The Ghost Chronicles Page 3

  “Why?” I prodded.

  Maureen spoke, but it was Jacob’s voice. “Speak when you are spoken to!”

  Any of my team will tell you I’m never one to back down during tense investigations—not even in the face of an irritated spirit like this one—and Jacob’s resistance only added fuel to my resolve. Undaunted, I challenged him. “Jacob, what is your last name?”

  Ignoring my inquiry, Maureen continued to gasp for breath.

  Still bent over to avoid the low-hanging pipes, she slowly turned her head and stared across the cobweb-laden beams to where Vess cowered behind rusty shelves.

  “Why do they hide?” A sneer crossed Maureen’s lips. “They’ve seen me before.”

  Vess’s eyes grew wide. Realizing he was the focus of Jacob’s wrath, he staggered backward, swiping at a rack of wait staff uniforms obstructing his path. He made a hasty retreat, stumbling up the stairs to the safety of the restaurant’s bar. Or so he thought.

  Maureen slammed the side of the cooler with her fist. “I have papers buried here.”

  “Where?” I asked, grateful that we were finally getting somewhere.

  “In this basement.”

  Still crouching on the floor, I looked up once again at Maureen, seeing the intensity in her eyes. Her raspy breathing abruptly turned to painful moans. Concerned for her wellbeing, I hesitated for a moment. You see, Maureen and I have had numerous discussions regarding her safety, about how far is too far, and when it’s time to end communication in order to protect her—both spiritually and physically. Almost always, she tells me that I break her channeling line too soon, so despite the increasing tension of this particular situation with Jacob, I decided to take the risk and forged ahead, despite her apparent discomfort.

  Wait. Buried in the basement? My excitement fizzled as I looked at the concrete floor. There would be no digging through that. “Do you want us to find them?” I asked, realizing the absurdity of my question.

  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 sp
ace. 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.”

  HOLY WATER

  Ordinary water that has been sanctified by a priest or bishop for the purpose of blessing persons, places, or things. It is most notable for its use in baptism but it can also be used for protection, whether safeguarding equipment from malfunctioning or batteries from draining, or preventing unwanted spirits from following one home by blessing the windows of a car. A blessing is done by dipping ones finger in the holy water, making the sign of the cross, and saying, “Bless and protect this vehicle and all those who occupy it from all unwanted energies. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen.” Holy water can also be used in healing and in exorcisms.

  “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…”

  RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION

  Maureen’s trance channeling of the spirit referred to as Jacob revealed that he had papers buried in the basement. Now that the floor is concrete, there is little chance of ever finding them. Additional investigations of the Windham would be required to learn more about Jacob and his papers. But Boston.com got what they were after, their Halloween story.

  You can see and hear Melissa’s slideshow presentation of Channeling the Dead on Boston. com by going to: http://www.boston.com/travel/explorene/specials/halloween/newenglandghostproject/ or by going to the New England Ghost Project site at www.neghostproject.com and clicking on the photo of the Windham Restaurant.

  episode two

  FIRST CONTACT

  CASE FILE: 6231963

  WINDHAM RESTAURANT

  Location: Windham, New Hampshire.

  History: An 1812 farmhouse, once owned by the Dinsmore family, has been occupied by several businesses and now houses the Windham Restaurant.

  Reported Paranormal Activity: Ghostly apparitions, glasses shattering, objects moving and disappearing, and unexplained noises.

  Clients: Lula (owner), Vess (owner).

  Investigators: Ron (lead investigator), Maureen (trance medium), Leo (photographer), Ron Jr. (investigator), Bob (investigator/videographer), Gay (Bob’s wife/investigator).

  Press: Brian Bates (news reporter from WNDS television), Tom (Brian’s cameraman).

  It 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.

  BASE CAMP

  A control station that remotely monitors and records the activities of the investigation in real time. This is done by placing remote temperature gauges, video cameras, and other recording equipment throughout the investigation site, prior to doing a building-wide sweep to check for paranormal activity. The base camp is in constant contact with the inv
estigators via two-way radios.

  I slid a chair in front of the fireplace. Brian and Tom,taking my cue, set up their camera for the shoot, as did Bob, our videographer.

  “Can I get you guys something to drink?” Vess asked.

  “No, thanks. I think we’ll just get started.” I looked around. “Are the waitresses here?”

  “Nah. They’re too shy to talk on camera. So I’m it.”

  Not wanting to be influenced by the interview, Maureen left the room, closing the French doors behind her.

  Sitting in a chair, a glass of Merlot in his hand, Vess began to tell his story as the fire crackled behind him.

  “My name is Vess Liakas, and I’m the owner of the Windham Restaurant. Since I’ve owned this place, many strange things have occurred here that I can’t explain.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “The chairs on the second floor would be turned around facing the window, like somebody was watching a parade coming up the street. Other times we would find the silverware and place settings on some of the tables out of place or gone missing.” Taking a moment, he sipped from his wine glass.

  “After locking up in the evening, we would return in the morning to find windows opened, faucets running, and lights on.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We even lost an expensive set of dishes in the kitchen when they flew off the rack and smashed on to the floor.”

  “Has anybody else seen anything unusual?”

  “Customers and the wait staff have seen a little boy, a girl, and a man in a blue suit that the staff named Jacob. In fact, one night my partner Lula saw a man fall down the stairs, and when she ran to help him, he was gone. Vanished into thin air. Now she refuses to be here alone.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh, yeah. Pagers and deodorizers are constantly having their batteries drained with no logical explanation. Sometimes when the staff needs to go into the basement to get something, they hear a man clear his throat when no one is down there.” Vess rolled his eyes. “I can even remember a time when I was in the kitchen preparing a meal and the shrimp disappeared off the plate. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. It was gone. In seconds.”