Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (146 page)

Kevin was walking alongside me keeping pace but not saying anything about our inability to close on her. He touched my arm and said, “Look at me. Think about this, here we are two men about to accost an old woman in a graveyard… maybe standing by a family grave. Do you get my drift?” he said, forcing me to engage him as he was staring at my face with a very concerned expression in his eyes.

I started to explain my actions and pointed toward the place she was standing… but she was no longer there. She was nowhere to be seen. We approached the grave. I was startled to see the name on the headstone was Warren Bargison. It had no dates on it but Bargison was the last name of Warren, who was married to Louise, and the friend of my grandparents.

“Kevin, this is wild. That could be the grave of someone I had a conversation with very recently,” I said, staring at the stone.
‘Or maybe it could a family member of Warren’s, or more than likely it was just a coincidence.’ I thought without saying.

“You know, hanging with you is like being in a movie, a very strange movie.” He said while staring at me, staring at the headstone.

I regained my somewhat lost composure and said, “We’d better get going. We’re going to be late for the meeting.”

The Mercedes was gone, and I was not surprised at that. I just sighed a resigned breath, climbed into our car, and buckled my safety belt. “Please keep it below warp speed for a change.”

“Okay,” Kevin responded, in deep thought it seemed. He pulled the car back onto the road and we didn’t speak for the twenty minutes or so left on the trip which he drove at a comfortable pace.

“Hi, Teller,” came a greeting from the project director, Mike Paulsen, who was standing in the parking lot as we pulled in. He closed his car door, indicating that he had just arrived, too.

“Good to see you again.” He shook my hand. He continued, “Are you all rested and ready for the big push?”

“I hope so, Boss,” I responded while grabbing my briefcase from the back seat of Kevin’s car.

“We’re ready to rock and roll, my friend,” Mike said confidently, unaware of Kevin’s rolling of eyes going on behind him.

The donuts were sitting out near the coffee pots and the thirty or so people who were standing around in clusters talking excitedly were in various stages of sugar rush or so it seemed to me.

Pouring a cup of unusually robust decaf coffee, I offered to do the same for Kevin but he refused my gesture and also the donut which I offered to get for him. Eventually I claimed that donut.

Melanie Morris came up to us and said that she really needed to speak with me after the meeting.

Kevin turned toward my ear and whispered, “I think she likes you, old man.”

“Good God, Kevin,” I said. “Mel is a sweet lady; heck, she might just be interested in
you
. Ever think of that?”

He shrugged that one off and found his seat at the table. I sat next to him. We were across the table from Melanie, who was going through her papers and didn’t look up from them until the meeting began. When it began she did look up, and right at me with an expression of intensity and sadness.

The meeting was fairly brief and much just a reiteration of what had been addressed in principle and policy all through the research period. The Project Director now assigned our duties for the final phase of it all. He commented on how important the Arizona phase of the project wound up becoming — I was thinking that was maybe due to the quality and composition of Kevin’s photographs. Mike then pointed at me and announced that Kevin and I had changed the entire dynamic with our combined, and individual, work. The people around the table applauded at that statement and I playfully mocked it by standing and taking a deep luxurious bow while, with a hand gesture, acknowledging the still-sitting Kevin.

As the meeting broke up, Melanie came rushing over to me and asked if we could speak privately.

We went into her office and she said, “Teller there is something I didn’t discuss with you when we had our evening at the Mill. It is about my father and at the time we spoke I didn’t know if I should have brought it up.” She looked down at her desk and picked up a photo which she handed to me. It was the picture of a cottage in a bucolic country setting.

“Nice little house,” I commented while studying it, looking for a familiarity that wasn’t there.

“It’s a house that’s been in my family for a long time.” She spoke of it as if somehow it were something I should have been familiar with.

Melanie went on to tell me that the cottage was located in Hurley, which was about sixty miles to the south of us. She related that it was originally owned by her grandparents and inherited by her father and eventually passed on to her. “This is where my dad spent his summers while growing up. This was the house he spent the months of July and August until he was eighteen,” she said. I reflected on how it was once traditional, in New York City, for those who could, to go to the “country” which was everywhere that was outside the city limits. It was a common term for vacations in those days.

I was wondering what this had to do with anything until she said, “The house is still in the family; I haven’t been in it since Dad passed.” She got teary but continued, “Two nights ago I was awakened during the night by a voice calling my name in the dark.”

“Uh oh.” I couldn’t help but utter almost automatically.

“It was my father, Teller. It was my father.” She said putting her face right in front of mine. She was upset as she continued, “He was standing near the window with the night sky as a backdrop. He whispered to me that you should go the house alone. He said to tell you to go there only in daylight, and that you would understand why, when you went. He said that you should go there as soon as you hear my words asking you to go.”

“I have to ask you this Melanie; could you have dreamed this?”

“You of all people, ask me that? Come on Teller… you of all people.” She acted exasperated by my question.

“I need to know for sure.” I wondered how her father had been able to get through to her. She hadn’t mentioned ever having a near death event but maybe she had experienced one and been keeping it from me. Why could I go there only in daylight? This sounded like maybe concern that I might encounter something that would terrify me in the dark. Going there in broad daylight certainly worked for me.

She continued, “I jumped up and walked toward my father only to find him gone. I wanted so badly, just to hug him. I wanted to tell him how much I missed him. Please make sure that you tell him that.” She said sadly with a faraway look in her eyes.

“I don’t understand, Melanie. How do I tell that to your dad?”

“Time” was her response, spoken as she stared off at who-knows-what.

“Where is this house, exactly?” I asked, looking at the photo once again.

She handed me a net-generated map with driving instructions to it.

I started to speak but she interrupted me with “No you can’t take your wife in there with you. You can’t take me or Kevin, either.”

“And you know this… how?” I asked.

“My father’s instructions were concise He said that you must come alone… and in daylight.”

“Alright Melanie, I’ll take a ride there tomorrow.”

“Why not today?” she urged.

“Let me call Kate; I’ll see if she’ll take the ride with me.” When she started to admonish me about taking other people there, I said, “I know, Melanie. I promise you that she will
not
go into the house with me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Within two hours Kate and I were in our car heading south for Hurley and the Morris cottage with a key provided me by Melanie. It was Mee-hawl’s warning, telling me that I should ‘lay low and say nothing in Latin for two weeks’ kept echoing through my mind. I wondered if this might be a way to get me to not follow that advice.

“The house looks kind of comfy, Tell… at least from how it appears in the photo,” Kate said while studying the picture as I drove.

“Tell, why haven’t you been doing your Chi Gung? It seems as if you have just dropped it. I can’t remember a time when you didn’t do it.” Kate’s question jarred me. It was a revelation of a sort and made me start into the thought process of why that was so. My Sifu, under whom I studied for twenty years, would often tell me in his heavily accented words, referred to by me as Chinglish that I was ‘becoming that which I do.’ In this system our meditation was the foundation of everything, and meditation was both static and moving. The forms were a series of movements that were practiced to the point of them bringing the practitioner to No Mind, that state where there is no thought and there is only Chi (Vital Energy) flow.

As part of my practice over the years I did the Nine Palace Walking Pattern, which was a floating step technique and consisted of nine points, or places, with eight being on a circle and one point in the center of the circle. The walker went from point to point in ascending and then descending order using the center point as the one most circled. The result of this was the creation of a personal energy pattern path. This pattern path created for the walker an energy door to another place where he or she could experience a different level of existence.

“You’re right, Kate. I should start walking the Nine Palace Circle again. But you know what? I know that
you
know I don’t
have
to walk it anymore. Don’t you?” I said kidding her but reawakening me to a tool I had, but wasn’t keeping in front of me. Sifu’s words repeated in my head again, “You become that which you do.”

We pulled up in front of the house.

Kate kissed me on the cheek, after asking me one last time if I wanted company going in. “I would love that Honey, but I made a promise to go in alone. Be right back, Lord willing.”

I got out of the car and looked at the house trying to see if there was anyone inside looking back at me. A chill ran up and down my spine. I took a deep breath and made my way, key in hand, toward the front door of this quaint cottage which looked like something out of a storybook. It was white with a red roof. The windows had shutters on them and the grounds around were neatly kept.

I waved at Kate and put the key into the lock. The door was heavier than it looked and as I stepped inside I was surprised to see the interior as colorless. It was stark in its ashen glow with the furniture covered in sheets and dust on the floor and shelves. I squinted, coming in from bright sunlight listening for a sound of indication of someone else being in there. In the corner of the living room, which was to my immediate right, I noticed a long dark shadow created by the time of day and the position of the sun.

Walking through the living room there was nothing that drew my attention but my sense of fear grew as I went deeper into the house. The kitchen was dark due to the drawn blinds on the small window but was all in order.

Breaking the silence, I asked, “Is there anyone here? Hello.” Pause… then “Hello” again. Nothing. I was relieved to say the least. I went through the first of the three bedrooms and saw a picture of Jimbo which was probably taken during his later years at Sacred Heart High. It immediately brought me back to those days and that school, the memories. My mind started running through the thoughts of how it was to be there as a teenager. Things were becoming intense as my thoughts began to race and it was starting to be overwhelming. Then just as quickly as it began, I suddenly gained control of the process by remembering Mee-hawl’s words and their comfortingly, encouraging tone.

The second bedroom was empty… totally empty with the exception of a book laying the exact center of the room. I walked cautiously into the room and looked down at the book. The cover was familiar and I stooped down to look at it more closely. I was almost knocked to my knees when I saw the title, “The History of Roman Campaigns.” This was a book from my past, the text of my Latin Studies class during my freshman year and one made memorable by the antics of Brother Scheible. I picked it up and scanned the first few pages before placing it under my arm as I left the room.

The third bedroom was ornate, with furniture and pictures which looked like they came out of the 1890’s. It was strange, to say the least. Suddenly I had the feeling that I was no longer alone in the house. “Is anyone here?” I said again, waiting for a response I prayed I wouldn’t get. Nothing… and a momentary relief crept over me.

I continued moving through the deserted house; it was exactly what I expected, after hearing Melanie’s words.

Then the silence was broken by the sound of a closing door. It came from the back of the house off the kitchen. Before I knew it, I was moving rapidly toward it. I came to a door, which led to the basement. After opening it, I called into the darkness, “Is anyone there?”

To say I wasn’t frightened would be a lie, but I could not resist the urge to find who had closed that door and against my better judgment I searched for a light switch. A dim light was located at the foot of the stairs. I called again and hearing nothing in response I decided to turn off the light and close the door. Turning around quickly I started for the front door where I paused for a moment waiting for something to happen… and as I turned the door handle I heard it.

“Jeremy Storyteller.” Those words were startling although not surprising for there, standing in the entrance to the kitchen like Jacob Marley’s ghost was my old friend, Jimbo Morris.

“I… I…” stammered while trying to gain my composure, with my back pressed up against the door.

“You came,” he whispered.

“Jimbo. Melanie gave me your message. How… how is it you’re here?” I asked after recovering my breath.

“I cannot answer that, Jeremy. But I had to reach you. And give you the message,” he said from the shadows.

“What message?”

“All are trying to protect you from yourself,” he said in a whisper.

It took me a few moments to ask, “What does that
mean
, Jimbo?”

He didn’t answer but turned around and moved toward the basement door. He went through it… right through it.