The Ghost Chronicles Part 7

Once everyone regained their composure and the introductions were completed, we continued our investigation. We left the precarious presence of the "hanging tree," as we had aptly named it, and headed down the hill to another portion of the burial ground. Pa.s.sing old and ill-kept graves, we came upon a large, flat tomb. Focusing the light from our failing flashlights, we struggled to read the etchings on its weather-beaten surface in an attempt to find who had been buried there. "Okay, 1776, that's the date. The name, can anybody make it out?"

Silence was my answer as everyone attempted to decipher the engraving, to no avail. As the light in Tom's camera faded out, he spoke up. "Brian, that's another battery down. How weird is that?"

Still, with little other paranormal activity to note, I decided that we should try an experiment to see what we could conjure up. I turned to Maureen and asked her if she had her tarot cards.

When Ron asked me if I had my tarot cards, I cringed. "They're in the car, why?" I was just getting to know how Ron thought, and I didn't like where this was going.

"I want to try something. You think you can do a reading on the crypt?"

"Are you crazy?" I can't believe I was actually contemplating doing a reading in a cemetery. Some people would say any tarot reading at all would be consorting with the Devil, let alone doing it over someone's grave. Oh, I am so going to h.e.l.l Oh, I am so going to h.e.l.l, I thought to myself. "Fine. Then you go get 'em." With that, Ron disappeared into the darkness.

"Maureen, while Ron's gone, why don't you show me how those things work?" Brian said, motioning toward the dowsing rods. I'd just begun to demonstrate them, when I heard a yelp in the distance. Looking in the direction of the cry, I saw the silhouette of Ron, illuminated by the streetlight. That's when I realized he had also fallen into a hole. Our laughter echoed in the stillness of the night as we watched him stumbling to get out.

Now that's funny. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." His voice vibrated in the distance.

After the laughter subsided, I continued my demonstration until Ron returned.

Taking the cards from their velour pouch, I tentatively laid them on top of the tomb. I removed my crystal ball, which felt more like an ice cube between my chilled palms, and positioned it on a small purple satin pillow.

At Ron's request, Maureen attempts to stir things up at the cemetery by drawing tarot cards on an aging tomb while Brian Bates looks on.

"Maureen, what's the crystal ball for?" Brian asked.

"You have a short memory," I chuckled. "Remember last week, when I used it at Ethel's? I use it to help connect with the energy, and when I do multiple readings, it helps to break the connection from one person to another."

"Oh yeah, I forgot." The darkness couldn't hide his embarra.s.sment.

"So, Ron, what do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Here's the deal. How about if we each draw a card, and we'll start by doing a reading for the person buried here?" Ron answered.

"What...are you nuts? You want me to read on top of a crypt? It's over someone's body, for G.o.d's sakes. You do want me to go to h.e.l.l, don't you?"

"Better you than me."

"Somehow I think it'll be both of us."

As I suspected, the cards revealed more about the person who pulled the card and less about the soul buried here. It didn't take long before the group began asking questions. The questions became less and less about our investigation and more about those who were present. Tired with the way the reading was progressing, since it was not revealing anything about the person buried there, and opening my mind's eye once again, I splayed my hands over the cards. This time, I began to feel a surge of energy. It felt thick, weighted. The closer my hands came to the cards, the stronger the pressure repelling them away, like matching poles of a magnet. It was the strongest energy I'd felt all night. "Ron, I'm beginning to feel an intense wave of energy. I just can't place where it's coming from." But just as I finished my sentence, the energy dissipated, as if it didn't want to be discovered. "Wait. Forget it. Whatever it was, it's gone."

"s.h.i.t!" Ron said. "The first d.a.m.n thing we pick up on all night, and it decides to play shy on us." Ron pouted. "Brian, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think this is the best we're gonna do tonight. Investigations are like this sometimes. Unfortunately, spirits don't perform like trained monkeys."

We stood there for a moment, hoping for something to happen, until the cold finally took its toll on us and we decided to call it a night.

We packed up our gear as Brian did his closing piece. "We didn't see any heads coming out of the ground tonight, but it was definitely one of the spookiest places I've been to so far. So if you happen to come across this particular graveyard in Newburyport and you feel a little spooked, there's a good reason. There are over fifty sailors who fought in the revolutionary war buried right here. They've come back a number of times, to haunt not only Ron, but locals as well. Happy Halloween. I'm Brian Bates, News 9 night team."

"I've got one shot left." Ron turned back toward the cemetery and clicked the shutter on his 35mm, ending our night.

Ron's last infrared photo reveals what appears to be an ecto mist in the shape of somebody waving good-bye.

The next day I called Ron. "Did you see the news piece?"

"Yeah," he said, "I thought it was decent."

"I watched it with Stephen," I said, mentioning my husband.

"It was too funny. Right in the middle of the broadcast, he turned to me and said, 'Did I see that right? Did Ron just do what I think he did?'" I waited for Ron to respond, which he didn't, so I continued. "I told him, 'No, Steve, you weren't hallucinating. Ron rubbed the skull and smelled his fingers.'" I laughed.

"So what's the problem?" he replied. "You know you have to use all your senses. Well, the nose is just another tool."

"You and your tools." I chuckled. It was only my fourth investigation with the team, and already I had learned to expect the unexpected with Ron, or at least I thought I did. Never Never in the darkest corners of my mind did I suspect that our next case would be to a.s.sist a Franciscan Monk in an exorcism. in the darkest corners of my mind did I suspect that our next case would be to a.s.sist a Franciscan Monk in an exorcism.

RESULTS OF THE INVESTIGATION.

Old Hill Cemetery is one of the creepiest burial grounds we have ever been to. It contains a crypt that has been broken into several times over the past hundred years, with the corpses defiled in a macabre series of ways. Open graves can be found, where you can rub the skulls of the dead, for those brave-and crazy-enough to try. Photos of a ghostly head coming out of the ground have been taken. And, perhaps the most bizarre occurrence of all was when Ron was slimed with a thick black oozy gook. But on the scariest night of the year, it seemed the dead were off to a Halloween party of their own, and we weren't invited-or so we thought. Ron's final photo revealed a ghostly mist, with one arm raised, waving good-bye-or was it perhaps good riddance?

episode six

THE EXORCISM.

CASE FILE: 6875624.

EXORCISM.

Location: Boston, Ma.s.sachusetts.History: Old Victorian house on the South Boston waterfront, later converted to a townhouse.Reported Paranormal Activity: Gas stove that turns on by itself, electric outlets destroyed, objects moving of their own accord, dog tormented by unseen ent.i.ty, and physical attacks on owner.Clients: Brenda (homeowner), Duke (Brenda's dog).Investigators: Ron (lead investigator), Maureen (trance medium), Brian the Monk (the exorcist).

Maureen, Maureen. Wake up." I heard the sound of my husband's voice in the distance. "Wake up. You're having a nightmare."

Heart still pounding in my chest, I bolted upright. Finding it difficult to swallow with the lump in my throat, I stared at Steve. The whites of his eyes were more p.r.o.nounced, a look of concern etched his face. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes," I lied. Still gasping for breath I looked past him at the clock. 7:00 a.m. I scrambled out of the tangled covers and ran into the bathroom. "If I don't get a move on, I'm going to be late."

"What is up with you lately? Maybe it's all that speaking with the dead you do. You know. Affecting your brain."

Truth be told, the nightmare had scared the h.e.l.l out of me. As I stood looking into the bathroom mirror, a kaleidoscope of colors and fragments of disjointed images twisted before my eyes. For the moment, I was back, standing on the deserted street of my nightmare. I felt a rush of panic. It was all too close to home. There, in front of me, stood my teenage son. I struggled to make sense of what I had seen. Why had he been in my dream? I'd have never allowed my children to partake in an exorcism. A tear slid down my cheek as I once again saw Josh's wide-eyed stare as he reached out and cried, "Mom-please!" Just as in my dream I was once again forced to helplessly watch as his pale body was being clawed at by dark, soulless figures with unseen hands. They whipped around him, pulling him down, deeper. Deeper. Until the pavement swallowed him whole.

The images of the nightmare were way too vivid, way too colorful, way too coincidental. It must be a warning. My thoughts ran to the discussion I'd had with Ron a few nights ago, when I'd agreed to attend an exorcism with him and Brian the Monk, a friend of Ron's I hadn't met. Brenda, our client, had called for help after finding our website, and we thought Brian's services might be needed.

Steve's voice carried over the sound of running water as I splashed my face. "Don't you think it's time to give this up? I mean, come on. What's it going to take for you to realize this isn't healthy for you?"

I'd known the truth when I first met my husband all those years ago. He was terrified of the idea that souls actually existed after death. I witnessed his fear every time I talked to him about my experiences. His eyes would tear up and his usual jovial demeanor would turn solemn and gruff. Since we'd met so young, he had a.s.sumed I'd grow out of it, like the habit of biting nails. Bad a.s.sumption. These days, though, our conversations of the dead and dying are few and far between. He likes it that way.

Trying to make myself sound more upbeat, I forced a smile. Smiles have a way of lightening a voice. I don't know why, but they do. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine. Maybe it's that horror flick I saw the other night? Really, I'm fine."

I glanced in the mirror, the terrible visions of moments ago now gone. I gasped at my reflection. Visine for the redness, makeup for the dark circles, but only time would heal the puffiness.

Later that night, after wrestling with the images of the nightmare plaguing my mind, I called Ron. "Ron, I had another nightmare. I've been thinking...I don't know that I can make it with you and Brian on Wednesday."

"What do you mean? We need you. Brenda needs you."

"Look, I really want to help. But this time 'it' went after my son. I couldn't stop it."

"Maureen, it was just a bad dream. Besides, Brian said for it to work right, he needs the three of us."

My heart thudded in my chest. "My son, Ron. Did you hear me?" My voice cracked as I swallowed back the tears. "Look, to you it's just a 'bad dream'...I do want to help. But at what cost? It was my son, Ron."

"You know, if you have a bad dream and tell someone about it, it'll go away."

Not fully convinced, but on the off chance that he was right, I shared my dream. "I saw the townhouse looming in the darkness in downtown Boston. The house seemed alive. The moment a blonde woman opened the front door, I felt evil oozing out of it. Josh was there. He was being attacked by dark, soulless figures. I was helpless as my legs disappeared into the molten pavement. There was a man standing near the woman, wearing a long, woolen, brown robe. The front of his brown hair was cut short, the back pulled loosely into a ponytail. He had a diamond stud on his left ear and wore wire-rimmed gla.s.ses. With a bible in his left hand he started praying over the blonde woman in a foreign tongue. I think it was Latin. 'Exorcizamus te, omnis immunde spiritus...'"

The phone went silent when I finished.

"Ron, are you there?"

"Yes. I'm here." He hesitated. "It must have been just a dream, because Brian doesn't wear gla.s.ses. And I'm not sure if they pray in Latin anymore."

"What?" I'd never met Brian so I had no way of knowing. Besides, I was just relaying the dream like he'd asked. "Ron, I don't know. I'm just telling you what happened."

"Well, you hit on a couple of things. Brian has dark hair and he does have a ponytail. He wears an earring, but he doesn't wear gla.s.ses. So see, you're worrying over nothing. It was just a dream. Actually," Ron's voice faltered, "he's been having dreams of you, too. In fact, he described you to a T."

My blood ran cold. "Okay. Say no more. I'm out of it."

"Brian thought you would feel that way."

"What are you talking about? When were you planning on sharing this little tidbit of information?"

"Don't get all huffy about it. It's just that I didn't want to scare you. Brian figured you'd be calling me to cancel. He told me that it's up to you. But he said that he'd protect us. That the demonic ent.i.ty is just trying to scare you. You know, like when we've gone on investigations and the number 66.6 appears on the temperature sensors. It's just its way of trying to intimidate us."

I swallowed hard. "Well, it's doing a d.a.m.n good job of it."

"Maureen, if you don't want to come, I understand. Why don't you think about it, and let me know sometime tomorrow? If you feel you can't go through with it, I'll find someone to take your place. No matter what, Brian and I are still going. We'd prefer it be you with us. But if you can't, you can't." Ron's voice sounded softer somehow. "When I first met you, you told me how much you want to help people with your gift. Don't let this thing get the better of you."

I lay awake all night, tossing and turning. I shivered when I thought of the years I'd spent being a medium for seances. One night, at the age of nineteen, when a negative ent.i.ty followed me home and tried to suffocate me in my sleep, I'd felt firsthand the evil that lurked, waiting for an open door.

My thoughts turned to Brenda, the woman who contacted us through the Ghost Project website. She needed our help and had nowhere left to turn. As much as I hated to admit it, Ron was right. Not one to be bullied, and suddenly angry that this "thing" would sink so low as to hit me where it hurt, I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to St. Michael for the protection of my family, for Brenda, and, most of all, for strength.

Unlike Maureen, I was excited about tonight's adventure. Sitting in traffic, my mind began to wander. I thought about when the movie The Exorcist The Exorcist came out. After I'd watched it, I'd had nightmares for weeks, its images festering deep within my mind. Just thinking about it now, though, doubts bubbled to the surface of my consciousness, and a dull panic nipped at my confidence. came out. After I'd watched it, I'd had nightmares for weeks, its images festering deep within my mind. Just thinking about it now, though, doubts bubbled to the surface of my consciousness, and a dull panic nipped at my confidence.

But this is what the NEGP had set out to do, and I knew I couldn't back down. Slowly my confidence returned, aided by Tom Petty on the radio: "You can stand me up at the gates of h.e.l.l but I won't back down."

I had one more stop to make before picking up Maureen. Saint Francis Church. Van Helsing might be brave, but he isn't stupid. I was stopping to get a blessing from the parish priest. One more silver bullet in my a.r.s.enal of protection. I tucked the infrared film that I had just purchased into my duffel bag, got out of the car, and made my way through the church bas.e.m.e.nt to the parish office.

I poked my head through his open office door and said, "Good evening, Father, can I talk with you for a moment?"

"h.e.l.lo Ron," he said with a warm smile. "Come on in. What can I do for you?"

I entered the room and stood in front of his rich mahogany desk. "I need your help, Father."

"Glad to help," he said, smiling. "What's this all about?"

"I'm going to an exorcism, and I need your blessing," I blurted out.

"Exorcism," he said, as his smile disappeared. "What do you mean 'exorcism'?"

"I was contacted by this woman from Boston asking for help, so I called a Franciscan monk that I know, and he's going to perform an exorcism on her-tonight."

"Franciscan," he said, as if it were a dirty word. "What do you know about this Franciscan?"

"I've known him for a while; he's a designated exorcist for the Franciscan order."

"This is serious, Ron. The Church doesn't take this lightly. How do you know he's authorized to do this? Have you checked with the Bishop?"

"I know him, Father. I believe him," I said, ignoring his questions.

He stood up and walked around to the front of the desk. "You know there's a lot that has to be done before an exorcism can be performed. You have to be evaluated by a medical doctor, a psychiatrist, a sociologist, and you have to go before a panel. This all takes time. As I said earlier, the Church doesn't take this lightly."

"I know in my heart I'm doing the right thing and I want-no, I need-your blessing."

"Very well, Ron, if I can't talk you out of it, it is the least I can do," he said with a frown. He made his way across the soft carpet to the desk. Opening a drawer, he removed a purple stole and a small bottle, and returned to my side. He kissed the dark purple cloth and placed it around his broad shoulders. Sketching a cross in the air with his fingers, he uttered a short prayer. He tilted the bottle, moistened his finger, and anointed my forehead. He began to recite the Our Father as I joined in. An instant later it was over.

Despite his earlier dissuasion, any doubts that I had were gone. I felt stronger, confident, and almost invincible. Like I'd explained to Father, I knew in my heart I was doing the right thing. I stood up, thanked him for his blessing, and headed toward the door. As I reached the door, his voice stopped me. I turned to hear him say, "Good luck, Ron, and may G.o.d be with you."

"Thank you, Father, but if I have G.o.d's blessing, I need no luck." I hurried away to pick up Maureen.

I was pleased and a bit surprised that Maureen had relented and agreed to join us. As she got in the car, I asked, "How you doing? You all right?"

"Yes. Let's just get going before I change my mind."

"Did you bring your scapular like Brian recommended?"

SCAPULAR.

A devotional object used in the Catholic religion, made from cloth, wood, or metal, and usually worn around the neck. It is a silent prayer offered to the Blessed Mother in request for her protection.

"Yes. It's right here." She reached beneath her shirt and slid out a piece of cloth protected by clear plastic, hanging on a dark green ribbon. "It was my father's. My mother gave it to me when he died." With the last of her words, she closed her hand around the devotional artifact and squeezed tightly.