The Ghost Chronicles Page 8

  “Okay. We found it,” he reluctantly agreed. Ron glanced at the dowsing rods. “I guess those things really do work.”

  “So how do you want to do this?” Brian gestured to Tom. “Can you get a shot of the grave?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Bending over, Tom placed his camera in the hole. He adjusted the lights to illuminate the grave and began filming.

  After a couple of minutes, Tom stood up. Ron quickly took his place. He lay on the frozen ground, shifting a bit for a better vantage point as I knelt down beside him.

  * * *

  “Maureen, give me one of those, I want to try something,” I said, pointing to the dowsing rods.

  She handed me the dowsing rod. Then she hesitated in a moment of indecision. “Here, take it. I’ll wait over here.”

  “What? Where you going?”

  In a hushed voice she answered, “I already made a fool of myself once; I’m not going to do it again—on camera, no less. Here, you do it,” she said as she raised herself off the cold ground and retreated to a nearby tombstone.

  I held Maureen’s dowsing rod over the hole to see if it would pick up any energy. As if by magic, I felt a pull in my hand as the rod slowly spun from left to right. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it was cool just the same. Putting down the rod, I picked up the EMF meter and was surprised by the lack of readings. I reached for my 35mm camera, stuck it in the opening, and quickly snapped a photo. Seeing the human skull was too much of a temptation for me. Sticking my arm into the hole, I rubbed the uneven surface of the decaying bones. For some inexplicable reason, I slowly removed my hand and brought my half-frozen fingers to my nose and took a sniff. The sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh pervaded my nostrils, but the putrid odor was the least of my worries. By the shocked expressions of those standing around me, I had little doubt this gesture would come back to haunt me.

  The excitement of the moment began to wear thin, as the bitter cold penetrated my clothing. Unable to endure it any longer and eager to get my blood circulating again, I decided to move on.

  “So what’s next, Ron?” Brian asked.

  “Well, there’s a tomb here that’s been broken into several times.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Actually, it’s pretty bizarre. You want to take a look?”

  “Sure. Lead the way.”

  “No problem. This one I can find.”

  Within moments we reached the crypt. Eerily, the battery in Tom’s camera failed. “That’s odd. These are seven-hour batteries and should have had plenty of time to spare.”

  Maureen and I glanced at each other; a smile crossed our faces.

  “Coincidence, I think not,” I said.

  Brian waited for Tom to replace the battery in his camera. “So, Ron, what is so bizarre about this particular crypt? Can you share with me a bit of the history?”

  We stood in front of a heavy door with an embossed cross. “The Pierce family crypt has been broken into several times in its history. The first time was back in the 1880s when several youths broke into the tomb. They propped up the corpses, poured liquor down their throats, and had a mock game of cards with them. Later they were arrested in town, wearing the clothes of the deceased.” I paused for a moment, sniffled, and then continued. “The most recent time was in 2005, when an inmate performing community service broke into the vault and twisted the skull off one of the corpses. He then proceeded to parade around the graveyard with the skull on his shoulder and even had his picture taken with it.”

  “Ewww,” Maureen said. “I’m sure his mother must have been real proud of that snapshot. That’s a nice Kodak moment.”

  “That’s disgusting.” Brian paused to gather his thoughts. “So, Ron, why do you think it’s been broken into so many times?”

  “I’m really not sure. Out of all the tombs in this cemetery, why this one? Always the same one? Do you believe in curses?”

  “I don’t know. I never really thought about them,” Brian answered.

  “It’s just conjecture on my part, I really can’t say for sure, but… What if someone placed a curse on this family? A curse that ensured that they would never rest in peace. And after all that’s happened to this one particular crypt over all these years, wouldn’t it make sense?”

  “Okay, this is good. But we need some action. Any ideas?” Brian asked.

  “Ron, this place is dead,” Maureen said. “No pun intended. But really, I’m not feeling anything. Other than the residual energy from before, that is.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know, let’s take a look and see what we can dig up.” I led the group deeper into the burial grounds. We had contacted local law enforcement to ensure a safe and legal investigation, and now we were getting a boring one. I racked my brains for something, anything to salvage this episode. Here we were in one of the most haunted cemeteries, a place where I’d been slimed, no less, on the spookiest night of the year, and it seemed that nobody was home.

  As we stumbled through the darkness, we came upon a lone dead tree perched on a barren hill. Large, bulbous, seemingly animated roots stretched out, as if in search of sustenance to quench its unearthly appetite. A creepy feeling crawled up my spine. I half expected to see a hangman’s noose dangling from its rotting limbs, casting an eerie shadow in the moonlight. Along with it came an overwhelming feeling of doom. Was this the omen of some forthcoming evil lurking in the darkness, waiting to pounce on us? An unnatural silence fell upon the group.

  A dark, hulking figure came out of the shadows, and the sharp, shrill, blood-curdling scream of a female voice startled the group, breaking the deadly silence. It was Beth, Brian’s intern, who screamed at the approaching figure, the first utterance we’d heard from her all night.

  “What the hell!” I cried, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Tom turned, the light of his camera slightly illuminating the approaching figure. It was Pete, a friend of mine whom I had invited along to try out his new infrared camera. He was so late and I had been so preoccupied with the investigation that I had forgotten that he was coming.

  INFRARED CAMERA (IR)

  A camera that operates on the infrared range and allows the viewer to see in low levels or the absence of light.

  Once everyone regained their composure and the introductions were completed, we continued our investigation. We left the precarious presence of the “hanging tree,” as we had aptly named it, and headed down the hill to another portion of the burial ground. Passing old and ill-kept graves, we came upon a large, flat tomb. Focusing the light from our failing flashlights, we struggled to read the etchings on its weather-beaten surface in an attempt to find who had been buried there. “Okay, 1776, that’s the date. The name, can anybody make it out?”

  Silence was my answer as everyone attempted to decipher the engraving, to no avail. As the light in Tom’s camera faded out, he spoke up. “Brian, that’s another battery down. How weird is that?”

  Still, with little other paranormal activity to note, I decided that we should try an experiment to see what we could conjure up. I turned to Maureen and asked her if she had her tarot cards.

  * * *

  When Ron asked me if I had my tarot cards, I cringed. “They’re in the car, why?” I was just getting to know how Ron thought, and I didn’t like where this was going.

  “I want to try something. You think you can do a reading on the crypt?”

  “Are you crazy?” I can’t believe I was actually contemplating doing a reading in a cemetery. Some people would say any tarot reading at all would be consorting with the Devil, let alone doing it over someone’s grave. Oh, I am so going to hell, I thought to myself. “Fine. Then you go get ’em.” With that, Ron disappeared into the darkness.

  “Maureen, while Ron’s gone, why don’t you show me how those things work?” Brian said, motioning toward the dowsing rods. I’d just begun to demonstrate them, when I heard a yelp in the distance. Looking in the direction of the cry, I saw the
silhouette of Ron, illuminated by the streetlight. That’s when I realized he had also fallen into a hole. Our laughter echoed in the stillness of the night as we watched him stumbling to get out.

  Now that’s funny. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” His voice vibrated in the distance.

  After the laughter subsided, I continued my demonstration until Ron returned.

  Taking the cards from their velour pouch, I tentatively laid them on top of the tomb. I removed my crystal ball, which felt more like an ice cube between my chilled palms, and positioned it on a small purple satin pillow.

  At Ron’s request, Maureen attempts to stir things up at the cemetery by drawing tarot cards on an aging tomb while Brian Bates looks on.

  “Maureen, what’s the crystal ball for?” Brian asked.

  “You have a short memory,” I chuckled. “Remember last week, when I used it at Ethel’s? I use it to help connect with the energy, and when I do multiple readings, it helps to break the connection from one person to another.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.” The darkness couldn’t hide his embarrassment.

  “So, Ron, what do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Here’s the deal. How about if we each draw a card, and we’ll start by doing a reading for the person buried here?” Ron answered.

  “What…are you nuts? You want me to read on top of a crypt? It’s over someone’s body, for God’s sakes. You do want me to go to hell, don’t you?”

  “Better you than me.”

  “Somehow I think it’ll be both of us.”

  As I suspected, the cards revealed more about the person who pulled the card and less about the soul buried here. It didn’t take long before the group began asking questions. The questions became less and less about our investigation and more about those who were present. Tired with the way the reading was progressing, since it was not revealing anything about the person buried there, and opening my mind’s eye once again, I splayed my hands over the cards. This time, I began to feel a surge of energy. It felt thick, weighted. The closer my hands came to the cards, the stronger the pressure repelling them away, like matching poles of a magnet. It was the strongest energy I’d felt all night. “Ron, I’m beginning to feel an intense wave of energy. I just can’t place where it’s coming from.” But just as I finished my sentence, the energy dissipated, as if it didn’t want to be discovered. “Wait. Forget it. Whatever it was, it’s gone.”

  “Shit!” Ron said. “The first damn thing we pick up on all night, and it decides to play shy on us.” Ron pouted. “Brian, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think this is the best we’re gonna do tonight. Investigations are like this sometimes. Unfortunately, spirits don’t perform like trained monkeys.”

  We stood there for a moment, hoping for something to happen, until the cold finally took its toll on us and we decided to call it a night.

  We packed up our gear as Brian did his closing piece. “We didn’t see any heads coming out of the ground tonight, but it was definitely one of the spookiest places I’ve been to so far. So if you happen to come across this particular graveyard in Newburyport and you feel a little spooked, there’s a good reason. There are over fifty sailors who fought in the revolutionary war buried right here. They’ve come back a number of times, to haunt not only Ron, but locals as well. Happy Halloween. I’m Brian Bates, News 9 night team.”

  “I’ve got one shot left.” Ron turned back toward the cemetery and clicked the shutter on his 35mm, ending our night.

  Ron’s last infrared photo reveals what appears to be an ecto mist in the shape of somebody waving good-bye.

  The next day I called Ron. “Did you see the news piece?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I thought it was decent.”

  “I watched it with Stephen,” I said, mentioning my husband.

  “It was too funny. Right in the middle of the broadcast, he turned to me and said, ‘Did I see that right? Did Ron just do what I think he did?’” I waited for Ron to respond, which he didn’t, so I continued. “I told him, ‘No, Steve, you weren’t hallucinating. Ron rubbed the skull and smelled his fingers.’” I laughed.

  “So what’s the problem?” he replied. “You know you have to use all your senses. Well, the nose is just another tool.”

  “You and your tools.” I chuckled. It was only my fourth investigation with the team, and already I had learned to expect the unexpected with Ron, or at least I thought I did. Never in the darkest corners of my mind did I suspect that our next case would be to assist a Franciscan Monk in an exorcism.

  RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION

  Old Hill Cemetery is one of the creepiest burial grounds we have ever been to. It contains a crypt that has been broken into several times over the past hundred years, with the corpses defiled in a macabre series of ways. Open graves can be found, where you can rub the skulls of the dead, for those brave—and crazy—enough to try. Photos of a ghostly head coming out of the ground have been taken. And, perhaps the most bizarre occurrence of all was when Ron was slimed with a thick black oozy gook. But on the scariest night of the year, it seemed the dead were off to a Halloween party of their own, and we weren’t invited—or so we thought. Ron’s final photo revealed a ghostly mist, with one arm raised, waving good-bye—or was it perhaps good riddance?

  episode six

  THE EXORCISM

  CASE FILE: 6875624

  EXORCISM

  Location: Boston, Massachusetts.

  History: Old Victorian house on the South Boston waterfront, later converted to a townhouse.

  Reported Paranormal Activity: Gas stove that turns on by itself, electric outlets destroyed, objects moving of their own accord, dog tormented by unseen entity, and physical attacks on owner.

  Clients: Brenda (homeowner), Duke (Brenda’s dog).

  Investigators: Ron (lead investigator), Maureen (trance medium), Brian the Monk (the exorcist).

  Maureen, Maureen. Wake up.” I heard the sound of my husband’s voice in the distance. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  Heart still pounding in my chest, I bolted upright. Finding it difficult to swallow with the lump in my throat, I stared at Steve. The whites of his eyes were more pronounced, a look of concern etched his face. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I lied. Still gasping for breath I looked past him at the clock. 7:00 a.m. I scrambled out of the tangled covers and ran into the bathroom. “If I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late.”

  “What is up with you lately? Maybe it’s all that speaking with the dead you do. You know. Affecting your brain.”

  Truth be told, the nightmare had scared the hell out of me. As I stood looking into the bathroom mirror, a kaleidoscope of colors and fragments of disjointed images twisted before my eyes. For the moment, I was back, standing on the deserted street of my nightmare. I felt a rush of panic. It was all too close to home. There, in front of me, stood my teenage son. I struggled to make sense of what I had seen. Why had he been in my dream? I’d have never allowed my children to partake in an exorcism. A tear slid down my cheek as I once again saw Josh’s wide-eyed stare as he reached out and cried, “Mom—please!” Just as in my dream I was once again forced to helplessly watch as his pale body was being clawed at by dark, soulless figures with unseen hands. They whipped around him, pulling him down, deeper. Deeper. Until the pavement swallowed him whole.

  The images of the nightmare were way too vivid, way too colorful, way too coincidental. It must be a warning. My thoughts ran to the discussion I’d had with Ron a few nights ago, when I’d agreed to attend an exorcism with him and Brian the Monk, a friend of Ron’s I hadn’t met. Brenda, our client, had called for help after finding our website, and we thought Brian’s services might be needed.

  Steve’s voice carried over the sound of running water as I splashed my face. “Don’t you think it’s time to give this up? I mean, come on. What’s it going to take for you to realize this isn’t healthy for you?”
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  I’d known the truth when I first met my husband all those years ago. He was terrified of the idea that souls actually existed after death. I witnessed his fear every time I talked to him about my experiences. His eyes would tear up and his usual jovial demeanor would turn solemn and gruff. Since we’d met so young, he had assumed I’d grow out of it, like the habit of biting nails. Bad assumption. These days, though, our conversations of the dead and dying are few and far between. He likes it that way.

  Trying to make myself sound more upbeat, I forced a smile. Smiles have a way of lightening a voice. I don’t know why, but they do. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Maybe it’s that horror flick I saw the other night? Really, I’m fine.”

  I glanced in the mirror, the terrible visions of moments ago now gone. I gasped at my reflection. Visine for the redness, makeup for the dark circles, but only time would heal the puffiness.

  Later that night, after wrestling with the images of the nightmare plaguing my mind, I called Ron. “Ron, I had another nightmare. I’ve been thinking…I don’t know that I can make it with you and Brian on Wednesday.”

  “What do you mean? We need you. Brenda needs you.”

  “Look, I really want to help. But this time ‘it’ went after my son. I couldn’t stop it.”

  “Maureen, it was just a bad dream. Besides, Brian said for it to work right, he needs the three of us.”

  My heart thudded in my chest. “My son, Ron. Did you hear me?” My voice cracked as I swallowed back the tears. “Look, to you it’s just a ‘bad dream’…I do want to help. But at what cost? It was my son, Ron.”

  “You know, if you have a bad dream and tell someone about it, it’ll go away.”

  Not fully convinced, but on the off chance that he was right, I shared my dream. “I saw the townhouse looming in the darkness in downtown Boston. The house seemed alive. The moment a blonde woman opened the front door, I felt evil oozing out of it. Josh was there. He was being attacked by dark, soulless figures. I was helpless as my legs disappeared into the molten pavement. There was a man standing near the woman, wearing a long, woolen, brown robe. The front of his brown hair was cut short, the back pulled loosely into a ponytail. He had a diamond stud on his left ear and wore wire-rimmed glasses. With a bible in his left hand he started praying over the blonde woman in a foreign tongue. I think it was Latin. ‘Exorcizámus te, omnis immúnde spíritus…’”