The Ghost Chronicles Read online

  “Marvelous,” I said.

  Just then, seemingly out of nowhere, I felt the first sign of a disturbance in the air. The atmosphere shifted as a sizzle of energy glided over my skin, sending a trembling wave from the base of my neck to the tips of my toes. I looked from my right to left, but the only thing I saw was a single small island off the starboard side. I couldn’t be certain, but I didn’t think the energy I was picking up on originated from Wood Island. Although fast approaching, we were still more than a mile away.

  Ron seemed to sense it too. He turned and looked me in the eyes, as if waiting for a reaction. “Yeah, I feel it too.” I smiled inwardly at the thought of how much Ron’s intuition had grown since we’d been working together.

  Ron closed the distance between him and the captain, and then pointed to the very same island. “Hey, Sean, what island is that?”

  “Negro Island. Back in the old days, it used to be a trading post.” The captain’s voice came in bursts above the constant thrum of the motor and the breaking of waves against the Light Runner’s aluminum hull.

  Instantaneously the motor stopped short, cutting out completely. “What the—?” Sean paused and looked over the port side into the water, to see if we’d hit anything. He scurried to the rear of the boat and raised the outboard motor. To his surprise, a rope, which looked like a relic from an old ship, was tangled in the propeller. “This is strange. In all the times I’ve gone out to the island, I’ve never had this happen.”

  After about five minutes, like Captain Nemo, he freed us from the leviathan that held us from our journey. Back at the controls, he pushed the button until we heard the familiar roar of the engine. We were on our way again. “That was strange,” he said.

  Kathleen, one of Sheri’s helpers, grabbed a handful of railing, then took a seat next to me. She leaned over and said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I love your earrings. Where did you buy them?”

  Forgetting I had them on, I fumbled with them. “Shoot, I forgot to take them off.” Then, realizing I hadn’t answered her question, “Sorry, I’m not sure where he bought them. They were an anniversary gift from my husband.” Not willing to risk breaking the fine filigree silver earrings by storing them in my overnight bag I left them on and did the only thing I could do—tighten the clasps.

  The boat slowed. “We’re here,” Sean said, as he positioned the boat as close to the ramp as possible. “Would someone mind getting out to hold the ropes?”

  “No problem,” Ron said, as he and his son Ron Jr. stood at the bow of the boat. They jumped off and onto the ramp and held the boat in place while Sean manually cranked the winch, lowering the front of the boat until it lay flat against the ramp.

  Together we pitched in, and in no time all our gear—sleeping bags, blankets, pillows, base camp and investigation equipment, and coolers filled with lots of food and drink—was piled high on the dock.

  Sheri waited for us to sort out the gear and then led us down the narrow boardwalk toward the lighthouse. I was thankful that someone was forward-thinking enough to have brought a heavyduty hand truck and cart. With a sleeping bag under my left arm, I grabbed the cart, dragging it behind me. Even over the clanking of the wheels on the planks of the boardwalk, I felt a low-lying energy, like a pot simmering, waiting to boil. I knew there were spirits lurking, waiting to pounce. “Ron, do you feel anything?” I asked.

  An aerial view of Wood Island, the boardwalk, and the lighthouse.

  “Yeah. Old.”

  “I feel anxious. Agitated.” I paused, then for a moment I stood perfectly still, listening to the crash of the waves against the rocks and feeling the roaring ocean wind as it whipped through my hair. “I sense someone running, trying to get away. It’s as if they’re trying to hide.”

  Ron stopped walking, turned, and then said, “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. We have—all—night.” He grinned. “Now, can we get a move on? I’m freezing out here.” Dismissing my words, he picked up his pace and briskly walked ahead. When he reached midway, he stopped short, peering over the side of the narrow walkway, and yelled, “Holy crap! Would you look at that drop.”

  I caught up to him and looked over the edge. Feeling a bit woozy, I looked away. From where we stood there was at least a fifteen-foot drop down to a, well, not-so-soft area. I suddenly felt sick. The knot in my stomach tightened some more. God, I hated heights. “I thought you wanted to ‘get a move on,’” I said, wanting nothing more than to get away from this spot, even if it meant spending the night at the keeper’s house with no heat. It’s all perspective, I thought.

  Regaining our stride, we continued to our destination. The nearer we got to the lighthouse, the louder the screeching of the seagulls, until it felt as if we had just stepped into a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Exiting the woods, we got our first glimpse of our home for the night: a weather-beaten cape with an enclosed walkway to the formidable tower of the lighthouse.

  Our first glimpse of Wood Island Lighthouse, our home for the evening.

  Pretty soon we had base camp up and running, and, to keep the frost out of our bones, nearly everyone was already on their second cups of hot coffee. Not me, I wasn’t a coffee drinker. The last thing I needed was more buzzing in my brain.

  “So where to first?” I asked Ron, as he stood chatting with Kathleen and Judy, the two volunteer members of the Friends of Wood Island Lighthouse preservation group who tagged along to help Sheri with whatever we needed. God bless them. Sheri had contacted the Ghost Project after we had conducted an investigation for the Friends of the Portsmouth Lighthouse in New Castle, New Hampshire. She wanted us to investigate the spirits of Wood Island and ultimately present our findings for an organization fundraiser.

  He looked at Sheri. “Do you think you could take us up to the top of the lighthouse?”

  “Yeah, but if we’re going to go, we should do it now. I wouldn’t want someone who’s tired trying to climb those winding cement stairs. Even inside the tower, without a railing, they’re treacherous. And I only recommend a small group of you go up. There’s minimal room at best.”

  Doug, the reporter for the Boston Globe, stood at the ready, pen and paper in hand, as if smelling a story in the making, with his photographer, Fred, right behind him.

  “Great, let’s go. Maureen, you coming?” Ron asked.

  With that, Sheri led us out of the kitchen, through the narrow hallway, and into the base of the lighthouse. Midway up the winding stairs, my heart began to thud in my chest, like a frantic bird batting its wings in a cage. I paused to catch my breath, breathed in slowly, out slowly. The feeling of anxiety and panic I had felt earlier was returning.

  “Maureen, what’s going on? Tell me what you’re feeling,” Doug said.

  “It’s a woman, I feel her panic, her pain,” I said, as a tear slipped down my cheek.

  “Maureen, are you going to be all right to make it up here?” Ron’s voice echoed from above.

  “Yeah,” I choked back a sob and finished climbing the stairs. Once at the top we made our way up a metal ladder and through a hole in the ceiling. We stood shoulder to shoulder around the massive bulb at the top of the lighthouse, staring through the thick glass at the setting sun and listening to the waves crashing on the rocks.

  Due to lack of space, Fred the photographer remained perched halfway up the ladder that led into the opening in the floor.

  “You picking up anything here?” Ron asked, as he waved his EMF meter in front of me.

  To answer Ron’s question, I opened up my mind and mentally asked if there was a spirit present. Using my thoughts like a beacon, I felt a spirit approach us. Its energy roiled over my skin, and his thoughts seeped into my mind. “It was an accident. I—I didn’t mean to do it,” I said, through raspy breaths.

  “Do what? Who are we speaking with? What did—you—do?” Ron asked.

  * * *

  I looked at Maureen, who was clenching her teeth. “It wasn’t my fault,” she cri
ed.

  Her stare was far off, distant. One look into her eyes and I knew that although she turned to look at me, she wasn’t seeing me at all. I looked at the distance between her and the opening in the floor. Crap. This could be bad. “Maureen, not here. It’s too dangerous,” I called to her, but the only response I received was a loud rhythmic sighing, a sound to me that whomever was here was trying to take her over. I grabbed her elbow in case she stepped too far to the right. She’d be a goner for sure, and she’d take poor Fred with her. “Maureen, come back. Come back!”

  After a few agonizing moments, she exhaled deeply, blinked a few times, then turned to me again. She was back among the living. Although she hadn’t spoken yet, I could see it in her eyes.

  “I’m okay. He…he wanted to speak so badly,” Maureen said.

  “I know, but he’ll have to come find us later.” I pointed at the trap door. “All you’d need is to take a wrong step, and you’re history. Come on, let’s get out of here while the getting’s good.”

  I nodded at the reporter, indicating he should go down the ladder first. Maureen, still visibly shaken, followed. I held her arm and guided her through the opening. Yelling to Doug below, I called out, “You have her?”

  “I’m fine, Ron,” Maureen said.

  Sheri and her team greeted us in the kitchen. “We were able to see a little of what happened up there on the base camp monitor,” Sheri said, her voice thick with excitement. “Did Maureen know about the history of this lighthouse?”

  “No. I didn’t tell her anything,” I said.

  “Wow, should I tell her some of the things she hit on? It really fits,” Sheri said.

  “No. Let’s wait until we’re done with our investigation. Then you can fill her in.” Although she seemed a little disappointed, she agreed. I didn’t want Maureen to have any preconceived ideas when she was channeling.

  I walked from the kitchen into what, in the past, must have been the dining area. Now the only things in the room were some lawn furniture: a large wooden picnic table and a couple of chairs. I guess there wasn’t a need for anything else in a building that’s primarily used for day tours. Brrrr. That included heat. “This can be our safe room,” I said.

  “Safe room? Ron, what are you talking about?” Sheri inquired.

  “It’s a meeting place where we choose to ignore the spirits.”

  SAFE ROOM

  A designated place in a haunted location, where the team can assemble to be free of all the monitoring devices associated with an investigation. Especially useful on overnight investigations.

  “Ron,” Maureen poked me in the arm, then said in a voice only I could hear, “where do we sleep tonight?”

  “Ah, sleep’s overrated,” I said. “Besides, when do you think you’re going to have time for sleep?”

  “Oh, I—will—find time,” she said. “If I don’t get sleep, I get bitchy.”

  I bit my tongue.

  “Okay, you guys ready for round two?” I said. I stood there with my EMF meter and temperature gauge. “Who wants to go to the attic?” I paused, looking around the room, waiting for volunteers. “I have an idea. Karen, Leo, you come with me. Maureen, why don’t you stay here and take a break?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Maureen said, then, not missing a beat, she turned to Terry and picked up where she’d left off in their conversation.

  Fifteen minutes later, in darkness, the three of us sat Indian style on the rough-hewn beams and sparse boards that made up the attic floor. Well, two of us sat Indian style; I, on the other hand, shoved a piece of weathered cardboard box and unused insulation aside and sat with my legs straight out. My rickety knees would have none of it.

  “All right, Karen, why don’t you do some EVPs, then we can take a moment of silence and see if we get any response?”

  Karen turned on her recorder, placed it on the floor in front of us, then said in a calm, steady voice, “Is there anyone here that would like to speak to us? We would like to thank you for this opportunity to be here with you tonight.”

  Silence. Well, as silent as it could be with the wind whistling through the cracks in the wall.

  I glanced down and noticed the red light; the voice recognition indicator was lit up like a stoplight. Someone was trying to communicate. Cool, I thought.

  I could barely make anyone out. Only when they shifted their positions did I see black silhouettes, a shade darker than the expanse of the attic. Yet I couldn’t be sure if it was them or a trick of my eyes as they adjusted to total darkness.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye a green light flicked atop the roof rafters and along the wall. “Did you see that?” I asked.

  I couldn’t see anyone as Karen and Leo turned to look around us, but I felt their movement as the boards beneath me creaked.

  “Oh, wow. Look at the green lights!” Karen screamed.

  It wasn’t just me. Amazing! The green lights were zipping this way and that, dancing back and forth, over our heads and down around our feet. We sat, mesmerized, like kids watching fireworks for the first time, until they just stopped.

  “I don’t see them anymore,” Karen said.

  “If there’s anyone here, can you please give us another sign?” I asked.

  We sat patiently in the darkness, with only wind and the grumbling of Leo’s stomach breaking the silence.

  “If there’s anyone here, can you please give us another sign?” I asked again.

  This time my question was answered.

  The green light brushed my cap and shot across the room toward Karen, weaving its way through her hair. Almost instantaneously Karen’s voice echoed my own. “Did you feel that!”

  “What? I didn’t feel anything,” Leo said.

  When does Leo feel anything? I used to think that I was as psychic as a brick, but compared to Leo, I looked like one of America’s most documented psychics of his time, Edgar Cayce. Pushing myself up to my knees, I turned on my flashlight, scanning the area. But no matter what angle I looked from, there was nothing there. “Whatever touched us is gone.” With our bones aching from our awkward positions, we decided to call it quits and made our way back downstairs. Karen and Leo filled everyone in on what had just happened. As far as I was concerned, no amount of explanation would do it justice. What we had witnessed was something extraordinary.

  I took a seat next to Maureen, who was finishing up a salad. “Still eating?”

  “What do you mean, ‘Still eating’? I just started,” she laughed.

  Following suit I scarfed down a sandwich and some chips, then said, “Okay, I think it’s time for the basement. Let’s go.”

  Maureen turned her wrist over. “Are you kidding me? It’s only eleven o’clock? It feels more like two in the morning.”

  “That just means we have more time to investigate. I think we should do more overnights like this.” The way Maureen rolled her eyes, I could only assume she wasn’t having as good of a time as I was. “Ah, lighten up, will ya?”

  Maureen didn’t respond, but the heat of her stare told me all I needed to know.

  We gathered at the top of the basement stairs, then descended into the dimly lit cellar that at that moment could have doubled as a freezer. My sleeve brushed against the rusted oil tank as we took our places, ready to communicate. I looked past Maureen to where Karen and Leo stood. “Why don’t you guys stand over here a bit more.” I pointed to a spot in front of the storage shelf, which housed cleaners and painting supplies. “Right over there.”

  Before we were completely ready, Maureen said in a low, guttural voice, “He’s here.” This night was hopping. With my EMF picking up fluctuating readings, I turned to Maureen. “Can you take out your pendulum?” I paused. “Leo, start taking pictures.”

  * * *

  I took out my pendulum.

  He was back. The same man I’d felt while we’d stood in the lighthouse. I held my pendulum between my thumb and forefinger. The spirit’s thoughts becoming my own, I said, �
�I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. Everyone is blaming me.”

  “It’s him.” Ron’s voice echoed my sentiment. “Who did you kill?” Ron asked.

  Like a puppet on a string, I felt my head turn toward Ron of its own accord, “Who—are—you?” The words, thick with emotion, rolled off my tongue.

  “We are here to investigate this lighthouse. More importantly, who are you?”

  Ron continued with his questions, but before I knew it, and as if we’d insulted the entity, he was gone. Just as quickly as he’d left, a woman’s presence appeared. “There’s someone else here,” I said. “It’s a woman. She seems disoriented. She doesn’t know where she is.” Her energy felt thick, touchable even. As I reached out to her with my mind, a sharp stabbing pain started at the base of my skull and seared through to the front of my eyes. I pressed my fingers to my temples, which were now throbbing. “Oh dear God.” As hard as I tried to get her name, I couldn’t. “I think she was struck with a blunt object on her head.” Still confused, she was unable to think clearly. I was suddenly filled with overwhelming sadness. My chest grew heavy. Weary. “I’m ready to go upstairs. Now.”

  Through it all I heard Leo snapping a series of pictures with his 35mm camera. As we exited the basement, I found myself wondering what, if anything, would show up on the film.

  With no rest for the weary, we immediately bundled up and went outside onto the boardwalk. Thermal Dan, our thermal imaging specialist, Leo, Ron, and I headed back toward the dock to see if there was any activity. Ron was in the lead, with Dan and I following close behind. Dan slowly made a sweeping motion with his handheld, heat-sensitive/thermal-imaging camera. “What the heck is that?” he said.

  Ron backed up a few steps, as he and I peered over Dan’s shoulder. There was nothing visible to the naked eye, yet on camera a dark black image, a stark contrast to the light gray background, was zipping past us, swooping down, first from our left, then our right.