Page 29 of Giving Up The Ghost
Damn it.
Instead, I found myself gently stroking the metal orb that had belonged to Andrew Fellowes. Another slim black binder was tucked beside the box, and the writing in this one was far easier to read as it had been copied from some older document in a later, more modern hand.
Andrew Fellowes, son of David Fellowes and Anne Culper Fellowes, hanged for the criminal offense of fraud.
Andrew had been twenty-five years old. He had been around my age and hanged after helping a neighbor speak to their dead child, who had been haunting the neighbor for weeks. I read the rest of the page with a heavy, tight feeling in my throat and chest. I could picture him, so much like me, and wondered how terrified he must have been, if he’d tried to protest his innocence, explain that his abilities weren’t some trick of evil but part of him… Or would he even have believed that himself? I checked the date again—1701—and had a sick feeling that he might not have, that he might have believed he was something evil, some trick of some devil that didn’t exist. The items in the box were few, but his parents or a sympathetic friend must have taken great care to hide them away, keeping them safe even after his death. Likely to protect themselves more than memorialize him, I realized.
The next box was similar, though the scrying mirrors were missing. And this one included a few clothing items, one stained with blood that had no explanation, and several crumbling, yellowed things that were apparently candles at one point. A box of herbs and bits of sticks were tucked beneath the bloodied shirt, their smell long gone.
I took more pictures, then sat back on my hands to stare at the line of boxes stretching the length of the cellar. Were they all this terrifying? This depressing? I needed more information, to really dig into what was in here, things that were too minor for the historians and researchers to consider but were everything to me, were literal life and death to the people whose things I was now pawing over.
I needed Julian and Ezra. A pang of loneliness and despair hit me, drove me to my feet, and along the row of boxes towards the plastic tubs. It was out of order, but I didn’t care. I wanted to see something familiar, something I knew the ending for. The plastic tubs were labeled with black marker on top.1980-2000, 2000-2020.
The last one would be my grandparents and my parents, I knew, maybe even me. A soft, cool touch on the back of my neck was a balm to my too-warm skin. I grabbed the last box and dragged it out from under the wooden beam that it had been tucked under, wincing as it bounced over the glittery stone inset on the floor and knocked a chunk loose. “Shit!”
I tried to tamp it back into place, but it still lay crooked. Maybe Charlotte wouldn’t notice, I decided, giving in to my urge to sit and the throbbing behind my eye that was tipping over into a full-fledged migraine. The lid had been taped down, the sound of me ripping it off loud in the quiet cellar. Distantly, something thudded. Julian and Ezra must be back, I thought, and was glad for it. Flipping the lid off the box, I breathed out a broken laugh. On the very top layer was a stack of programs from events I’d been invited to. Below that were neatly folded tablecloths from the kit Grandmere took with her to every séance and reading. I rummaged gently through recent memories, the strong smell of Grandmere’s perfume mingling with the fainter spice of Grandfather’s, rising from the fabric inside the box. I reached deeper and pulled out a sheaf of papers—more letters, I realized. These were between Grandmere and Dad, from when he went to uni. Most of them were boring—How was class? Do you need money? I wish you’d cut your hair. A few asked Dad why he was refusing to come home for the holidays. His answers were always standard:fine, yes, I like it long, andI’ll come home when you stop trying to push me into the life.
Dad hadn’t wanted to be a medium? Or was it something else?
The thud sounded again, louder and closer. “Julian? Ezra?” I stood, dropping the letters back into the box and frowning. “Hello?”
The bright lights overhead flickered and, one by one, starting near the stairs, went out.
“Oh, hell.”
Something gathered itself. I could hear it—feel it—rustling, drawing up, and dragging in energy. The temperature dropped rapidly, raising gooseflesh on my arms and neck, misting my breath on each exhale and making my lungs ache on each inhale. This was something angry, confused. I didn’t have Ezra’s abilities, but I could still pick up on some of their vibe. And it was, as the kids say, a bad one. “I know you’re here. And I know you know. I can try to help you if you let me.”
The thing rushed forward. I barely had time to gasp as it crashed over me, a tidal wave of anger and sorrow and fear and pain. A dozen or more voices wailed and screamed and roared and sobbed around me, the pain in my head going from a migraine to something else, something beyond pain as it felt like every ghost that had been in that knot of despair was trying to burrow into me, peel away my skull and get inside to make meseeandhear.
“Stop,” I ground out, swatting at the spectral hands and bodies even though I knew it would be useless, unable to stop myself.
“Please, stop! Let me help you. I can… I can…” The pressure was too much. The press of the spirit bodies tangible as they crowded in, demanded, and accused.
I sank down, hitting the floor on my side and rolling onto my back as everything swarmed over me and my body shut down.
CHAPTER 7
JULIAN
I’ve experienced many awkward moments in life. The time CeCe and I were accidentally set up on a blind date, my pink tuxedo at junior prom, mispronouncingparadigmduring a presentation my senior year of college, being on television and having to pretend like it wasn’t weird…
Those paled in comparison to attending Landon Price’s funeral and being recognized as being part of a ghost investigation show. It was a lengthy Anglican affair, everyone in dark colors and more than a few ladies in hats. The pews were fairly packed, but I think that had more to do with the size of the church (minuscule) than the fact Landon Price had many mourners.
Ezra spent most of the service whispering assurances to everyone sitting around us that we were not there to raise anyone, film anyone, or pass along any messages. A rather tart older man sniffed at us and said, “Of course not. You two aren’t the talent, are you?”
Ouch.
Mick lurked on the outskirts of the crowd, dressed in what I would call Elder Goth Statesman Formal: black jeans so old they were worn brown over the knees and seams, a black t-shirt, black jacket, and hair almost tamed into submission, a large silver ankh on a chain about his neck. He gave us an up-nod and slid closer as people began to file out into the churchyard. “No Oscar, eh?”
“Ah, he was otherwise engaged,” I offered.
Mick snorted softly, giving a jerky nod towards the front of the church where Landon Price lay. “He’s a smart cookie, Oscar. Best to stay away.”
“From funerals?” Ezra asked, a tinge of exasperation in his tone. “Or from dead people in general?”
Mick’s smile was bleak. “Yeah.” He nodded at someone behind us, an older man with a scowl firmly in place. Muttering a goodbye, he turned and scurried down the path toward the parking area.
“That was confusing yet ominous,” I muttered.
