The Ghost Files (16 page)

I nod, but turn to stare out the window again. I can’t believe he doesn’t believe me. I thought for sure he did, that finally I’d found someone I could confess my secrets to and not have them scoff in my face. He’s not scoffing, but he doesn’t believe me, not really. He is rationalizing why I know so much. He’s a cop, I remind myself. Cops never believe you no matter what they say. They never trust you are telling the truth. Especially kids like me with not only a record, but a foster kid to boot. I should have expected this. I just didn’t see it coming. It hurt. More than even possibly losing Jake. I can’t cry though. Some things hurt too deep for even tears to touch and this is one of them. How had I let this happen? How did Officer Dan Richards come to mean more to me than anyone I’ve ever met? It makes no sense to me, but it is what it is.

The rest of the ride is silent. We then spent a lot of time looking for parking. After twenty minutes, we finally crawl out of the car. I end up alternating between hopping and limping. Dan tries to help me, but I push him off. I am not in the mood. Gotta put my walls back up. I am tired of getting hurt. I am
not
that girl. I
won’t
be that girl, not even for Dan Richards.

We stop at the first building we come to and Dan asks where we can find the lecture hall Dr. Olivet is in. Oh. He’s not in a lecture hall. He’s in the theater.

The theater? Really?

Dan rolls his eyes as if to say ‘I told you so’, but I ignore him. I know this is the right thing to do, that Dr. Olivet will have the answers I need. I just do.

Chapter Nineteen

The theater is housed in Robinson Hall, where the College of Performing Arts plays the bulk of their performances. There are two separate facilities, the black-box Lab Theater, small and intimate, and the main one, the Anne R. Belk Theater. Dr. Olivet’s lecture is in the main one, allowing for a seating of three hundred and forty. We arrive early and find seats fairly easily.

Dan complains about my choosing the middle. If we are in the back, we’ll miss things and if we are in the front, we’ll miss things because we’re too close. The middle is perfect. It puts you just above the heads of everyone below you and plus you get a full view of the stage. My reasoning doesn’t improve Dan’s mood though. I think he’s being grumpy because he thinks it’s a waste of time. Maybe it is, but I have to try.

It is a beautiful theater. The orchestra-like box seating around the stage gives off a very intimate feel, black seats gleaming amongst the white pillars holding up the theater boxes that go up three levels. It looks very old and elegant. It’s a place I would love to sit in and sketch. The orchestra pit was filling up with the orchestra as well. Now what was this? It’s not a concert. Were we attending a lecture or a show? The stage curtains are still tightly drawn, but I hear a lot of movement behind them.

After about twenty minutes, the place starts to really fill up. At first, I’d thought that there wouldn’t be that big of an audience. There were only about twenty or so people here when we arrived, but now, there’s hardly a seat to be found. That could be a good sign, right? I mean, why would so many people show up if he didn’t know what he was talking about?

“Richards?”

Dan and I glance up to see a guy heading our way. Dan has an empty seat beside him and he groans. I almost laugh at the martyred look on his face. I’m still mad at him, so I refuse to give in to the urge. The guy falls into the seat next to him. I don’t mean sits heavily, he literally falls into it with no thought to the poor seat. My kind of fella. His blonde hair and blue eyes are a stark contrast to Dan’s darker looks. He looks at me with very-curious eyes.

“Hey, Mason.” Dan greets him. “What are you doing here?”

“Bored. Nothing else to do, so I figured I’d come see the spook doctor’s performance.”

Then Dan snorts. I glare at him.

The guy leans forward so he can see around Dan. “I’m Mason Jones, by the way.”

“Mattie,” I smile at him. He’s really, really cute. I may be hung up on my maybe-still-boyfriend, but even
I
can appreciate a cute guy. How can a girl not? It’s not the looking part that counts anyway. It’s the touching. My theory is you can look at all the eye candy you want and still appreciate what you have at home. Though at the moment, I’m not sure I do have anything at home.

“She’s too young for
you
,” Dan growls.

Mason’s eyebrows fly up at Dan’s tone. So do mine.

“Ignore Officer Dan,” I say. “He’s being a jerk today.”

“
That
I can believe.” Mason laughs. The sound is rich and deep. “He can be a little uptight sometimes. I’m surprised he’s here at all, given his opinions on anything… supernatural.”

“Opinions?”

“Yeah, he’s a firm believer that there is a rational explanation for everything and anything with a supernatural element is just a fabrication.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, glancing up at Dan’s face. It’s a tight mask. He is so trying not to say anything that might get him in even more trouble with me.

“Really.” Mason is openly laughing at Dan’s expression and it makes me a little angry that he is making fun of Dan’s beliefs.

“Well, he let me drag him here,” I tell Mason, suddenly feeling like I should defend Officer Dan. “He gets brownie points for that.”

“And just who are you, Jailbait?” Mason grins at me.

“She’s a friend of mine, Mason,” Dan tells him. “Leave off.”

I sigh and roll my eyes. Good Lord, he’s as bad as Jake. “I’m sixteen so he feels it necessary to make sure anyone over the age of seventeen doesn’t hit on me.”

Mason laughs outright. “Well, I guess he’s gonna have to deal. I plan on hitting on you all night, Jailbait.”

Dan growls, literally growls, but Mason only laughs harder. He is such a cutie. I feel guilty because I like him, given that Jake and I might or might not still be together, but I’m vain enough to enjoy the attention.

The lights go down about the time Dan opens his mouth to tell Mason what he thinks of that and I shush them both.

Whispered excitement runs through the crowd and then a hush falls over the audience as the curtains open. The orchestra begins to play, the melody dark and low. It reminds me of those times during the middle of the night when you wake up in the dark and shiver for no reason, like there’s someone watching you when you know there isn’t. The haunting music inspires that feeling in not just me, but in several other people nearby. Even Dan shifts a bit uncomfortably. We all have that inner fear of the dark, no matter how old we get. It’s an ingrained instinct to fear the velvety blackness of the night, of things you can’t quite see, but know deep down in your bones is there, waiting.

The stage is dark at first, then a light start to softly glow. A man sits before the fireplace. I would place his clothes around the turn of the twentieth century. He looks to be in his early thirties or so. His head is bent forward, reading whatever book. The soft glow of the light expands to see a woman sitting on a small couch, a settee. Her dress, a warm rich burgundy, sweeps the ground even though she is sitting. The light is focused more on her hands than her face, which is why I notice she’s knitting. The back and forth of the needles are almost hypnotic.

She looks up and stares intently into the flickering flames of the fireplace. Her hands keep moving in that back and forth motion and I find myself leaning forward. She stands abruptly and walks over the fireplace, head bowed. The man is seated only a foot from her. He is not paying her any attention at all, his focus entirely on the book.

It’s then I catch the glint of metal in her hands. She still has the knitting needles firmly grasped in each hand. He has her fists clenched around them, the yarn trailing. She turns to face the audience, her face a mask of determination. Then she takes a few steps and brings the needles down hard into the man’s back, before yanking them out of his flesh. He stands up with a roar, but she doesn’t give him time to fight back. She rushes him, needles stabbing and slashing until he stumbles and falls. .  She goes down with him and the needles strike him again and again, sending blood everywhere. 

At last she stands, adjusts her skirt, and sits back on the settee. She begins to knit again; the back forth movements still as hypnotic as before, but her hands are covered in the blood of the man lying motionless on the floor.

The curtains close.

Silence fills the hall. No one expected that. Even Dan looks a little shocked.

The music then shifts, changes to something a little softer, a little less frightening and the curtains open again. This time a man is standing at a podium a little to the left of the center stage. He reminds me of Eric McCormack from Will and Grace. He’s a lot younger than I expected him to be, maybe thirty or thirty five. I was thinking an older man in his fifties. His hair is the color of chestnuts and he’s smiling at our reactions.

When he speaks, his voice is warm and a little lulling.

“What you just witnessed was the first in a series of brutal murders that took place in Savannah, Georgia, starting in July of 1917 at the Steel Water Plantation and ended just five years ago with the death of an entire family. Mrs. Emily Goody, wife of Robert Goody, simply decided one night to stab her husband of ten years to death. She told authorities a ghost made her do it. Over the next century, four more families inhabited the plantation and more deaths occurred. Each time, the perpetrator simply said a ghost made me do it.”

He pauses to let that sink in before continuing. “Is it a coincidence that the stories never wavered? Was it simply that someone read about the original murder and wanted to use a unique defense to try to get away with a nefarious deed? Mental conditions? No one can really say. What they
can
agree on is that all four people were considered normal, pillars of the community even. This is what draws parapsychologists to the scene. Can a ghost make you hurt someone or is it just the evil that lives in us all coming out to play?”

He steps away from the podium and comes closer to the end of the stage. “My name is Dr. Lawrence Olivet and I want to thank everyone for coming out tonight to listen to me ramble on and on about the spooky things that go bump in the night. Now, let’s have a show of hands. Who came to hear the spook doctor because they were bored?”

Chuckles break out and a smattering of hands go up, including Mason’s. He smiles in response. “Now, how many of you were dragged here by a friend or significant other?”

Most of the hall fits into this category, including Dan, who refuses to raise his hand. I grab it and push it up for him. Mason laughs outright at Dan’s disgust right before he jerks his hand from mine. I giggle at the glower he sends my way, which makes Mason laugh all the harder.

“Well, that’s okay. I wouldn’t want to come to a ghost lecture either,” Dr. Olivet tells us conspiratorially. “So, let’s not have a lecture then. Let’s have some fun with it.”

I can see why he’s so popular. First, he looks absolutely nothing like what I figured a professor would look like, nor does he look like one of those grungy ghost hunters you see on TV all the time. He looks normal, and well, cute for an old guy. Like Detective Stabler-cute on SVU. This man has that same something going for him. He’s not boring either. He’s made almost everyone laugh or at least chuckle. Charismatic. That is the word I’m looking for. Charming and charismatic.

“So I guess the first place to start is why do I spend time looking for ghosts? The truth? I spend my time trying to debunk the so called haunting. Most people out there want to see ghosts in things they can’t explain. It’s easier to believe and more romantic than the pipes being rusty or the house creaking because it’s a hundred years old. I’ve disproved more hauntings than then seen anything truly supernatural.”

Dan grunts beside me. I don’t think he’d expected that. He was all up for the guy going on and on about how ghosts are real and everything that can’t be explained is a ghost waiting to jump out at you.

“Most of us here grew up with parents or grandparents that taught us there is a higher power out there in the universe, whether you call it God, Allah, Buddha, or whatever your religion dictates. Most people believe that there is a force out there, even if we don’t pay too much attention to it unless we need to. You’d be amazed at how many self-proclaimed atheists will start to pray right before they die. So, why am I going on and on about religion, you’re thinking. Isn’t this supposed to be about ghosts?”

There’s a general murmur of assent.

“My point is death, ladies and gentlemen. No one wants to believe that when we die, that’s it. Everything that we are, that we were, will just cease to exist when we die. We need to believe that there is something more out there. If there isn’t, what’s the point of all this? That is why deep down, we all believe in that higher power. We have to believe that when we die, we go on, that something is out there besides an empty void or that the energy that makes us unique will simply extinguish. It’s an instinct ingrained in every human alive. Now that said, if you believe in that higher power, in the fact that we go on after death, why are ghosts so hard to believe in? Why can’t the energy that once made up a human be trapped here on this plane of existence for reasons we can’t even begin to understand?”

He moves and the dark background begins to shimmer with colors, streams of blues and reds and greens start drifting around on the back wall of the stage. It has to be some kind of screen and projector, but the effect is totally cool.

“We can all agree that energy in one form or another powers everything. You need energy to move an inanimate object like a bike. Your feet push the pedals which cause the bike to start to move. Your body uses energy to help you do this. All living things are made up of energy. When we die, that energy goes somewhere. Is there a bright light waiting for us at the end of a tunnel with our loved ones beckoning us? I don’t know. I’ve read and listened to many of the same stories you have about people who have died and seen this mysterious light at the end of a long tunnel. I’ve sat with dying people and listened to them talk to loved ones who have been dead for years. Could it just be their minds trying to find some sort of comfort in a situation where they are terrified of death? Most likely that is the truth, but what if there’s more to it than our rational mind wants to accept? What if when a person dies, especially in a violent manner, their energy, the essence that makes them unique, is trapped by their own fears? What if they can’t pass to that next plain of existence out of fear?”