last word, she spun around in her chair and met our gaze. “See, these are his words, not mine.”

  “Oh, so it’s sort of like automatic writing,” Ron said.

  Interested in what Ron and Samantha were talking about, Rita, with pen and pad in hand, engaged Samantha in conversation as the rest of us gathered our belongings to call it a night.

  In the process of loading our vehicles, Ron was caught off guard as Samantha gave him a brisk hug. Next, she latched onto Karen. Realizing I was next, I ran around the other side of the car and jumped into the backseat, waving good-bye through a closed window. No way in hell was I letting that woman touch me again.

  A month later while sitting around a table at the Windham Restaurant, we went over the results of the investigation in a team meeting.

  Ron leafed through his notebook. “Janet, did you guys find out anything about the cemetery?”

  “Yes. Five of the graves in the cemetery were those of children, including twins.”

  “What about the twins? Do you have their names?”

  “Yes, you’re gonna love this. Elizabeth and Michael Thomas,” she said with a knowing smile.

  Ron stopped short and nearly choked on his beer. “You’re kidding me. Michael. Do you hear that, Maureen? Janet said Michael!”

  Ron always said he was as psychic as a brick. “Psychic as a brick, huh?” I said.

  “Whatever,” he said with a beaming smile. “I found out something interesting too. I did some research on the pennies Samantha found on the windowsills. It’s an old Polish tradition to put pennies on the sills face down to ward off the Devil and his minions. Their greed attracts them to the pennies. Having the pennies face down ensures the Devil’s confusion, thus distracting the Devil and his minions from tormenting the homeowner. And the English also place pennies on the windowsills to ward off negative energy and ghosts.”

  “Maybe someone should call and tell Samantha to put the pennies back on the windowsills,” I said.

  “What for? She doesn’t live there anymore,” Ron responded.

  Oh yeah, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Not wanting to sound crude, I kept my next thought to myself: if Samantha continued to carry Paul around like a second skin, pennies would be the least of her worries.

  RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION

  We learned several interesting facts from our investigation: the names of the twins were verified by research along with the location of their graves in the abandoned cemetery. The game of “run and hide” we later verified as an antiquated reference to hide-and-seek. And last but not least, we learned the dangers of indulging in mind-altering drugs while communicating with the dead. Sometimes you make your own luck, good or bad. And as for Samantha and Frank, we hope they are doing well, but we never heard from them again. We would have loved to have gone back to further investigate why the twins still haunt the house; however, the bank and the new owners were not open to the idea.

  episode seventeen

  WOOD ISLAND LIGHTHOUSE

  CASE FILE: 6232396

  WOOD ISLAND LIGHTHOUSE

  Location: Biddeford, Maine.

  History: In 1806 the U.S. Government purchased eight acres on Wood Island for the erection of the lighthouse. In 1858 the 45-foot stone tower that replaced the wooden structure was completed. The last lighthouse keeper on record was in 1986. In 2003 the Friends of Wood Island L
ighthouse took over the care of the tower and keeper’s house.

  Reported Paranormal Activity: Apparitions, ghostly writing, and strange noises.

  Clients: F.O.W.I.L. (Friends of Wood Island Lighthouse): Sheri (historian), Judy (secretary), Kathleen (chairman of outreach), Terry (lighthouse keeper’s wife).

  Investigators: Ron (lead investigator), Maureen (trance medium), Leo (photographer), Ron Jr. (investigator), Karen (EVP specialist), Thermal Dan (investigator).

  Press: Doug Belkin (Boston Globe reporter), Gloria (Doug’s girlfriend), Fred (Doug’s photographer).

  I turned my back to the wind and stared behind us. Streaks of purples and pinks hung low in the sky. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have sworn the brilliant hues were clinging to a ball of fire. A ball of fire that was now chasing the horizon, peeking behind rows of pristine cottages that hugged the banks of the channel, bringing with it a cloak of darkness. Instead of allowing myself to fully enjoy the moment, I chastised myself. On the surface, this was a picture postcard moment, a moment more suited for lovers than paranormal investigators. To the unsuspecting eye, it would seem like a dream come true. But to me, it meant we were on our way to a haunted location with no escape. And the closer we got to our destination, the tighter the knot in my stomach was becoming. Am I crazy? My husband often asks me why I do what I do. I can’t quite put it into words. It’s who I am. I’m drawn to the spirits, and they to me.

  I raised the collar of my winter jacket but knew it wouldn’t do any good. The deep, bone-penetrating cold I was feeling since we’d shoved off was inside me, a cold that no number of blankets, or ninety degree weather for that matter, could stifle.

  Over the rustling wind and flapping of the nylon flag, I yelled to the captain, “How long until we get there?” I wasn’t quite sure he’d heard me, since I could barely hear myself.

  “Not too long, about twenty minutes or so.” He pointed directly in front of us. “Right there, that’s Wood Island Light. Can you see it? We’ll be landing on the south side of the island. You’ll have to walk three-quarters of a mile down a boardwalk to get to the keeper’s house.” As if reading my thoughts, he said, “Sorry, but the rest of the island is too rocky; there’s no way for me to land the boat.”