Deadly Decision Read online

  “You know how I feel about ghosts,” I finally said. “The spirits of dead people don’t hang around.”

  Trina started to laugh. “You saw a ghost?” She peered at me more closely. “You’re serious. You saw a ghost.”

  “Little boys. They looked as real as you do right now. One was sitting on the floor and the other one was standing behind him. When I reached out…when I touched the boy… my hand passed right through him, like he was made of air.” The words sounded strange to my ears; I could only imagine how ridiculous the story must seem to Trina.

  “What are you saying?”

  Headlights of a passing car shined through the lace curtains sending ribbons of light across the room. As quickly as they had appeared, the dancing ribbons were gone. Just like my boys. Is this the way senility begins, with flights of imagination replacing rational thought?

  I chose my words carefully. “Think about it, honey. If the souls of people don’t linger after death, then the apparitions we hear stories about are something else. Most haunted house sightings are the results of over-active imaginations...but some have to be true.”

  “This house is not haunted. God led Ted and me here. Why would He bring us to a house full of ghosts?”

  I didn’t know. However, I did know that seeing the apparitions was intentional. What connection they had to my nightmares I still didn’t know. Maybe none.

  “We’ll have to tell Ted,” Trina said. “He’s upstairs. He thought you might want some time alone with me.”

  Her footsteps made patting sounds as she went down the hall and up the staircase.

  All houses make noises, but I listened for strange sounds, anything unusual, out of place. I regretted that I was sitting facing into the room. One of the things Trina had shared with me from a self-defense course she had taken in high school was never put your back to the door. I had always counted on my bulk to keep me safe, but how do you fight something you can’t even touch?

  Where were the apparitions now? Did they leave when I glanced at Trina? Or were they hiding, waiting…

  Footsteps behind me. Nasal breathing.

  I stiffened. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I sat perfectly still in a dead man’s recliner, the ever-present scent of his liniment invading my nose.

  While I held my breath, grateful Trina was gone but at the same time sorry not to have a witness, a young man, early to mid-20s, and slightly built, rounded my chair. Limp blonde hair hung over the collar of his coveralls.

  His eyes widened when he saw me.

  Was he real or an apparition like the boys? The smell of motor oil and grease mixed with the liniment, creating a pungent swamp scent.

  I stared at the man/apparition as he focused unblinking eyes on my face.

  More footsteps, this time familiar. Trina and Ted walked into the room. I barely breathed, focusing on the young man, wondering if he would disappear.

  “Oh, Mitch, you’ve met my dad.”

  I exhaled. So he’s real.

  “Mitch is an auto mechanic,” Trina explained. “He used to live here. He helped Mr. Barnett.”

  “You come for the rest of your things?” Ted asked.

  Mitch’s surprised expression shifted to one of fearful confusion, almost like he thought I was a ghost. Strange that thought should come to me. Wonder if he has been in the attic?

  “Shouldn’t take me long,” Mitch mumbled. After another searching look in my direction, he shuffled out of the room.

  “Mitch really is a nice guy,” Trina said. “A little strange maybe. He came with the house.”

  “What do you mean, ‘He came with the house?’” What more trouble could come with this place?

  “Shortly after Mr. Barnett died, little Jimmy disappeared. Things were just hectic and—”

  “Wait a minute.” My heart missed a beat. “A kid disappeared?”

  “Mrs. Roberts’s grandson. She’s raising him. His parents were killed in a car accident about five years ago.” Trina lowered her voice to a whisper. “About two weeks ago he just didn’t come home from school.” Tears filmed her eyes, and she reached for her husband’s hand. “Ted and I met him a few times before we moved in. Cute boy, very polite. Mrs. Roberts is heartbroken. The whole town is searching for him. Posters with his pictures are hanging everywhere.”

  Ted slid an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We’ve been praying that God will protect Jimmy and bring him home.”

  I scowled. After two weeks, kids didn’t usually show up alive, and God doesn’t always answer prayer.

  “Anyway,” Trina said, “back to Mitch. With the police looking everywhere, and you can imagine how upset Mrs. Roberts was, she just let Mitch keep on living here.”

  “Mrs. Roberts is the, um, lady renting you the house?”

  “Right. Mr. Barnett was her husband’s uncle. The house belonged to him. Now it belongs to Jimmy…or it might belong to him, if, you know.” Trina sat on the sofa. As she tucked her legs beneath her, the aging springs groaned slightly. “When we moved in, Mitch had to find somewhere else to live. He only found a place two days ago with some guy at the garage.”

  “Trina said you saw ghosts in the attic.” Ted settled beside my daughter, the couch protesting more boldly under his weight.

  Ted’s raised eyebrows told me Trina had already shared the story. Obviously, our discussion of Mitch was over, and just as obvious, Ted had not seen the ghosts.

  Had I hallucinated? No way. It was too real to have been my imagination.

  I repeated the story to Ted, unsure if I wanted my son-in-law to dismiss the experience or validate I had seen apparitions. No one prayed or read their Bible more than Ted. He ought to know the answer.

  “So who do you think they were?” Ted asked me before I could shoot the same question to him.

  “I’m not sure I want to call them a ‘who.’ After all, ‘who’ would indicate they were human.”

  Ted and Trina exchanged glances.

  “The way you described one of the ghosts,” Ted said, “sounds a lot like Mrs. Roberts’s grandson.”

  All my life I had been taught that the Bible was the final authority, but this experience had conflicted my thinking more than I wanted to admit. I’d always believed that lingering souls and Christian teachings are antithetical. And yet I had seen them, two little boys. And now one of them might be the homeowner’s grandson. My brain hurt.

  “Maybe we should go back to the attic,” Ted suggested.

  Trina glanced at the window. “Not after dark!”

  I jumped. Something had bumped my chair.

  “I’ll come tomorrow and finish.” Mitch’s voice mumbled from behind me.

  What’s with this kid? Does he float from one place to another?

  Plastic bags rustled. Footsteps shuffled down the hall. The kitchen door banged.

  What had Mitch overheard…and why did it feel important?

  “I really think we need to go back to the attic tonight, honey.” Ted took Trina’s hand. “What if there’s something up there that can tell us what happened to Jimmy? No one’s ever searched the attic.”

  Trina’s brows pulled together. “You’re right,” she finally said.

  A question had been bothering me. “Why didn’t either of you see the apparitions? Why just me?”

  Ted rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. God must have a reason.”

  I clenched my teeth and fought back the snarl that filled my mouth. God must have a reason? Easy words from my faith-filled son-in-law. If you don’t know the answer, say ‘God has a reason.’ If God was responsible for opening my eyes to the apparitions, then God should have revealed them to Ted. Ted was the one with unwavering faith, missionary parents, and all that.

  God was so far removed from what I had seen in the attic that it was impossible to imagine His involvement. If human souls don’t linger, then the apparitions had to be demons. But I knew what I had seen wasn’t evil. So what were they?

  The proverbial rug un
der my feet had been jerked away, and I found myself airborne with no idea where I would land. All my years in church had not prepared me for this experience.

  We left the parlor and headed to the last place in the world I wanted to go—the attic. My stomach pushed its way into my throat.

  What would the next hour bring?

  3

  With shaking hands, I forced myself to open the attic door and lead the way up the stairs. My current dread made my nightmares seem more like a ride through an amusement park funhouse: I knew the ride would end. The terror brought on by my dream would fade as the new day arrived; life would be normal again as the gray of dawn chased away the shadows of night. Whatever waited for me in the attic refused to be banished by the light, the part of my life that had always remained my own.

  The attic windows looked like black eyes staring at me. Dust danced in the light from the exposed bulbs, giving the impression of another of Ted’s paintings come to life. Ancient dirt meets modern art.

  Even before my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I knew nothing lurked in the corner. No boys, no blanket, no chain.

  My breath rolled from my chest like a wave over a flood-wall.

  Trina pushed against me and I moved up the last step so she and Ted could reach the attic.

  “Do you see anything?” she whispered.

  “No.” Had it been my imagination? The thought grated against my rational mind.

  “Are you OK?” Trina asked.

  I smiled and squeezed her hand.

  “If you’re sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “OK then.” She followed Ted to the back of the attic. I stayed by the stairs, pondering the potential of having had a hallucination. It would mean I was potentially insane, but more importantly it would mean the Bible was true, and God could remain on His throne.

  Ted bent over and looked at the floor. “Bill, come take a look at this.” He pointed to a spot under the eaves, near the roofline. “Right here, see these threads? What color was the blanket you saw?”

  The sandwich and iced tea squeezed into my throat. “Those could be from anything,”

  “But what about the blanket?”

  Cold sweat replaced hot perspiration. I mopped my hand across my face. It hurt to think. Green fibers trapped in a splinter of wood. My lungs collapsed, leaving me with barely enough air to speak. “I’m not sure.”

  Wrenching my eyes away from the threads, I focused on the chisel-shaped boards overhead. Old wood, a row of rusty eye bolts, one with fresh scrapes…

  Images of the boy…chain around his neck…the fleetingly familiar child standing over him….

  Fiber...bolt…

  I staggered across the attic and stumbled down the steps. Leaning heavily against the hallway wall, I slid to the floor.

  Trina followed me. Her warm body comforted me as she sat with her body pressing against mine. I felt her take my hand in hers.

  A minute or so later, Ted came down the stairs, shut the attic door, and wiped the sweat off his face. He slumped to the floor across from us. “So this puts a new spin on things.”

  I stared at him, unable to answer. Not even one of my pithy remarks surfaced. My internal conflict grew until it felt like my skull would explode. I had seen the ghosts of two children - the bolt and fibers proved it. But I couldn’t have. Spirits of humans do not linger. Then I must have seen demons. No!

  One issue had been resolved: I didn’t imagine it.

  Questions pounded at my brain, each demanding attention, clawing over each other until I could no longer separate one from the other. Someone had been imprisoned in the attic. Who had he been? What role did the other boy play? Why did he look familiar? Why had Trina and Ted not seen them?

  And what about my nightmares? All those years, the same scenario, over and over. Never a change. What had caused my subconscious to connect the dream to the ghost boys?

  “So what are we going to do?” Trina whispered.

  Ted’s eyes held those of his wife as he rubbed his jaw with his finger. “Jimmy has been in the attic. We have proof.”

  Elongated shadows stretched across the floor. Cognitively I knew they were images of our bodies blocking the ceiling light, but I examined each silhouette anyway before scanning the length of the hall.

  Ted’s words joining all the other bits and pieces caught in the tornado happening in my brain. “Jimmy has been in the attic.”

  The wooden attic door loomed huge, breathing, mocking me.

  ‘Jimmy has been in the attic.’

  Fear gripped my gut. I stumbled to my feet and fled to the stairs, Trina’s footsteps close behind. The leather recliner once again became my sanctuary.

  Trina and I sat in silence until Ted appeared, carrying a sheet of paper.

  “Here’s one of the posters Mrs. Roberts had printed.”

  As I took the paper, Trina and Ted’s gazes burned into me.

  The photo on the poster appeared to be a school picture, hair a bit mussed, goofy grin. Even without color, I could tell the child’s eyes were blue.

  Ted was right. This was the boy I had seen chained in the attic. That meant Jimmy Roberts was dead, and as impossible as it was, I had seen his ghost.

  My self-resolve crumbled, leaving emptiness behind. I had seen a human spirit.

  A seed of doubt wiggled, trying to push itself into the light, but the shovel of self-reliance buried it deep. I knew what I had seen. What other explanation could there be?

  It was one thing to have nightmares that disappear in the day. It is totally different to have the foundation of your values ripped from you. I felt helpless to do anything about it, and the knowledge made me sink deeper into the chair’s worn cushion.

  4

  As we sat in the parlor, I remained trapped in the quagmire of my thoughts. Ted and Trina didn’t speak. Even the creaks and groans inherent in a house were silent, just like the ghosts. The usual outside noises either failed to penetrate the walls of the house or refused to register in my brain. It was as though I had become part of the fabric of the house, substance filling the hole in my existence.

  “I’m calling the police.”

  I barely heard Ted.

  Within fifteen minutes, a knock sounded on the front door, rousting me from my lethargy.

  “Mr. Hancock, I’m Officer Paul Studler.”

  Ted led the officer to the parlor and motioned him toward one of the chairs. I had never needed a police officer to come to my home before. One more event to add to the list of strange experiences. The wingback chair squeaked as the officer lowered his lanky frame into it. He examined each of us before pulling out his notebook. “You said you have information about the disappearance of Jimmy Roberts.”

  “Actually, it was my father-in-law who saw him.”

  Officer Studler jerked upright. “You saw Jimmy Roberts?”

  I ran my hand along the top of my head and wondered about the wisdom of Ted calling the police. “I saw his ghost…”

  Officer Studler slumped back into the chair and cleared his throat. “You saw a ghost.”

  There was no backing down now, so I told him the whole story, including the part about the bolt and blanket fibers. Ted and Trina remained silent. After all, it was my tale to tell, my noose to stand under.

  Officer Studler closed his unmarked notebook. “Did anyone else see this alleged ghost?”

  I clenched my teeth, biting at the smart remark that filled my mouth. The words tasted good, but I knew the aftertaste would be bitter.

  “We all saw the bolt and threads,” Ted affirmed.

  Trina clutched her hands in her lap, knuckles white. Spots of red glowed on each cheek. “My dad doesn’t make up stories. He’d never seen Jimmy’s picture until Ted showed it to him.”

  “When did you get into town, Mr…?”

  “Iver. William Iver. This afternoon.”

  “Did you drive through town, sir?”

  “I guess so. I drove up 52 an
d around the square to Cashua, if that’s driving through town.”

  “Posters of Jimmy Roberts are hanging everywhere.”

  “I didn’t pay any attention; I was looking for my daughter’s house.”

  Officer Studler turned to Ted, “I’ll have a team come over in the morning and check out the attic.”

  He turned to me again. “Think about it awhile, Mr.…”

  “Iver,” I hissed.

  “Mr. Iver. I’m sure you’ll remember seeing at least one of the posters.”

  My hand itched to smack the smug look off young Officer Studler’s face. What kind of a stupid name was Studler, anyway? I sent students to detention for fighting, and now I understood why they did it. His words had provoked an animal reaction in me.

  The officer pushed against the arms of the chair as he rose. I watched, expecting the fragile frame to collapse under the pressure, but it held against the strain. Better than me.

  “You are going to send someone over, aren’t you?” Ted asked.

  “Sure. In the morning. By the way, does Mrs. Roberts know?” He looked at his watch. “It’s ten o’clock, but she might still be up. I can stop by her house.”

  “We’ll call her in the morning,” Ted said as he led the officer to the door.

  We stared through the windows until the cruiser’s headlights were swallowed up in the dark.

  Trina yawned. “Do you think you can sleep, Dad, after all this excitement?”

  I noticed the dark circles under my daughter’s eyes. “I’m bone tired. I’ll be asleep before you,” I lied, knowing I was too wired to close my eyes.

  Ted had already carried my suitcase upstairs. When I opened the door, the air in the newly cleaned room smelled slightly of lemon, probably furniture polish. Since seeing the remainder of the house, I appreciated the work Trina had put into getting my bedroom ready. A budvase with a fresh pink rose rested on the dresser, flanked by a candle setting in the middle of a glass plate. A bit feminine for my taste, but this was Trina’s touch, her attempt to make me know I was welcome. As I pulled the cool sheets over my aching body, love for my daughter mingled with the tension still present in my chest.