A Ghost of Brother Johnathan's (9 page)

I had entered my hotel room to find Eric sitting at the desk and on the computer. Recently I had taught him how to use a computer, his fascination with it, and talent for Internet research far exceeded his Victorian knowhow. I surmised Eric used supernatural powers to finesse his computer abilities. As weary as I was, finding Eric fully materialized, in the flesh, and active was a relief. I pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

“You mean I am correct about ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ being an obvious lead?” I asked.
Eric faced me and in the gentlest of expressions he said, “I mean, you are correct to have given Luke Landry the cold shoulder.”
“Really?”
“Most certainly. He has a personal agenda, one I do not approve of.”
I looked deep into Eric’s eyes. It now occurred to me that from the day Luke became involved in my mystery, Eric had made himself scarce. I knew that in his lifetime, Eric was straightforward in regard to honesty in relationships, be it intimate or career, he never tolerated dishonesty. I gave thoughtful consideration as to what to say next. On one hand, I had immense gratitude for Eric’s role in my life, though most of the time, it was never clear what his role was, is or will continue to be. Yet, at the same time, Eric’s intervention on my cases was not always welcomed. And yet, again, Eric’s point of view, his perceptions and connections to knowledge that could only be accessed from beyond the veil of my living hours was a gift to me.
“Speak what is on your mind and in your heart,” Eric said.
“I cannot help but to wonder if sometimes your judgments are based on a bias to my welfare and not necessarily in favor of the success of the case I am working on.”
He laughed! “Of course my viewpoints and opinions are founded on your welfare. Your wellbeing is my preeminent concern, my reason for being.”
I am his reason for being? That statement gave me the courage to finally ask, “Eric, am I the energy you need to materialize. Do you feed off my energy?”
Eric’s disposition made a dramatic reversal. “I would never use you, nor, anyone I care for. I do not feed off your energy.” The austere coldness in his voice alarmed me.
“Well, good. I’d hate to think I am no more to you than a meal ticket,” I managed to say in my best fake snootiest tone.
Eric chuckled and this time I sensed he was not displeased. “Now, that’s the attitude I expect, and love, of the Shannon Delaney I know. Shall we continue to bicker like dog and cat, or would you care to know what I have uncovered in my research?”
I was about to reply when there was a knock on my hotel room door. “What?”
Eric was quick to explain, “I took the liberty of ordering a carafe of coffee for you, along with two shots of Bushmills.”
“Incredulous. You telephoned room service?” I whispered, to prevent the waiter standing outside my door from thinking I was talking to myself.
“No, I can do it from the computer. Go answer the door, before he becomes suspicious.” Eric waved me up and out of my chair.
I thanked the waiter and tipped him, then shut and locked my door. Then, I poured the coffee and laced it with the whiskey.
“But how did you know when to order it?” I asked Eric.
“Oh, I had the order set up on the computer and the moment I sensed that you had entered the hotel lobby, I sent the request.”
His reply was so casual, it was confusing. I didn’t ask for more of an explanation. Instead, I returned to my seat, and set my coffee off to the side of the computer.
“Okay, I’m good for at least one more hour. Do tell, dear spirit guide, ghost of my favorite Victorian magician, and gracious host in whose mansion I reside… what have you discovered?”
If my witty repartee struck Eric as weird, or amusing, he didn’t let on. Whatever my sentiment was, or was not, he ignored it. His focus was pure and centered on the result of his research.
“Luke Landry is using this case to forward his objectives of crediting himself for solving the mystery of Jonathan Rupp, the sole purpose is to further his career. In the past three years he has successfully negotiated ever-ascending rungs on the professional ladder to secure appointed advisory positions on various volunteer organizations. This past month, Landry’s focus switched from volunteer to a highly lucrative salary of the city mayor’s office. He has applied to run for the office of mayor, and he will need the backing of deep pockets to do so. He has only eight weeks left before mayoral candidates are announced in January.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Landry was using you,” Eric replied.
“And Marta. He’s using Marta’s desperation to solve a family mystery for his own purpose. This makes me angry. Eric, can Landry force me off this case?”
“Have you trespassed on laws?”
“No,” I answered.
“I cannot phantom Landry has legal sanction to force you off the case. Provided you follow all letters of the law, I suspect Landry would just as soon to be rid of you. I cannot imagine he would care for you to stir up media controversy. He would not invite negative attention from the local news.”
“So, you think he’ll stay out of my way from now on?”
“I suspect so,” Eric said.
“Excellent. Eric, to change the topic, do you recall the Stephen Foster song, ‘Beautiful Dreamer?’”
“Yes. Exquisite melody. The lyrics are dark, in an ethereal gothic vein. Here, I have them for you. I saved them as a word document.” Eric executed a few key tabs and up popped the lyrics on the computer’s screen:
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee; Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,
Lull’d by the moonlight have all pass’d away! Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life’s busy throng,
Beautiful Dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelei;
Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E’en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer awake unto me!

I read the song to myself. Can’t say which I found more perplexing; the words in the poem or that Eric knew I would ask about this song.

“How did you know I would ask about this song?” “This evening, you were humming the melody in your time spent with Landry and on your way to your room. I do believe you were entirely unaware of this song’s enchantment upon you. Albeit, its charm did not escape my awareness.”

Wide-eyed, I asked, “Eric you were reading my mind while I was with Luke Landry?”
“No, I sensed your feelings.”
“Oooh-kaay.” I dropped that line of query and asked, “What are your thoughts about this song?”
Instead of answering me, Eric tip-tapped on the keyboard and brought up images. I was astounded. According to what Eric had found, it cinched any mystery as to the significance “Beautiful Dreamer.”
“Where did you find these?” I asked.
“The Internet archives of the Pacific Coast Stage and Performance Art Museum. The pictures are stunning, aren’t they?”
“Yes. They sure are. All this time, imagine… the ‘Beautiful Dreamer’ was the signature song for
Enchantress Ella Dazi, Sweet Songstress of the Pacific Coast
.”
Eric’s collection of antique images portrayed Ella in various entertainment posters. She was depicted on various theater stages and each one was captioned with an announcement she would perform her signature rendition of Stephen Foster’s romantic classic: “Beautiful Dreamer.”
“She was with you in spirit,” Eric commented matterof-factly.
Tears glistened in my eyes. “Yes. She was. I believe it was Ella Dazi’s soft female voice that insisted there is something
here
at Marta’s basement. Eric, I must go back to Marta’s. Her basement has more secrets to reveal.”
“I concur. However, this time I must accompany you.”
“Why?”
“Because Ella Dazi’s spirit is not the only ghost in that basement.”

The next evening I arrived at Marta’s prepared to go back down into her basement. Ozzy had arrived before I did. We were in the foyer where Marta stood wringing her hands.

“I’m so glad you came. This being Friday and my workload is light, I was here throughout the afternoon. I arrived home at three today, and it has been quiet as a mouse. Then, right after you called and asked to come over to examine that old trunk down in the basement, it’s been one racket of noise after the other, bumping and shuffling down there.” Marta turned to look up at Ozzy. He stood behind her. Clearly, his presence was some relief to her. “That’s when I called Ozzy.”

Standing there in her foyer the house was quiet, indeed, quiet as mouse, exactly as Marta described. The soft ticking of the grandfather clock reminded me to note the time; almost eight in the evening.

I looked to Ozzy and asked, “Have either of you gone down to the basement?”
Ozzy shook his head. “No.”
“Then, let’s proceed. Marta, no candles this time. I’ve brought two flashlights, each has a bright bluish-white light, and new batteries. We’ll need more flashlights, and it doesn’t matter if they are the old style.” “Okay, I have plenty of flashlights, I’ll go get them.”
Marta left and went down the hall, out of earshot. I turned to Ozzy and said. “Ozzy, I need you to operate my voice recorder. Once we open the basement door and walk down the stairs, turn it on. You can leave it in your shirt pocket.” I handed the recorder to him.
“Also, here’s my digital camera, keep it in your hand and ready to shoot, but no flash.”
Ozzy’s large hand engulfed the small camera. All the better, it was not the least obvious he had it.
“And what do you plan to have Marta do?” Ozzy asked.
“I can see that Marta is upset as it is. I’ll ask her to stand by and hold a flashlight. I know that doesn’t seem like much, but I have a hunch Marta could be the apex for potential spirit energy, in other words, she is the calling card, and the target. Just having Marta’s presence down there with us is more than enough for her to do.”
Marta returned just as out of breath and anxious has when she left. She had three flashlights.
“I took longer than I expected because I put brand new batteries in all of them.” Marta gave me a weak smile and it endeared her to me. Even with all this ghostly commotion going on in her home, she had the good sense to put new batteries in flashlights.
“Thank you Marta. Give Ozzy one of those and hold on to the other two. I may need you to operate one in each hand, okay?”
“Oh certainly, dear. Whatever I can do to help, just say so. What’s our next step?”
“Marta, before we go down to the basement, tell me what you know about that old trunk.”
“Well, it’s been there forever, in this house, I mean. A few years ago when I attended a family reunion back east, I was asked about it. A cousin asked me to describe the trunk. After I did, she said she was pretty sure that it was the steamer trunk that had belonged to Alden, remember, he is my ancestor who inherited all of Jonathan Rupp’s belongings, including the land and tavern. And then she asked if I would send her a photo of it when I arrived home. I did and after that, she said I should hold onto the trunk, that it was quite valuable, as an antique. So, I have. I’ve not given it much thought, all these years.”
“Marta, have you ever opened it, ever removed items from it?”
Marta closed her eyes and considered my question. She opened her eyes and answered, “Not that I recall. When I was a little girl, I begged my papa to let me play with it. He said it was too dangerous, that I could fall into it and if the trunk lid slammed shut while I was inside, I’d never be able to get out. That’s when he moved the trunk to the back of the basement and then he piled crates and boxes crammed with stored items in front of it. Doing that obstructed access to the trunk. It was only recently when that antiques dealer wanted to see that mirror that I gave the old trunk much consideration. With Ozzy’s help, we used it as an anchor to prop the bed headboard against and then we used that headboard as a wall to prop the mirror against for support. Really, that is the most involvement I’ve had with that trunk, since I was young.”
“And the noise you heard a little while ago, the shuffling and bumping, you know it was the trunk?” I asked.
Marta’s anxiety ramped up. She looked at me with a grimace and brows furrowed. “No, I can’t say what made that horrible thumping and screeching sound. I didn’t go down to the basement to see. But, Shannon, nothing down there could make a sound like that. Not even my washing machine and dryer would make a sound like that.”
“Raccoons, maybe?”
“Oh, no, not Hansel and Gretel. I saw them a few minutes ago. When the racket in the basement began, I looked out on my back porch… the poor dears scampered away in fear. I saw them crawl under their bush.”
I took a deep breath, exhaled and glanced behind Marta to where Ozzy stood. He nodded yes.
“Then, it’s time to go down to the basement. Marta, I’ll lead, Ozzy will bring up the rear. Ozzy, be sure to leave open the basement door.”
What I didn’t let on was that Ozzy was not bringing up the rear, Eric Blackthorne would do that. As Eric had cautioned and insisted on, he had accompanied me. Unbeknown to Marta and Ozzy, there was, indeed, a ghost in this house and he stood right behind me. I could feel his energy and I welcomed it.
From the top of the basement stairs I reached to the wall and switched on the lights. The eerie yellow glow of the bare light bulb hanging above the stairway gave me a portentous sense that we were descending into another realm. At the bottom of the stairs I paused and then slowly stepped six feet into the center of the basement. We gathered together in the middle of the basement, Marta was to my left and Ozzy to my right. I could feel Eric behind my right shoulder.
I directed the beam of my flashlight to the back wall, where the mirror had been. All the fragments of broken glass were cleared away. “Where’s the mirror’s frame?” I asked Marta.
“Over there, on the table by the window. The frame is now pieces of broken-up wood. I plan to put it out in the trash for the next rubbish pickup day, early next week.”
“And the trunk, is it still behind the bed?” I asked.
“I guess so.” Marta looked worried, and I knew why. If the trunk is still there, and still obscured by the bed and its frame, then what caused all the noise?
In unison we cautiously stepped toward the bed frame. Ozzy advanced ahead of me, stepped behind the bed and directed his flashlight into the dark corner.
“Yep, Shannon, it’s here. It’s gonna take the two of us to heave-ho it out from this corner.”
I turned to Marta and said, “Marta stay here and keep both flashlights on us. Ozzy and I can move the bed out of the way and get to the trunk.”
We worked together flawlessly. We had the bed frame and headboard moved to the opposite end of the basement and we were in the process of moving the footboard there, too, when, without so much as a flicker or warning, the electrical lights went out. Then, Ozzy’s flashlight failed, and so did both of Marta’s. I held tight onto mine, it shone dimly in the inky air, but at least it was still working. Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out my extra flashlight, handed it to Ozzy. He turned it on. It flashed momentarily and then it failed. Our only source of light was in my hand and I suspected that this last flashlight was running off of Eric’s energy, and if not for him, it would soon stop working. Looking back… what I remember most is that it was a moonless night, not the tiniest bit of illumination came through the windows. The darkness down in the basement obliterated all vision outside the small circle of my flashlight.
Marta edged closer to me and said, “Ozzy, step up closer, toward the beam of Shannon’s flashlight.”
We stood there huddled in a half circle or dim illumination, surrounded by blackness. I directed my flashlight at the trunk. It was now out of hiding and it loomed before us.
“Stay calm,” I heard Eric whisper in my ear. “I assure you, this is no more than a meager manipulation of energy.”
Meager?
Impressive display if you ask me. What now? I thought.
And the trunk answered. In a wood-and-metal screech against the concrete floor, the trunk slid toward us in jagged and jerking spurts of energy.
“Stay still, do not move,” I said.
We watched, mesmerized in horror and entranced by the wisps of yellow fog that encircled the trunk and spiraled upward. Tendrils of ectoplasm pulsated forth, and each heartbeat of mine brought the icy fingers closer. I closed my eyes and willed myself to remain perfectly still, knowing Eric was with me. Yet, I shivered uncontrollably when the cold mist caressed my face, and the long tendrils reached out, touching my body. How much longer must I tolerate this?
“Not yet, Shannon, not yet,” Eric whispered.
I opened my eyes and succumbed to the force. I felt myself drift away. I floated in darkness, void of life where the world was not to be seen or known. Outside in the distance, as viewed through the high basement window, an aura of blinding light slashed across the ebony sky. I felt nothing. I was numb to the light’s brilliance and ignorant of its meaning. I knew that life nor death was of consequence in this nightscape world that I drifted through. My energy gave way, I came to rest in Eric’s arms. Again, I shut my eyes,
“Stand straight and strong,” Eric commanded.
I opened my eyes. All the lights were on. Marta had her hands on my shoulders.
“Shannon, Shannon, are you okay?”
Ozzy stood bedside her. I sensed he wanted to reach out and touch me, to assure himself that what had just happened was real and that I was still a viable participant in the world of the living.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You gave us such a fright!” Marta said.
“Yeah, that’s an understatement,” Ozzy piped in. “Shannon, that was the most amazing sight I ever witnessed. One moment this fog was all over you like some beast sizing you up for dinner. Then, the next moment you stared it down and the damn thing backtracked like a special effect from a science fiction movie. It tried to get back down into the trunk. It couldn’t and the more it tried, the stronger the trunk began to quake and shake. Then there was this perfectly silent explosion of light. And, well, take a look for yourself.”
Ozzy moved out of my line of vision. Right in front of us, about four feet way was the trunk. Its lid gaped open.
“What’s inside?” I asked.
We walked over to the trunk and peeked in.
Ozzy reached in and lifted out the only visible item in the trunk. He turned it over in his hands. “Just this old book.” He handed it to Marta.
“It’s an old cookbook. How weird. It must have been Jonathan’s. Look, the title is
Nonpareil Cook Book
.” Marta opened the book and read aloud, “Nonpareil Practical Cookbook by Mrs. E. A. M., Chicago, Jansen, McClure and Company, 1882.”