Deadly Night Part 1

DEADLY NIGHT.

Ghosthunters 101 Series.

by Aiden James.

Chapter One.

I'd never seen a fresh corpse before. At least not human.

Blood dripped below her face, spreading across the chipped linoleum kitchen floor of our host, Johnny Rush. Candi Starr stared back at me, a red grotesque halo framing her tussled golden hair, still wrapped in foil strips. Her stone gaze faced us all as we stood in shocked silence.

Her head was barely attached at the neck, and a deep jagged wound traversed from ear to ear beneath her chin. Sprawled upon the floor, the expression in Candi's lifeless steel blue eyes was one of sudden surprise.

Johnny sat at the kitchen table, across from Brenda Wright. Rope-bound to a pair of high back vinyl chairs, one olive green, and the other merlot. Both wore matching black t-s.h.i.+rts and jeans. Intense terror was visible in their eyes, and both mouths lay open, slack-jawed, and emotionless in contradiction. Their single fatal shots to the forehead announced a.s.sa.s.sination. Not intended victims, but here just the same. In all likelihood the pair not only witnessed the murder of their famous companion, but also had plenty of time to antic.i.p.ate their own demise.

So...correction: I'd never seen three dead human beings before.

When I was finally able to tear my eyes away from the scene, my attention was drawn to Fiona. The loveliest, smartest and bravest woman I've ever known didn't seem so at the moment. Two cops in the dining room were grilling her. One was dressed in uniform and the other wore plainclothes. Her gorgeous hazel eyes, which often morph to amber and pure gold depending on her attire and mood, were now swollen. They were puffy and red from a deluge of tears. Her grief was genuine, as these were real friends. She struggled to answer the cops' questions-despite the pained looks each man wore, nodding quietly in response to her clipped answers.

What questions did they ask? I could only imagine, but I managed to hear a few. Basic things like 'how long have you known the victims?' and 'can you think of anyone who might hold a grudge, one bad enough to do something like this?' No doubt they also want to know what she and the rest of us were doing there, anyway.

Meanwhile, two forensic techs brushed past our group on their way to beginning the painstaking task of moving from the stiffening corpses in the kitchen to the living room to look for more evidence. It made me feel awkward, standing near the entrance to the living room. I fidgeted, unsure of what to do...or where to go, half horror movie, half feeling five years old and told to stand in the corner.

The plainclothes cop kept eyeing the rest of us. He glared a bit while the other continued questioning Fiona. I'm sure my face was turning red, thinking of what I might have to explain.

My name is Jimmy Alea, and I'm a paranormal investigator. Spook chaser, ghost hunter, or a supernatural whack-job, whatever euphemism makes normal folks feel any better. h.e.l.l, that's what my pop thinks back in Denver, my hometown. I came to Nashville, or as we serious musicians like to refer to it-'Nash-Vegas', nine years ago. But like 99.99% of the more than 80,000 music hopefuls who call this place home, I haven't made it yet. Maybe I never will, but I try not to think about that.

Yeah, the cop probably pa.s.sed judgment just the same. I could picture him saying something smarta.s.s like, "Did Casper call and tell you there are three brand new ones?", and then laugh at his own lame joke. But this is what I do. I don't try to see dead people. Rather, I attempt to catch evidence of their spiritual essence, whether ethereal or physically tangible. It's somewhat like TAPS and the other 'hauntings' shows on TV.

But that ain't the story here...not exactly. My gang and I were just stopping by to drop something off at Johnny's. A little something to welcome him and Brenda to their new digs. Fiona planned to do a quick psychic reading for Candi before she set off on her first international tour. Afterward, the plan was to investigate another home where supposedly a lot of weird s.h.i.+t's been happening. A 'paranormal event' is what we call that sort of thing. Apparently stuff's been going on for several years at our next locale along the c.u.mberland, and getting worse and more aggressive lately.

But at the moment, it seemed best to stop thinking about the cop and my imagined exchange. I focused again on Fiona. She was still talking to both him and the uniform. How I wished to wrap my arms around her and somehow ease her profound pain. She is my wife, and I will always feel the need to protect her. If only I could erase this scene from her memory and make the cops shut up.

The uniformed guy was really trying to flirt with her. Granted, Fiona's a tall, gorgeous blond with a smile that lights up any room, and a statuesque build that spells trouble for any male with a pulse. She's the only thing that's ever distracted me long enough to make me reconsider my life's direction. She literally saved me from the destructive course I once was on. I truly pity the dudes who wish they were me.

I soon realized that I needed a temporary diversion-anything to take my attention away from the bodies and some dude smiling at my wife at such an inappropriate time. I noticed a female cop staring at me from near Johnny's bedroom. I've often wondered about homicide detectives and how they deal with it. When I looked again at her she smiled. Maybe for some cops...the aggressive ones...a scene like this is a type of foreplay. Kind of like people who go home with a complete stranger and screw their brains out.

As she looked at me her smile was getting wider. I'm pretty sure I know what she gathered from looking me up and down.... My wife, among others, tells me it's a six foot two, one-ninety pound man, with very little body fat. Hard and lean, with chiseled features inherited from a handsome Cuban/Italian line, I possess an easy smile, and piercing blue eyes that become deep cobalt pools if I'm p.i.s.sed. And, I'm lucky to have a full head of dark wavy hair hanging down to my shoulders.

n.o.body will ever find me wearing a suit-not unless somebody's getting married or buried. T-s.h.i.+rts, jeans, and boots-I'm either biker or cowboy, depending on my mood and the weather. Thank G.o.d the dudes I roll with share my taste in threads, and my daytime employer can hang with the way I am, too. As long as I occasionally wear a polo s.h.i.+rt and slacks, n.o.body gives me s.h.i.+t. It sucks a little, but I've gotta have something steady to pay the bills.

Fiona motioned toward me, and to be polite the two cops nodded. I wondered if they had heard of her, since she's helped Metro's finest solve nearly a dozen crimes over the past few years. Clairvoyant, clairaudient, and clairsentient. They are valued commodities among a few detectives these days, though most won't admit it. Regardless, I could tell these guys didn't think much of the thirtyish biker-looking dude and his cronies blocking the doorway to the living room. At least they liked her...certainly didn't seem like her tear-streaked face had diminished her charm. Not in the least.

"Do you want me to call ahead to Charlain and tell her we're going to be late?" said Jackie Holland to Fiona from behind me. "Or, should we try and reschedule?"

One of Fiona's best friends since childhood, Jackie's usual gruffness was muted. They grew up together in east Nashville. Her dark brown hair is almost kinky, but it fits well with her eyes. Almond shaped and light blue in color. And her athletic build is heavier than Fiona's.

A little on the short side, Jackie makes up for it with her commanding, almost abrasive presence. A no-nonsense girl with a dry sense of humor, she has a keen pa.s.sion about all things paranormal. In fact, she's the reason Fiona became interested in exploring haunted locales back when they were in high school.

"I'm not sure if I'll be up for it," Fiona told her, and then looked back at me. "Unless y'all want to still do it. Jimmy knows how to get there."

The plainclothes policeman advised that he only had a few more questions for Fiona and then our group could leave. That sounded like an excellent idea, as the coroner had arrived and the red flas.h.i.+ng lights from an ambulance announced the dead would soon be leaving Johnny's house. A "News Channel Five" van pulled up beside the ambulance.

s.h.i.+t!

I'd always dreamed of being on TV someday, but this wasn't exactly what I had in mind. I glanced back at the carnage in the kitchen one last time. Poor Johnny and Brenda. They barely got settled in their latest pad, and now none of their friends could throw them a nice house-warming party. They have, or had I suppose, an eclectic set of friends. Gay, straight, democrat, republican, and then...there's us.

It royally sucks that Johnny will never finish the restoration of this house. He got a great deal on the beige brick one-story he and his gal pal Brenda bought to set up for their West End neighborhood salon. When we walked in the front door, the scent of perm solution overpowered the onset of death. They were just getting a small taste of what could've grown into something great. All of this made the scene of what awaited us in the kitchen so much worse, since we had no warning other than the steady dripping from spilled bottles of color, acetate, and of course, blood.

The interrogation finally ended, and Fiona was soon on her way over to me. But my plan to mosey up to her side and comfort her didn't happen. Jackie and another female in our group, Angela Meyers, beat me to it.

d.a.m.n it, Angie!

Jackie's roommate is strikingly pretty, with long hair that's platinum blond. If you ask me, Angie's beauty seems more 'made up' than natural, and we're all still trying to decide what her real hair color is. But I'd never tell her this. h.e.l.l, she might beat me up, or try to incinerate me with her big green eyes. The girl's incredibly strong, man, so I won't mess with her, especially when we're all tense. Not to mention she carries a third-degree black belt in karate.

"Okay, let's go," said Fiona between sobs. "I guess we should take the wine with us, since I need a d.a.m.n drink and soon."

She motioned to the good luck gift she brought with her, still sitting unopened on the coffee table, which had been ignored by the forensic team. Angie stepped over and picked it up, her eyebrows raised in admiration as she read the Frogs Leap label, which is the vineyard of Fiona's favorite Merlot.

"Babe, if you don't feel up to going to the Thompson house, we can postpone tonight's investigation to some other time," I suggested.

Really, I thought it was cra.s.s to even consider doing anything but mourn with my wife over her loss. And it's not like the rest of us were strangers to Fiona's pals. Jackie and Angie were friends of Johnny and Brenda too. The rest of NVP, short for Nash-Vegas Paranormal, had met them and Candi before, even though just in pa.s.sing for Ms. Starr. I'd gotten to know Johnny a little, and he'd been to our home down in Arrington a few times. I probably would've spent time with Candi, too, but the only time she made it to Arrington was on a weekend night when I had to work late. Any other time she and Fiona hung out was either at Candi's posh home or at other celebrities' estates in the area.

My wife shook her head sadly, as if unsure what'd be best.

"You and the guys should go on, and we'll stay with Fiona," said Jackie, with enough force to encourage us to follow her suggestion. She wrapped her arms around Fiona's shoulders protectively. Angie gave an over-enthusiastic nod to support Jackie's 'directive'.

"That sounds like the best idea," Tom chimed in, before I could offer another reb.u.t.tal.

I turned to look at him and the rest of the guys, and could clearly read the desire to get something productive done tonight. I might've resisted more, but since this genuinely seemed to be what Fiona wanted, I nodded my compliance. I knew she'd save the wine until after, but for now she wanted something else upon which to focus.

"Y'all should leave now," the uniformed policeman advised, stepping over to our group while motioning to the front door. Already, three more news vehicles were crowding the curved driveway.

Flanked by Jackie and Angie, Fiona led the way out. She paused to give me a hug and kiss before we all stepped outside, squinting from camera flashes and the video lamps' searing brightness.

Chapter Two.

Charlain Thompson has few redeeming qualities in my opinion. Attractive at least on the outside, she's always decked out in high-society apparel. But it's hard to ignore that cold, self-centered, spoiled little girl who fuels the abrasive, nouveau riche 'diva' with which the world must deal. In other words, she comes across as a real b.i.t.c.h.

None of us were pleased tonight when neither Jackie nor Angie came along for the trip back into Nashville's city limits. Fiona's pain and need for comfort is more than reason enough. h.e.l.l, I'd be there now if she hadn't insisted on me keeping our appointment with the 'Dragon Lady'.

By the time we arrived at Ms. Thompson's 1860s s.p.a.cious Italianate Victorian overlooking the c.u.mberland River, we were nearly two hours late that Wednesday evening. At least the oppressive July heat had subsided, though the air was still thick and sticky. Honeysuckle vine, that sweet Tennessee perfume, hung in the air.

Before we'd even stepped out of the van, after parking on the cobblestone circular drive in front of her mansion, she stood waiting for us. Waiting impatiently, I should say, with both hands on her hips, long red nails tapping away. She stood near the edge of the steps that led up to the front door, announcing as usual it was her turf. Lady-and I use that loosely-of the manor.

"Where's Fiona?" she asked, her snappy tone laced with ice, the hallmark of any woman in need of a good lay, made worse since it's her. "You were supposed to be here at six-thirty at the latest, and my little ones will be getting ready for bed soon. Don't even think about bringing your equipment in here tonight!" she finished, pointing toward our van where Tony and Tom had begun unloading.

I just glared at her, wis.h.i.+ng I could a.s.sault her ears with the grotesque details of our evening up until then. I managed to tune out her lecture, her face pinched by her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. All I really heard from her was 'wah,wah, wah' like an adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon. The fabric in her dark gray tailored jacket made a whipping sound as she waved her arm around in exaggerated fas.h.i.+on, her skinny forefinger pointed out like a witch's wand.

Before Tom went to the trouble of putting everything back inside the van I snapped out of my self-preserving stupor and motioned for him to wait as I worked to apply my charm on our dissatisfied client. I do it every day for a paycheck working as a supervisor for one of the nation's largest 'bargain' wireless providers.

"I am so very sorry, Charlain," I told her, in the most sincere tone I could muster. I closed the pa.s.senger door gently before taking a step toward her.

Her menacing finger disappeared into a fist that quickly flew down to her hip, like a gunslinger standing down. She didn't need to do anything else for me to know I had just a moment to try and fix this situation. So I decided to be blunt.

"Three of Fiona's dear friends were murdered, and she was the first one to discover their bodies this evening." There it was...brutal truth. It even caused her face to soften a bit.

That's always been the problem with me.... I'm sure my wife would've cringed and shot me her own evil eye if she'd been witness to the way I addressed Ms. Thompson. Fiona's way of dealing with delicate matters is to ease her way into figuring out the best way to word it. Though at times, she'll keep things completely to herself. As for me, I fail to see the need for evasiveness, especially when being honest and laying out the facts can defuse a volatile situation. I'm a complete straight shooter. Always have been and always will be.

Charlain stood in what seemed like shocked silence. Half-expecting her to scoff and deliver another smarta.s.s comment, I was pleasantly surprised when she finally managed to speak softly, and with a hint of actual concern.

"You're not talking about what happened to Candi Starr tonight, are you?"

"Afraid so," I confirmed, my serious tone hopefully matching an equally solemn look on my face. Her reaction gave me pause to consider she might not have a Grinch-sized heart after all. "We were there to drop off a gift, and then the plan was to come here afterward. Fiona really looked forward to the investigation tonight."

Her next response was a pensive nod. "Well...it's still too late to set things up inside," she said, after releasing a low sigh. "I guess we'll have to reschedule."

There wasn't any real compa.s.sion in her tone. No remorse for what happened to three fellow human beings. Plus this negates the hard work already put in by Tom and Tony, especially Tom. I motioned for the guys to wait a moment, as an idea to salvage what we could from tonight came to me.

"We can do that, no problem at all," I said, turning my attention back to her. "I'll have Fiona contact you in the next few days, after all the craziness surrounding what happened tonight simmers down some. In the meantime, we could do some work just on the outside of your home, which is part of what we would've done this evening anyway."

"Fine, but keep it to the front yard and watch out for the gardens," she warned. "I'll expect a call from your wife by Monday."

She turned and walked in stiff steps back to the house. Even so, we had achieved a partial victory, though unfortunately one which meant Tom and Tony would have to put the consoles back in the van. We'll only be using cameras and handheld recorders tonight, along with our standard EMF detectors. The upside is we could be out of here in an hour or so. The only other thing that sucks is the fact Charlain refused to turn off the front security lights. Anomalies are harder to detect unless photographed or caught on video in complete, or near, darkness. I'm not sure why it is, but every ghost hunter we've encountered gets their best evidence of paranormal activity in darkened conditions. Only every now and then does someone in the ghost hunting community catch an amazing apparition or anomaly during the day.

"So, are we going in or not?" Tony asked me, as I rejoined the guys who were still waiting at the back of the van.

Tony Perez is a former roadie and longtime friend of mine. He also works in the same call center as me. He loathes it much more than I do, but he's got bills to pay same as everyone else. Like me, he's part Cuban, so we hit it off right away. He has very little patience for bulls.h.i.+t and diva b.i.t.c.hes messing up his investigative plans.

"Well?!" he demanded, removing his University of Kentucky ball cap and scratching his near-bald head. His beer gut bounced a bit as he took two steps toward me while looking me straight in the eye.

"Nope, man, it ain't gonna happen tonight," I told him, returning his serious gaze with my own.

Man, I feel for poor Tony. He's dripping with sweat and his Red Wings jersey is damp around the neck from exerting himself with the consoles. And as I feared, he didn't react well to the news.

"That's just frigging great!" he seethed, tossing his well-worn hat to the ground.

Yeah, he's frustrated, but he didn't throw it too hard, since the hat and his Red Wings jersey are his unofficial 'ghost hunting' uniform Very tacky, yet it's so Tony. Hockey, Kentucky basketball, fis.h.i.+ng, and investigating the paranormal are all he really cares about. And that b.i.t.c.h just took out his favorite thing on an already bad night.

Tom shook his head in disgust, obviously thinking this was a wasted trip out here.

"But, and I mean this is a good 'but', Charlain's gonna allow us to reschedule the inside investigation!" I quickly spouted, hoping to appease them both. "Fiona just needs to call her by next Monday to schedule a time."

That meant it'd be my job to make certain it happened, and all three guys implored me to stay on her, to insure she didn't procrastinate. I think they forgot for a moment what we'd witnessed just a couple of hours ago, and the unknown long-term impact from that gruesome experience on Fiona's psyche. Not to mention a conversation with Charlain in light of our missed appointment would likely be most unpleasant, similar to visiting a dentist to get a painful tooth pulled.

"Man, I heard the way Charlain talked to you just now," said Justin, grinning while he grabbed his a.n.a.log camera and a small tape recorder, Like my wife, he's a purest when it comes to gathering paranormal evidence, meaning only a.n.a.log devices for him. G.o.d forbid he capture a great EVP or picture, only to have the evidence questioned due to the ease of faking a digital sample.

"She really is a b.i.t.c.h, man-"

"Sh-h-h!" I hushed him, glancing toward the house to make sure no one heard him outside of the van. Tony snickered.

"She ain't listening, man!" continued Justin, feigning indignation, and cracking a wry smile. "But she's not bad to look at...not bad at all. I wouldn't kick her out of bed, though I'd be sleeping with one eye open, in case she went all 'Fatal Attraction' on me!"

Funny guy, especially when he added a high-pitched 'Eek! Eek!' at the end. Fiona and I met Justin, whose last name is Pierce, at a record release party for some new star. We became friends-especially Fiona-due to shared pa.s.sion and interest in Civil War stuff. The odd thing about that is Justin's black. Not exactly the norm for Ole Dixie enthusiasts.

He wears his hair in corn rows, and sports the gold chains and finger jewelry prevalent among many of his peers. Basketball jerseys are his faves, but he likes to wear Gettysburg and Battle of Franklin T-s.h.i.+rts as well. But the real cool thing about him is his infectious laugh and penchant for extremely funny rants. Similar in height and build to me, I have to agree with Fiona and Jackie's a.s.sessment that he's sort of a cross between Reggie Bush, the football star, and Chris Rock, the comedian.

"Well, dudes," I said, chuckling while I grabbed my camera and a digital recorder. "Ms. Thompson wants us to watch out for her petunias and shrubberies. So watch where you step. Oh, and it's just the front yard tonight."

"She needs to turn those frigging security lights off!"

I doubt Tom meant to come off so gruff, but being quite meticulous when he gets into his groove, he gets a little testy sometimes. A middle-aged, 'seasoned' paranormal investigator from Kentucky, with twenty years experience, Mr. Gaither is the tech-savvy guy in the group and another one on the heavy side. Like me, Tom wears his silver hair long. He has a beard and gray eyes that sometimes seem to glow from behind his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses. He reminds me of Oliver Reed, the actor, and joined NVP after reading about Fiona and her extraordinary abilities in The Tennessean a couple of years ago.

"Sorry, man, she ain't budging on that," I advised, moving away from the van before he could respond.

At least he gets to use his precious infrared device. The rest of us can only look at it while he wraps his baby so tight in his grasp that his knuckles turn white. Tom will never be one to share his favorite toys.

I caught up with Justin, who was already snapping pictures. The sound of cicadas surrounded us from within the tall maples and magnolias that dotted the front yard. The sporadic glow from swarms of lightning bugs hung just below the maple's highest branches, and unfortunately, swarms of mosquitoes were present as well. All of this will make it hard to tell what's paranormal from twinkling insects.

He moved deliberately along the driveway pointing his camera and recorder toward the darkened corners of the yard and house, but mostly at the second floor veranda. That's where Lizzy Robertson hung herself, and where her incestuous father, Jeremiah, shot himself in the head back in 1873. The ruination of his cotton farming business just after the Civil War proved too much for him to handle, or so the history books say. But local lore tells a different reason. Lizzy's restless spirit made sure the tormentor from her youth paid for his crimes...the beatings and molestations which modern therapists would detect early on in a young child's life.

Charlain Thompson bought the home with her husband Peter, nearly eight years ago. No problems were reported for the first several years, until shortly after the couple divorced. Knowing her, that came as no surprise to anyone. She took Peter to the cleaners, from what I understand. Left the poor fool homeless after making sure their lengthy divorce proceedings cleaned his coffers. Rumor has it he lived out of his car for nearly a year afterward. Quite a peach, this client of ours.

Anyway, apparently the kids have often heard voices, disembodied whispered conversations between a man and woman. Sometimes blood curdling screams are heard upstairs when everyone among the living is either downstairs or outside on the front porch. But the thing that prompted the call to Fiona was what recently started happening to the chairs in the kitchen.

A large eat-in room, Charlain told Fiona how she'd step into the kitchen, and where minutes before the chairs had all been pushed in under the mahogany table, suddenly they're strewn about the room. Other than a slight squeak from a chair rubbing against the kitchen's marble tiled floor, no other sound gave warning as to what awaited her once she stepped back into the kitchen. The bizarre events began a month ago, and have steadily increased in frequency.

Fiona's initial investigation turned up nothing unusual. But since it was just an interview and a tour of the property involving a few photographs and a small recorder, along with Fiona's psychic gifts, not finding immediate concrete evidence to support a haunting wasn't the end of the process. That's where the rest of the gang and our various gifts and tools come into play.

But this investigation will now be three-fold, due to tonight's detour.

"Anything of note, yet?" I asked Justin.

To make sure we didn't overload on pictures in one area, I aimed my camera and recorder toward the lower level of the house.

Justin glanced at me before snapping another picture. He snickered.