Ghouls Rush In

  Quite a few of the articles referenced the idea that maybe the Axeman was some sort of “malign supernatural spirit.” The more I read, the more I realized that people at the time were really beginning to believe that they were dealing with something or someone otherworldly. One eyewitness account described the Axeman as disappearing “as if he had wings.” Apparently this belief that the Axeman wasn’t mortal was even more pronounced once the editor of the Times-Picayune received a letter purported to be from the Axeman himself. In it, the Axeman (if, in fact, the letter was written by him) announced himself to be a demon sent from “the hottest hell.”

  Interestingly enough, when comparing the articles I’d uncovered from my house with the archives of the Times-Picayune, I realized my collection was complete, minus the article that included the Axeman’s letter. I couldn’t help but shake my head at this apparent oversight because it seemed to be one of the most important aspects of the case. Yet, whoever had gone to the trouble of cutting out and attaching each article to the wall had clearly forgotten this one. I just wasn’t sure if the oversight was by design or by accident.

  When I found the Axeman’s letter online, it didn’t really strike me as that interesting aside from the parts about him supposedly being a spirit or a demon. The only other section that caught my interest, though, was the Axeman’s warning whereby he planned to visit New Orleans on the night of March 19, 1919. He went on to “swear by all the devils in the nether regions that every person shall be spared in whose home a jazz band is in full swing.” The more research I did, the more I learned that the night of March 19 saw people “jazzing it up” all around the city and the Axeman apparently held true to his word, as no murders occurred that night. What was perhaps the most interesting sticking point to the whole case of the Axeman was that the killer was never caught. The murders just simply stopped as mysteriously as they’d started.

  At the sound of a knock on my hotel door, I glanced up from my laptop, where I’d been devouring the Axeman’s letter. I stood up and, glancing at the clock, realized it was seven p.m. I wasn’t expecting any guests. Glancing through the peephole, I recognized Trina on the other side. I pulled the door open and wore my surprise as I took into account the bottle of wine she held in one hand and the Ouija board she had nestled beneath her other arm.

  “Oh no,” I started, shaking my head immediately as it dawned on me that we were about to go ghost hunting.

  Trina offered a huge grin before immediately rushing past me, leaving behind a breath of floral perfume. She went straight for the bar, where she grabbed two glasses. “Come on, girl, we got us a date with your ghost.”

  “My ghost?” I repeated as I held my arms out helplessly. “I don’t have a ghost.”

  She shook her head and pinched her lips together in the same way Ryan did whenever he was bent on getting his way. “That’s not what my brother said.”

  I’d never told Ryan about my dream so I figured he must have told Trina about the footsteps I’d heard and how the temperature had dropped so unexpectedly. I had to wonder if he’d also filled her in on how he’d called the police, only to have them think he was the perpetrator. “Well, I’ve since decided my house isn’t haunted,” I replied flatly.

  She threw her hands on her hips (which was a feat in and of itself considering she was still carrying the Ouija board underneath her arm and holding a bottle of wine along with two wine glasses) and frowned at me. “Well, Peyton, I don’t mean you any disrespect but I think the Ouija board will know better than you.”

  I sighed as I realized the obstinate Kelly will was about to win out. “I’m not talking myself out of this, am I?”

  Trina beamed at me and clinked the glasses together in a clear display of her happiness at having won the argument. “Nope.” Then she started for the door again before glancing over her shoulder at me. “And grab your keys ’cause you’re drivin’.”

  When I unlocked my front door and we stepped inside my dark house, I was immediately on edge even though I didn’t know why. I’d done a damn good job of convincing myself my house wasn’t haunted but I still had the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it was the mere chance that I could have been wrong, that maybe spirits did exist and one was busily existing in my upstairs bedroom. One that also happened to be incredibly attractive and charming, even if he was long dead. The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded…sexy, attractive, and flirtatious ghosts? Give me a break.

  Not wanting to focus on the ridiculousness that was believing Drake Montague was haunting my house, I instead focused on the Ouija board still wedged beneath Trina’s arm. Weren’t Ouija boards considered dangerous? Wasn’t that the general consensus among all those ghost hunters and people with psychic abilities? But I figured whatever reputation the innocent-looking board had, it didn’t matter to me because I didn’t believe in things that went bump in the night.

  “Do you know how to use that thing?” I asked Trina, who was already starting for the staircase. I’d barely even removed my key from the lock.

  She glanced back at me and nodded, looking like an overexcited little girl about to open a birthday present. “Yep, everyone does.” I shut the door behind me and slipped the key into my pants pocket before facing her again. She was perched in the middle of the staircase, her hands on her hips. “Stop lollygaggin’ and hurry it up, Peyton!”

  “Why are we going upstairs?”

  She took the last two steps and then turned around to take stock of me again, tapping her foot impatiently, apparently because I wasn’t right behind her. “We need to attempt to contact your spirit at the location where you first noticed activity,” she recited as if she’d memorized the sentence.

  “Okay, I guess that makes sense,” I responded as I reached the top step, and she smiled encouragingly.

  “The footsteps you heard were in the master bedroom, isn’t that right?”

  “Yep, they were,” I grumbled as I followed her into the master bedroom and watched her place the Ouija box on the ground, followed by the bottle of wine. Then she placed her glass directly in front of her and mine across from it, before patting the ground in an attempt to get me to sit down.

  “Aren’t these things supposed to be dangerous?” I asked cautiously as I watched her open the box and place the board on the floor, then the heart-shaped wooden indicator directly on top of it. Then she produced something spherical that was wrapped in what looked like muslin.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “That’s my candle,” she answered and unwrapped the muslin cloth, which looked as if it was thick with Vaseline or something equally off-putting.

  “What’s all over it?” I asked, frowning.

  “Abramelin oil,” she answered.

  “What oil?”

  “It’s a special oil that amplifies the cleansin’ and purity powers of the white candle.”

  “Why is that important?” I asked, dumbfounded as I watched her place the discarded muslin to the right of the candle while she propped the candle up on a small pedestal and then lit it.

  “Whenever you attempt to contact the dead, you must do so with the utmost care because, to quote Mr. Gump’s mama, ‘you never know what you’re gonna get.’ ” Then she smiled at me knowingly, as if impressed with her borrowed quote.

  “Great, that’s reassuring to know,” I grumbled, reminding myself that I was more than relieved that I didn’t buy a bit of this mumbo jumbo nonsense…not even for a minute. Trina didn’t say anything more but reached for the bottle of wine, pulled a wine opener from her jeans pocket, and popped the cork. She filled my glass to the brim and then hers.

  “What’s that for?” I asked, pointing at the wine.

  “That’s for us to develop a little liquid courage,” she answered with a smile.

  “Oh,” I answered as I lifted my glass. “I figured it was an offering to the ghosts or maybe another way to protect us from that thing,” I finished, glancing at the Ouija board.

  “But
you don’t believe in ghosts?” she asked casually as she lifted her glass and tilted it toward me in a silent toast.

  “You’re right. I don’t.”

  “Then why would you be concerned that this thing could be dangerous?” She had that same blasted look of self-assurance that her brother always did.

  I frowned, not entirely sure I was as comfortable with this mumbo jumbo as I was trying to convince myself. “Just making conversation.”

  She giggled then held her glass up, apparently for a more formal toast. “To Peyton’s ghost!”

  I didn’t say anything but couldn’t hide my smile as I downed a sip of the cabernet and relished the burn in the back of my throat. Yep, nothing quite like getting one’s intoxication on in order to ignore the current events of the evening.

  “Now we have to cleanse the room,” Trina announced.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, frowning as I imagined us cleaning the windows and sweeping the floors. Needless to say, after a long day of construction, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to become Holly Homemaker.

  “It means that you need to close your eyes and imagine a bright white light startin’ from within you.” She closed her eyes and smiled as she continued. “The light is so bright and beautiful, it’s difficult to contain, so imagine it spillin’ from inside you and envelopin’ the whole room.” She opened one eye and frowned at me. “Close your eyes and imagine the light, Peyton.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I responded, immediately doing as she instructed.

  “The light is ensurin’ that we are safe, that anythin’ that would hurt us is forced from the room.” Then she fell silent for a few seconds so I opened one eye to find her staring at me. “Are you imaginin’ the white light?” she demanded.

  I immediately slammed my eyes shut and nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is it cascadin’ out of you, into the room?”

  “I’m not sure I’d categorize it as cascadin’,” I started as I tried to decipher exactly what that meant. “Maybe more filling the room?”

  Trina exhaled what sounded like frustration. “Is it bright?”

  “It’s so bright, I’m imagining myself wearing sunglasses.”

  “Peyton!” she chided as I opened my eyes and found her frowning at me. “This isn’t funny. We’re dealin’ with the unknown; it’s not somethin’ you should take lightly.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  She offered me a quick smile, which I figured was to let me know that I was forgiven. Then she grasped each of my hands in hers. “Spirit, I light this candle to bless this sacred place. Let the light of the flame radiate protection to all four corners of this room. Please release any negative energies from this space. With a ray of white light, I ask that this area be cleansed and neutralized.” She took a deep breath. “Now rest your fingers on the planchette but make sure you don’t push it. We just want the energy from our fingertips, not anything else.”

  “The plant what?” I asked, at a clear loss.

  She pointed at the small wooden piece sitting motionless on the board. “The wooden marker.”

  I simply nodded and rested my fingers on the wooden pointer thing, er, the planchette. Then I glanced over at her to make sure I’d done it correctly. She simply nodded. “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now we summon the spirit or spirits who dwell here.” She cleared her throat. “I summon the spirit or spirits of this house. Speak with me through this medium. If you are here, please respond by movin’ the planchette to ‘Yes.’ ”

  I glanced down at the little heart-shaped wooden thingy and noticed it wasn’t budging. I looked up at her and shrugged. “Looks like no one’s home.”

  “Shush, Peyton, this takes a while,” she scolded me. “Is anyone there?” she called out, but only the silence in the room responded. “If you are here with us, please let us know!”

  I watched the planchette as it sat there, completely immobile. I looked over at Trina again as she spoke loudly. “If any spirits are present, please send us a sign that you are here with us!”

  If there were crickets in the room, they would’ve been chirping.

  “Spirits, please announce your presence!”

  I waited another few seconds before I decided to stop wasting the rest of my evening trying to contact something that didn’t exist. “Um, I don’t think it’s working, Trina. How much longer do we wait?”

  “Hush, Peyton,” she whispered and then speared me with her wide eyes as she glanced down at our fingertips. “Look!”

  I followed her gaze and watched the planchette as it skidded across the board to the upper corner and settled itself on the word “Yes.” “Did you just do that?” I whispered.

  She shook her head immediately. “No, neither one of us did.” Then she gulped and I got the distinct feeling that she wasn’t as practiced with this ghost conversation business as she’d let on. “There’s a spirit here with us.” Then she sucked in a big breath. “Welcome, spirit!”

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to welcome it too so I added a quick, “Hello.”

  Trina didn’t seem to notice and instead asked, “When were you born, spirit?”

  I didn’t move; I don’t even think I breathed for a few seconds as the planchette began to point to numbers until it spelled out “1895.” “Are you moving it?” I demanded.

  Trina frowned at me. “No! I’m barely restin’ my fingers on it!”

  And I was barely resting my fingers on it as well, which had to mean one thing—that Milton Bradley knew their stuff. As soon as I registered the fact that we could be conversing with the dead, I couldn’t help but wonder if somehow we’d contacted Drake’s spirit. But then I realized that if Drake had been born in 1895, that would have made him twenty-four years old when he died and he definitely looked older than that. Well, if he’d died in 1919, anyway. As to why I thought he’d died in 1919 I wasn’t sure—I figured it was because all the articles covering the guest room were from 1918 to 1919, and I had a sneaking suspicion his death had something to do with them.

  “What is your name?” Trina continued.

  The board spelled out “Joseph.”

  Hmm, so maybe this wasn’t Drake’s spirit after all. I couldn’t help the keen sense of disappointment that snaked through me.

  “When were you born, spirit?” Trina asked as if she’d forgotten she’d just asked the exact same question. Afraid our ghostly visitor was going to get annoyed at being asked the same questions, I glanced up at her.

  “You already asked that.”

  She frowned at me. “I know. I’m makin’ sure this spirit isn’t tryin’ to trick us!” Then we watched as the planchette spelled out “Now.”

  I glanced up at Trina in confusion. She gave me the exact same expression. “It’s playin’ with us,” she whispered before clearing her throat and saying in a louder voice. “Is this still the spirit of Joseph?”

  The planchette slowly moved to the upper right hand corner and settled on the word “No.” As soon as it did so, the candle’s flame began growing very large, only to drop down again—almost as if someone were blowing it. And I hadn’t noticed until now that the temperature in the room was freezing. I could see Trina’s breath.

  “Then who is this?” I said, not able to control myself. My voice was shaky, and in my head, I desperately wished that the response would be “Drake.” Somehow, I thought I’d feel safer if I knew his spirit was with us. That and I had to know if Drake was really real—if he’d really visited me in my slumber.

  The planchette moved quickly, but it didn’t spell out Drake’s name. Instead, it revealed the name “Charles.”

  “Charles?” Trina repeated and seemed confused. Her breath continued to billow out in front of her like white smoke. “Is this Joseph or is this Charles?”

  The planchette didn’t stop moving and it didn’t appear to be responding to Trina’s questions either. Instead, it continued to move from letter to letter. “B-E-S-U-M-E-R,” Trina spelled out before glancin
g at me with a question in her wide eyes. “Besumer?”

  I felt my stomach drop as I watched the planchette continue to spell out names—names that I recognized.

  “Anna,” Trina repeated as I stared at her, feeling the heavy weight of shock as it descended in the pit of my stomach. I had the ominous feeling that whatever we’d gotten ourselves into, we were in over our heads. The candle was now flickering as if it were in a heavy wind.

  Trina faced the board again, her eyes settling on the candle as worry began to gnaw at her mouth. “We wish to speak…to speak with only one…one spirit, please,” she stammered.

  “We have to stop,” I whispered, shaking my head as a bolt of icy cold air ricocheted up my spine. My heart pounded in my ears as every fiber in my being yelled at me to release the planchette.

  “Why?”

  “All the names,” I started, hating the fact that I could see my breath. “They were all the victims.”

  “Who were what victims?” Trina continued, shaking her head as we both felt the planchette buck underneath our fingertips as it begin to race across the board. It began landing on letters so incredibly quickly, I had a tough time following it. “J-U-S-T,” Trina called out, her attention riveted on the board. “L-I-K-E-M-R-S-T-O…”

  “Toney,” I finished for her and felt a blast of fiercely cold air explode right in my face. I blinked at the same time that Trina’s candle went out, the acrid smell of smoke stinging my nostrils. I yanked my fingers from the planchette as if it had burned me.

  “Peyton!” Trina yelled. “Quickly, put your fingers back on it!”

  “No,” I said, feeling true fear coursing through my body. I even scooted a few inches away as if to prove there was no way in hell that I would ever touch the thing again. Not after what it had just revealed, something that was seemingly impossible.

  “We have to end the session properly!” Trina demanded. “We have to say good-bye!”