Haunted Murder: Supernatural Mystery, #1

Prologue

NIGHTFALL . . . and the rain descends in torrents.

Lightning slices high across the sky, illuminating vast reaches of the countryside.

And in the illumination, we glimpse a forest, with an ocean beyond.  In the center of the forest, we see an expanse of grass encircling a mansion.  The structure sits in the middle, staunch, stolid, and alone.

Through a window, we can see a dim light reflecting off the glass.  And on the other side of the glass, there are two people.

They are seated at a table across from each other – unperturbed, and protected by the mansion's walls, away from the violent weather.  Each is peering at, and talking with, the other.

A man is facing the window.  His features are clear – brown combed-back hair with graying temples, puffy eyelids, and with an expression of serious intent.  He's listening, nodding his head.

Across from him is seated a woman.  She’s looking away from the window, and so her face is unseen.  Her sole discernible features are her curly white hair, slender figure, wrinkled hands, and long, twisted fingernails.

Illuminated by a dim lamp, there are cards dealt upon the table.  These are not ordinary, for each displays a unique set of symbols and pictures.

The cards are arranged in an obscure pattern.  Two cards cross in the center, and with a card on each of four sides, and then four additional cards running vertically to the right of the main 'spread'.

The man's eyes shifted between the table and the woman's face.  Finally coming to rest, he gazed at her with a curious expression.  The woman extended her index finger and pointed to a card.  Then pressing her finger on top of it, she lifted her head and engaged the man, eye-to-eye.

... and this, she murmured, with a clear and melodic voice, is the five-of-cups.  My sense is you have released some destructive patterns from your life.  You will let go of more, as you relinquish control.

But, his voice quivered, I can't let go – I just can't.  And then he leaned forward and said, You know, I like control.

Yes, Lawrence.  I am aware of that.  And yet, she paused, looking at him, – yet the cards do not lie.  They say you will move beyond your present life, to a new beginning.

He grimaced.  But how?  How can that happen when I seem to be so powerless?

Well, she replied.  Let us see what the cards have to say ...

She pointed to the next card, and looked up at the man.

The man remained still, staring down at it.  He gasped, caught his breath and then looked into her eyes.  What – what does this mean?

It is the Death card, Lawrence.  But you need not be alarmed, for it's portending a transition for you – the death of something you no longer need in your life, and a re-birth  ... a birth of something new, something fresh.

But – but ...

... and in this position of the Celtic Cross, she continued, the card is about a change, for you – and it's coming soon.  So despite your concern, this is merely a transition on the path to your ultimate destination.  She paused and looked into his eyes, then said, "... and we have yet to read that card."

They both grew silent.

Well, she said, still looking into his eyes, shall we continue?

Ye – yes, he replied, his voice quivering.  Please, go on.

LATER THAT EVENING  ...

Lawrence Feldman closed the book and leaned back in his easy chair.  He reached for the snifter next to him and sipped from it, feeling the luscious texture of brandy as it coated his lips and tongue.  He closed his eyes and allowed the liqueur to trickle down his throat, reveling in the flavor of a 50 year old vintage.

Wearing a dinner jacket and slippers, he basked in the quiet solitude of the library.  It was a solitude not just of silence, but also of the visual; for the peacefulness was enhanced by subdued lighting.  There was a lamp next to him, providing illumination for reading; yet there remained large portions of the room obscured by shadow.

He enjoyed this room, especially the earthy brown woodwork that rested easy on his eyes; so easy, that it blended into row-upon-row of walnut bookshelves.  The shelves held a large assortment of rare and not-so-rare books, many of them leather-bound.

A stone fireplace occupied the center of one wall.  With a solid beam mantel made of black walnut, the fireplace was bordered on each side with yet more bookcases.

He glanced at the fire.  Late spring, he thought.  But these chilly evenings near the ocean make a fire all the more pleasant – and necessary.

His head rested on the back of his chair, yet his eyes gleamed as a smirk stretched across his mouth.  Parasites, my family!  This is such a wonderful place to escape from them.

As he raised the snifter to his lips, he sensed a flutter in the corner of his eye.  He turned, and with his eyes narrowing, he focused on the spot – but nothing was there.  His hand shook as chills ran down his spine.

Probably nothing ...

Breathing deeply, slowly, he relaxed and leaned back in the chair.  He lifted the snifter to his mouth and took a sip, relishing the flavor as it covered his lips.

The book was still on his lap.  He glanced down at it, barely noticing the inscription on the cover:  Financial Statements – Salem National Bank.  Picking it up, he arose from the chair, walked to the nearest bookcase, and slid it into an open slot.  As he perused the adjacent titles, he felt a rush of air brush past him – whoosh!

He gasped, and then exhaled, not noticing that his breath was now a visible stream.

Knock, knock!  His focus turned to the door.  He squinted as he peered at it.  That’s when he noticed it was locked.

He approached it, unlocked the latch, and pulled it open; finding his butler standing in the doorway.  Yes?

The servant bowed his head.  I'm so sorry to interrupt you, sir.  But I've brought you another bottle of brandy.  Will you be needing anything more tonight?

Lawrence cleared his throat.  No, Winston.  You may retire for the evening.

Thank you, sir.

Lawrence closed the door but stood beside it, listening to the footsteps as they receded down the hallway.  When the sounds vanished, he turned towards his chair.  That’s when he noticed the table to his left – cards still arranged on its surface.

I wonder what the cards really mean, he thought.  She’s never led me astray.  Yet I wish I knew where my life was taking me.

He shrugged, then returned to his chair and sat down, placing the bottle on the adjacent table.  He picked up the snifter and sipped the remaining contents; then he opened the new bottle and poured a refill.

He reached over and chose a cigar from the nearby humidor.  Biting off the tip, he leaned back in his chair and struck a match, then he lit it.  He dragged on it and exhaled smoke into the air.  There's nothing like a Cuban cigar, he thought.  He held it out in front of him, patiently gazing at it, admiring it as he rolled it between his fingers.

But then he turned his head, and noticed two dimly lit dots in an obscure corner of the room; a far corner, up high near the ceiling.  What the hell, he thought.

He remained in the chair, peering at the dots.  They looked like a pair of eyes – about the same distance apart.

And then they blinked.

Chills ran down his spine.  What to do?

He placed the cigar in the ashtray.  And then he stood up, peering at those two points of light.  They were still there, focused in his direction.

He took a step toward them – and the points dimmed.  A few more steps – close enough he could now discern a shadowy form with eyes.  The form was shrouded entirely in black; a blackness that swallowed the light around it.

His breathing quickened.

He took another step, and the corner became shrouded in mist.  One more, and the mist dissolved into – nothing.  He shivered, not noticing his breath as it streamed from his mouth.  It's gone, he muttered.  But what was it?

He took a deep breath, exhaled – and his shivering began to recede.  Damn but it’s cold in here.

He returned to his chair and sat down, then reached for his cigar.  But his hand was shaking – he grabbed it with his other hand, then took a deep breath, and then another.

He let go, sensing that he now had control.  That’s when he took the cigar from the ashtray, leaned back, and drew from it.  The draw further diminished his shivering.

Some time passed ...  Five minutes?  Ten minutes?  Who knows? ... But then he heard a knock on the door.

Enter, Lawrence called out in his raspy voice.

He waited, yet nothing happened.  Enter, he barked out again.

Silence.

Lawrence put the cigar in the ashtray.  Then he stood up and moved quickly to the door.  He grasped the doorknob and yanked the door open.  What the hell ...

June 8, 1925, 11:00am

IT WAS IN THE SALEM EVENING TIMES that I first read about the murder of Lawrence Feldman.  The report made it sound like a grisly affair – a dead body face down on the floor, soaked in a pool of blood, and with a knife sticking out of his back.  And there was mention of the family – wealthy, it seemed, and grief-stricken.  But the report was otherwise nondescript – no mention of where it happened, nothing said about possible suspects, and only a hint that the Sheriff's department was investigating.  In short, the report left me somewhat curious, but not exceedingly so.

And then two days later, a certain Detective Isaacs ensconced his massive frame in my door, and blotted out all the daylight that usually streams through that orifice.  To this point in my 43 years of life, I had not met Isaacs, nor had I known of his career, or of his reputation.  And so, upon his obliteration of my light source, I looked up from my desk, where I had been writing a memo, and said, May I help you?  Of course, this simple and polite question easily translates to who are you and what do you want?

The man translated it flawlessly.  I'm Isaacs, he said. Detective Isaacs from the Sheriff's office, and I'm here to talk about a murder.

I put down my pen and leaned back in my chair.  "Well – ah, Detective – I certainly hope it's not my murder you want to discuss?"

Of course not!  You're obviously still alive!

Or so it would seem, Detective.  But what's on your mind?

"Are you Lucius Jackson?  The Lucius Jackson – the Medium?"

"Guilty as charged.  Now again I ask you – what’s on your mind?

My boss, Sheriff Coleman – he told me to come and talk with you.  He thinks a ghost investigator such as yourself might be able to help.

Hmmm ...  I stroked my chin, and then said, What about you?  Do you think I can help?

Isaacs hesitated, and then replied, Hell.  I don't believe in your hocus pocus.  So I guess not.

Then why, dear sir, did you come to me?

Because the Sheriff told me to, he said.

I pondered Isaacs' proposition, and then I said, "Really, Detective.  My expertise is not in murder.  I provide services in hypnosis, and I contact the spirits of people who've passed out of this life and on to the next.  I paused to let that sink in, and then I said, So just how does the Sheriff believe I can help?" 

I dunno, he replied.  He just said I should fill you in on what I know and let you take it over – to see what you can find out.

Hmmm ...  I take it that you're finding this case extraordinarily difficult?

Yes, he said while hanging his head.  We've hit a wall.

And you suspect there is a spiritual aspect involved?

Yes.

An apparition?

Huh?

A ghost, my dear sir.  A ghost!

Yes.

And what makes you believe a ghost is involved?

Isaacs sighed.  And then he said, The body was found in the library, face down, with a knife sticking out of his back.

Oh my.  Please – continue.

The door and all the windows were locked, from the inside.

Is that all you have?

No, Isaacs replied.  The people – well, the people living there have been seeing ghosts.

And?

And there's been noises.

And what, pray tell, are the noises like?

You know – noises.  They told me there was banging, like the wind making the shutters bang.  And like doors slamming ...

And?

And ... that's all, Isaacs finished.

I gazed into Isaacs eyes, and then I said, No – that's not all there is.  What else?

What?

What are you leaving out, Detective?

N-n-nothing.  That's all of it, he replied.

Hmmm ...  I leaned back in my chair and felt deeply into my gut.  Could this be true, I thought.  And then I looked up at Isaacs and said, Tell me about his heart.

Wha-what?

His heart.  There's something about his heart.

How-how did you know?

Never mind, Detective.  Just tell me.

Well ... they cut out his heart and stuffed it into his left hand, Isaacs admitted.

And what else, Mr. Isaacs?  What else did you find?

No-no-nothing.  We – we didn't find anything else!

Well, I replied, it's no wonder.  I guess I will have to travel out there and take a look.

I paused, then said, By the way, where did this happen?

The name of the place is Elysium Estate.  It's on the coast road up past Beverly Farms.

Beverly Farms?  Oh yes, that's located between Beverly and Manchester.

That's correct, Mr. Jackson.

Is there a sign out front?

Yes.

Now, Detective – just one more thing.

What’s that?

My fee.

Yes?  How much is it?

One-hundred dollars a day.

A hundred bucks!  Why, that's obscene!

I have no doubt.  Yet it is what I must charge for my services.

The Detective hesitated, and then said, Okay.  I’ve been told it's within the Sheriff's budget.  So we will pay you that much.  Isaacs eyed me and then said, Anything else?

Yes, we will likely need to stay overnight – maybe even several nights – so we can investigate this notion of ghosts.

That's already been arranged.

Okay, I need to pick up a colleague.  Can we meet there, at about 3 o'clock this afternoon?

Yes.  I'll see you there.

12:01pm

C all me Mo, she said .

I remember the first time we met; her red hair, the perpetual crook on the edge of her mouth, and how her fiery eyes looked easily into mine.  But what struck me most was her youthful energy – how she allowed herself the tension and anxiety that was so much a part of her.  She was never 'relaxed'; yet in an uncanny way, she was always connected with those around her.

I telephoned her from my office.

Maureen?  I said.

I heard a cautious voice at the other end.  "Yes?"

This is Lucius – Lucius Jackson.

"Oh, yes.  I'm so glad to hear from you.  What can I do for you?"

The Sheriff's office has engaged me for a murder investigation.

"Murder?  Jeepers creepers.  She paused and then said, But – but what can I do?"

I like how you sense people's feelings, and –

" – it's a curse," she interrupted.

What – what did you say? I asked.

"It's a curse.  I'm always in turmoil when I'm around other people – because their feelings come at me so strong, and because they're scattered all over the place.  The anger, the sadness, the grief, the fear – sometimes they're too much for me to handle."

I understand, I replied.  I know other empaths have told me the same.

Silence.

Are you there? I said.

"What can I do?"

Well – I'm wondering.

"Yes?"

I'm wondering if – if you can tell when someone is lying?

"Well, yes.  Of course.  But why does that matter?"

Because, I replied, no one knows if this crime is of the spiritual realm, or if it's a human-perpetrated murder.  It's up to me, and I hope you, to find out.

"Oh.  You want me to go with you?  Help with the investigation?"

Yes.

"And?"

Well, we would leave as soon as possible and drive out to Beverly Farms.  The investigation is at the Elysium Estates just north of the Farms.

Silence.

So, when will you be ready to travel? I asked.

I heard a giggle, and then she said, "Thirty minutes."

That is eminently acceptable, my dear.  Yet I suggest you pack a change of clothes and some toiletries.

"Why?"  She asked, demurely.

Because, my dear girl, I have a hunch we may need to stay over a night or two.

"Then you best give me an hour," she replied, giggling.

That is also acceptable, I acquiesced.

"Oh, goody, she squealed.  This sounds like so much fun!"

12:10pm - Maureen, At Home

W ell, bees knees, I chortled.  My hand was quivering as I hung up the telephone.  It's about damn time Lucius brought me in on a case.   I wonder what it's about?   I wonder what we'll find!

I looked over at the hunched figure of my mother, seated across the table.  She met my gaze and raised her eyebrows.

Yes?  I said.

Who was that, dear?

It was Lucius Jackson, I replied.

What did he want?

Oh, the Sheriff's department wants him to look into a murder.  It seems that – ah, it may have something to do with ghosts, or the occult.

Well, she replied.  He certainly has a knack for that.

And he wants me to go too; he likes that I can read people so well.

Really, she nodded.  Well, when will you be leaving?

He's picking me up in about an hour.

But my dear, is it not too late in the day to go gallivanting around?  Especially with a man?

Oh, Mother!  Lucius is a gentleman, I replied.  And besides, it's 1925.  We no longer live in the dark ages!

But even in these modern times, my dear, you can't be too careful; and you have your reputation to think of.

Yes, Mother.  I know.

What time will you be home tonight?

I don’t know.  Lucius told me to pack for an overnight stay.

Mother's eyes narrowed into slits.  Really child!  You – single – and out all night with a man?  Why – why, that's scandalous!  No respectable man would want you if they thought you a quiff!

Mother!  How dare you call me that – you know better.

She hesitated.  Then she said, But, just think how this looks.

Oh Mother.  We'll be staying in separate rooms, at the home of the deceased – the family is still living there.  And, there will be constant supervision, and no opportunity for – um, hanky-panky!

Oh?  She said with a glare.  And do you think your Father would approve?

My patience was wearing thin.  I glared back at her and said, What does Father have to do with it?

My dear.  He's your Father.  And he always wanted the best for you.  And he wanted you to be protected.

If he wanted me protected, he sure went about it the wrong way!

What's that supposed to mean?

It means that he's gone Mother.  He left.  He walked out 15 years ago.  And he doesn't give a good God damn about us!

You watch your mouth, young lady.

Why?  Do you think he'll come back and spank me?

He should.  You know how he hates taking the Lord's name in vain – or have you forgotten?

I remember.

Then see that you do, she replied sharply.

I have to get ready, I spat as I stomped off to my