Ghost Doll

 

 

 

 

 

Ghost Doll

by

Robert Herold
 

 

 

Chapter One

Boston – June 29th, 1885 – 2:17 AM

“No!” Emily O’Sullivan pushed her husband away. Patrick rolled off onto his side of the bed and kept going, landing on the floor with a thump. She didn’t want sex—hadn’t wanted it for a while—especially now, when she still felt sore after the long and painful birth last week of their firstborn, Olivia.

Martha, Patrick’s mother, came to help with the birth but only stayed for two days after. More than ever, Emily missed her own mother, who died of fever earlier that spring. On top of everything else, she’d felt unaccountably weepy the past few days. She wanted to cry all time. Yet she didn’t shirk her responsibilities, feeding and caring for her child like any loving mother. She even insisted Olivia be moved into the bedroom with them, so she could easily feed the infant during the night. Emily hoped Patrick’s drunken advances hadn’t disturbed the baby.

She turned up the low flame on the kerosene lamp and looked over at the crib. Olivia seemed fine. Emily reached over to dim the light, but a hand grabbed her arm and pinned it to the bed. Patrick did the same with her other arm. He kicked back the sheet and thin blanket and mounted her, taking an awkward moment to hike up his nightshirt.

“You have a duty to me as my wife.” His words came out slurred, but what mattered was straight.

Emily turned her head to the side and wept. It did hurt, and his insensitivity hurt just as much. He’d been a good husband until now. Since the birth, however, he’d taken to drinking with his pals and staying out until all hours, leaving her to tend to the baby. And now this. The pain. The humiliation. A moment later, she let out great gulping sobs, but that didn’t stop him—not until Olivia started screaming louder than she’d ever heard.

“Now, you’ve done it.” Patrick finally stopped and rolled off. “Go, take care of your daughter.”

Wiping tears from her eyes, Emily got off the bed and gasped. Olivia floated in the air, about five feet above the cradle. The infant’s face shone bright red from screaming with all her might. Emily screamed even louder as she ran to save her child.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

Sarah splashed her face with the water she’d poured into the basin. She dried herself and studied her image in the bureau mirror. Her red hair framed a face that appeared as haggard as she felt. The nightmare had happened again—drowning in a sea of blood while hands sought to drag her under. Sarah fought, as she always did, to free herself. She caught sight of a rowboat with a man standing in the craft. Surely he must see me, realize my distress. The small boat approached. “Help!” she called. Would he get to me in time? Here she awoke. Same as the previous night, and the one before that, and remained sleepless until morning.

Now, in the light of day, Sarah pinched her cheeks, and when that didn’t improve her pallor, she resorted to rouge. She put some upon her lips as well after brushing her teeth. Annabelle, her friend and second in command of the Eidola Project (their little band of ghost hunters), disapproved of cosmetics. But Sarah took to wearing them long before joining this group, at just thirteen, when performing in Dodgerton’s carnival. She liked the results. Now, however, she wanted to hide the nightmares toll.

Sarah opened the door to her room in the boarding house and saw the line queued for the toilet. One advantage to having insomnia of late, she’d been able to use the facilities before the others awoke. She crossed the hall and rapped on Annabelle’s door. The door opened, and Annabelle regarded her with concern evident on her lovely face. No wonder Annabelle disdained cosmetics. She didn’t need them. She wore her dark brunette hair pulled back from an unblemished face that featured her large brown eyes and naturally red lips.

“Oh, my,” she said after surveying Sarah. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been having a recurring nightmare,” Sarah admitted, “and haven’t been getting much rest.”

“Are you up for our meeting this morning?”

Sarah nodded. “I want to keep busy. I’ll tell you more about my dream when I puzzle it out.”

“Perhaps we can puzzle it out together,” Annabelle offered. “The professor and Edgar may have insights as well.” She referred to the other two members of the Eidola Project, with whom they planned to meet this morning, Professor William James of Harvard University and Dr. Edgar Gilpin, a brilliant Black physicist.

“No,” Sarah exhibited a strength of will that belied her petite stature and age. “Later.” As a medium and psychic within the group, she knew the answer would eventually reveal itself, so long as she didn’t collapse from exhaustion in the meantime.

“Fine.” Annabelle pursed her lips but didn’t press things further. “Come, we mustn’t be late.”

The two descended the stairs and noticed Mrs. Flanders, the boarding house proprietress, had already set out a breakfast that included her famous fresh muffins and jam. Mrs. Flanders served breakfast at eight AM sharp, not one minute earlier. Sarah checked her watch pendant. 7:48. Her empty stomach grumbled in protest as the two made their way out the front door.

Annabelle moved to the edge of the walk and raised a gloved hand to hail a ride. A hansom cab stopped before them. “Harvard yard,” She told the driver before the two boarded the carriage.

When they got to the university, Annabelle directed the cab toward the building housing Professor James’ office. However, as their carriage approached the place, the professor and Edgar Gilpin got out of a cabriolet waiting out front. Professor James helped Annabelle and Sarah from the cab and asked their driver to wait a moment. The professor removed his tall black hat, revealing his high forehead and dark hair. He ran his hand over his salt-and-pepper beard as he looked from one woman to the other. He appeared far more animated than typical. Edgar, a slim but fit Black man, habitually dressed himself to the nines. Today he wore a yellow and brown checkered suit with a brown derby and matching brown cape, despite the warm morning. He bounded over to them, betraying his excitement.

“Welcome, ladies!” said the professor. “No meeting this morning. Instead, we have a paranormal case that has the ring of authenticity. I received a telegram from Father Joyce, a Catholic priest, informing me of a haunting in South Boston. How about if Sarah joins me in my carriage and Edgar rides with Annabelle? Each of us will fill the other in.”

Annabelle looked momentarily disappointed. Sarah knew Annabelle’s fondness for the married professor and assumed she would have preferred to ride with him.

However, Annabelle got hold of her emotions, brightened, and reflected the professor’s excitement. “That’s wonderful, professor. It’s been months since we encountered an authentic haunting.”

“Yes indeed,” said the professor opening the cab door and ushering in Annabelle and Edgar. “We need to hurry. I want to get there before Hodgson catches wind of this and mucks things up.” The professor referred to Richard Hodgson, president of the American branch of the Society for Psychical Research and a bitter rival of Professor James. Hodgson’s constant skepticism and obstructionism toward investigating the supernatural caused the professor to form a splinter group he dubbed the Eidola Project. Eidola being a Greek word for ghost.

“Cabbie,” asked the professor, “are you able to take my friends all the way to Southie?”

The man scratched at his ratty beard. “That’ll be costing ya a pretty penny.”

“Rest assured,” the professor tipped his hat to the cabbie, “I’ll cover the expense. Please follow my carriage.”

Sarah and the professor moved up the walkway and climbed aboard the professor’s cabriolet. The professor shook the reins, and they were off. During the ride to the ferry landing, the professor conveyed an abridged version of what happened to the O’Sullivan family, as conveyed by the priest.

“If this proves true,” the professor urged his horse on with another shake of the reins, “it would mean two legitimate hauntings so far this year. Most remarkable.”

The professor referred to Xavier Whitworth, the ghost of a former tax collector killed during the Whiskey Rebellion. He’d been frightening people of late, appearing and disappearing at the site of his murder almost a hundred years earlier. A road crew unearthed his remains when widening the road. Sarah helped his spirit move on to the next world. She wondered if she would be tasked with something similar should they encounter a real ghost on this investigation. It involved channeling a spirit to help it come to terms with its death, an emotionally draining task. Nevertheless, Sarah felt happy to be part of this team. After leaving the carnival under a cloud of controversy, she wondered if she would ever have community and acceptance again.

In addition to the one actual ghost they encountered, since she joined the group, the team also exposed a half-dozen fraudulent mediums this year—important work too, as these hucksters so often preyed upon gullible patrons, bilking them of money and property.

As they approached the ferry landing, he drove the carriage onto the wooden dock. The two carriages just made it onto the crowded ferry to Boston. Once they crossed the Charles River, they traveled to Broadway in South Boston and stopped at a tidy brick row house with a bay window above and a flower box on the doorstep. A dark-haired, clean-shaven man in an inexpensive suit sat on the stoop. His jacket lay draped over a knee. The sun and lack of a breeze caused his cigarette smoke to rise in a spectral cloud above him. He looked hot and bothered, but when the carriages stopped, the man sprang to his feet, dropped the cigarette, and ground it out with his black dress shoe. He put on the jacket.

“Professor William James?” asked the man.

The professor nodded. “You must be Mr. Patrick O’Sullivan?”

“I am, sir. One and the same.” The man spoke with a pronounced Irish accent.

“This is Miss Bradbury,” the professor indicated Sarah. “And in the next carriage are Dr. Gilpin and Miss Douglas.”

“Hopefully, we won’t be needin’ any doctor,” O’Sullivan looked worried.

“He’s a doctor of physics,” Professor James corrected.

O’Sullivan brightened. “Not sure what that is, but I’ll be taking your word for it.”

The professor gave a curt nod. He got out of the carriage and helped Sarah down. Edgar did the same for Annabelle.

O’Sullivan gave a start as he caught sight of Edgar. “Never had a darkie in my home.”

The professor paid the cab driver. He then approached O’Sullivan and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Dr. Gilpin is a valuable member of our team. We work together. If you object, we shall head back to Cambridge this instant.”

O’Sullivan dropped his head. “Nah, you needn’t be doin’ that. Father Joyce said I should be placin’ my trust in your group.”

The professor glanced around. “Where is Father Joyce? I assumed from his telegram that he would be joining us.”

O’Sullivan shook his head. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. I fetched the good father after the incident with our child. Father Joyce later came here, prepared to bless the house in hopes it would help, but he couldn’t enter.”

“What do you mean?” This from Edgar. He and Annabelle now stood to one side of the man.

O’Sullivan regarded Edgar then turned back to the professor to answer. “He tried to go inside, but the house wouldn’t let him. The knob turns, but the door won’t open. Same with the back door. Today it’s the same thing. My own home!”

“If what you say is true, how are we to investigate?” asked Annabelle.

“Hold on,” said Edgar. The scientist removed his cape, coat, and hat, and set them on the bench seat in the professor’s carriage. “Perhaps it’s jammed.” He tested the knob, which turned as one might expect. Edgar then pushed on the door. It wouldn’t move. He took three steps back and ran at the door, slamming into it.

“Ouch!” Edgar stepped back and rubbed his shoulder, swearing under his breath.

Sarah approached the door. “Let me.”

“I don’t think a wisp of a girl,” O’Sullivan said condescendingly, “can make a difference when several men could not.”

“Nevertheless,” Sarah said, “I shall try.”

Sarah stood before the door and performed the breathing regimen she often used as a medium. After a while, she reached out her hand, put her palm on the door, and closed her eyes. She started crying.

“What’s wrong?” O’Sullivan asked.

Sarah stepped away from the door and scrutinized O’Sullivan. “This house has known great sadness.”

The man blushed and looked downward. He heaved a sigh and said, “I may be to blame—to my shame.” O’Sullivan became quiet, and an awkward minute of silence followed, but the man did not continue.

Professor James again placed a hand upon O’Sullivan’s shoulder. “We would appreciate your candor. To investigate this haunting, we must fully understand the situation.”

O’Sullivan sighed once more and spoke in a soft voice. “Drunk to the gills, I forced myself upon Emily, my wife.” He looked up at them with tears in his eyes.

“With the help of Father Joyce, I’ve seen the error in my ways and have become a teetotaler. It’s only been a few days, but I’m resolved to stay on the wagon and win back the love of my wife and daughter.

“Olivia lay in her crib,” he continued, “across the room from our bed. As I had my way, Emily became upset. Then Olivia started hollering to beat the band. I stopped and told my wife to deal with the child. Emily got off the bed and screamed too. I turned and saw my Olivia wailing as she hung in the air, borne by nothing I could see. Emily snatched our child away from whatever evil force held her. Then they bolted from the house. My wife has refused to return ever since. Can’t say that I blame her.

“I have a job as an accountant at city hall under our new mayor,” said O’Sullivan, “but I’ve mortgaged everything on this home. If it be uninhabitable, I’m ruined.”

The professor looked at Sarah. “Is this incident the reason we can’t enter?”

Sarah’s eyes drifted upward as she considered this. “In part, yes.” She moved to the door again. “Let me see if I can learn more.” Sarah grew quiet as before and did her breathing regimen. When she reached out and touched the door, it swung inward as though welcoming them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

Sarah led the group inside. She shuffled into the hall, glancing all around, wary about what might be in store. All seemed quiet, save for the footfalls of the others following her lead. Sarah attributed the musty smell of the house to its being shut for a week. Without warning, O’Sullivan pushed past her and bounded up the stairs at the end of the hall.

“What’s he about?” Edgar wondered aloud.

“I couldn’t say,” the professor responded.

The answer came a few moments later when O’Sullivan descended the stairs carrying an armful of clothes and two pairs of shoes. He approached the others who still waited in the hall and blocked his way.

“If you’ll excuse me,” O’Sullivan said. “We left in such a hurry, we didn’t have time to pack, and then I couldn’t get back in to fetch anything. I’ll be bringing these to Emily’s parents, where we are staying.”

“Of course,” responded the professor. He moved to the side, as did the others, making room for O’Sullivan to pass. Sarah watched him drop the clothes on the stoop and then return.

“So, you’ll be wanting the grand tour?” he asked.

“A capital idea,” said the professor, “but let Sarah go first. Her initial impressions may be significant.”

O’Sullivan nodded and told Sarah to proceed up the stairs and enter the first room on the right. She did so, and the rest followed, crowding into the room. Pink floral wallpaper covered the walls. Several dolls with porcelain heads and a book of nursery rhymes sat on a shelf.

“Where’s the cradle?” Annabelle asked.

“Next door in our room,” O’Sullivan said. “Emily wanted Olivia close at hand during the night.”

“You didn’t take the cradle with you when you fled?” Edgar asked.

O’Sullivan spoke to Annabelle, as though she had asked the question. “Emily insisted we leave without it.”

“Let’s proceed to your room.” Professor James indicated the open doorway with the hand that held his hat, but Sarah already stood in the hall. She entered the other bedroom and stood before the cradle with her eyes closed. After several deep breaths, she reached out and placed her hands on the infant’s bed.

Sarah’s eyes flew open. She seemed frozen except for her irises, which rose under her upper lids so that only the whites of her eyes showed.

O’Sullivan stared at her in horror. “What in Sam Hell—”

“Hush,” said the professor. “Miss Bradbury is a talented medium. She’s sensing something.”

A moment later, Sarah began to fall backward. Edgar’s lightning-fast reflexes, honed as a boxer in college, allowed him to catch her before she fell. He set her gently on the ground. Sarah lifted her right hand to her forehead and looked at the others gathered around.

“I’m all right,” she said. After a moment, she gathered her wits and stood. Edgar held her upper arm, as she still seemed unsteady. “I saw the incident exactly as Mr. O’Sullivan described.” Sarah glowered at O’Sullivan, who averted his eyes.

“Well,” said the professor, “it helps to have verification. What did you sense about the apparition?”

“It didn’t show itself to me.”

“Curious.”

“But I could hear her crying and repeating the word no.”

“Her?” asked Edgar

.Sarah nodded. “I got the impression she objected to the actions of Mr. O’Sullivan.”

“I’ve had enough browbeating.” O’Sullivan stormed into the hallway, down the stairs, and out the front door. Then they heard him shout, “Bloody hell!”

The team raced outside to find O’Sullivan running up and down the walk, looking in all directions.

“What happened, man?” asked the professor.

O’Sullivan approached the group, boiling with anger. “Some bastard stole my pile of clothes!”

Edgar ran to the carriage and retrieved his hat and cape.

Seeing this, O’Sullivan threw his hands into the air and turned away. “Now, don’t that just beat all,” he said in frustration. He turned back and faced Sarah. “Is this some of your spook’s doings?”

Sarah shook her head. “She not mine. I suggest you look to your neighbors.”

This last comment riled O’Sullivan all the more, and he took another step toward her. “What’s that supposed to mean? The dirty Irish—a thieving lot, are they?”

Edgar moved in front of Sarah and faced O’Sullivan with his fists raised in a boxer’s stance. “Step back and govern your tongue, or I’ll lay you flat.”

O’Sullivan likewise raised his dukes.

“Gentlemen, step back.” The professor moved between the two men and held them apart. “I appeal to the better angels of your nature.”

After a tense few moments, Edgar lowered his fists. O’Sullivan did the same and moved away from the others. Eventually, he returned and muttered, “Please forgive my intemperate behavior.” He faced Sarah. “I apologize.”

Sarah nodded her head in acceptance.

“Perhaps we could see the rest of your home,” Annabelle suggested.

O’Sullivan sighed and stood erect. “If you’ll follow me.” He led them back into his home.

The professor did not raise his earlier suggestion that Sarah enter rooms first. O’Sullivan turned left in the hall and led them into a large room containing a dining area with a kitchen at the far end. Black and white hexagonal tiles covered the entire floor. The professor looked at Sarah. “Do you sense anything?”

Sarah closed her eyes and blew out a stream of air. She sensed a presence in the house, but nothing more prominent here than elsewhere, and she told this to the professor and the others.

The professor indicated they should sit at the dining table, and the group complied. The large table accommodated them all with one chair to spare. As they sat in uncomfortable silence, Sarah noticed O’Sullivan’s scowl whenever he glanced at Edgar.

The professor broke the silence. “Now, Mr. O’Sullivan, perhaps you could speculate on the cause of this haunting?”

O’Sullivan threw his hands in the air with evident disgust. “Haven’t I admitted my shame? What more do you want? To nail me to a cross?”

The professor persisted. “But why did the spirit attack your daughter?”

At that instant, a drawer in the kitchen flew out from below the counter and clattered onto the tile floor, scattering an array of cutlery.

The professor stood and moved to investigate.

“No!” Sarah bounded to her feet and dove into the professor. She wasn’t big enough to knock him over. However, the two staggered away just far enough to avoid the butcher knife that flew from the kitchen floor. The blade stuck into the back of the professor’s chair.

Professor James regained his footing and grabbed Sarah’s shoulders to help her do the same. He regarded the knife still stuck in the chair and looked down at the diminutive medium. “I owe you a great debt of thanks.” He looked at the others and said, “Perhaps it would be best if we again stepped outside.”

The group assembled out on the walk. Last to exit the house, Annabelle carried a porcelain-headed doll in a red fabric dress with white and brown lace trim.

“What have you there?” the professor asked.

Annabelle approached O’Sullivan. “I found this sitting in the hall. I thought perhaps you dropped it when you carried your bundle of clothes.”

O’Sullivan waved his hands before him and backed away. “Never laid eyes on that before.”

The professor offered to take the doll, and Annabelle handed it to him. He examined it thoroughly, even removing the white fabric bonnet and checking the doll’s hair. “It appears to be nothing more than a doll.” He handed it to Sarah, who took it in both hands.

Upon touching the doll, Sarah gasped. Her eyes rolled up as before, and she collapsed backward onto the pavement. This time Edgar only managed to reach out and grab the back of her head, preventing it from cracking against the corner of the stone stoop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four
 

Sarah opened her eyes to see blurry shapes around her. In a moment, her vision cleared enough to see the rest of the team surrounding her. She realized Edgar cradled her head, and Annabelle held one of her hands. The professor grasped her other wrist, pressing down with his fingers and staring at his gold pocket watch. The professor trained as a doctor but never practiced medicine. Instead, he taught philosophy, then the new field of psychology, to his students at Harvard. He nodded and then caught Sarah’s eyes and smiled. “It seems our patient is recovering.”

O’Sullivan arrived and presented Sarah with a damp handkerchief full of ice chips. “Got this from the fishmonger across the way. He assured me the ice is clean—as is my handkerchief.”

Sarah accepted the cool cloth, touched it to her forehead, and then made her thanks to everyone. “Perhaps you can help me up?” she asked. Many hands did so.

Once she regained her composure, the professor bent down to her eye level. “What happened? What did you see or sense from the doll?”

“It belongs, rather, belonged to a young woman who once lived here. Cathy Feller.”

Annabelle asked.

Sarah nodded.

O’Sullivan looked at the professor. “I bought the place from Councilman Feller. He said he couldn’t stand to live here after his daughter’s disappearance. People searched more than half the wards in the city for her, but no one found hide nor hair. Fowler gave no mention of the place being haunted.”

“It would have been poor marketing,” quipped Edgar.

O’Sullivan scowled and clenched his fists but did nothing more.

The professor turned to Annabelle. “Where, exactly, did you find the doll?”

“In front of a closet door halfway down the hall.”

“That’s not a closet,” O’Sullivan said. “The door leads to the cellar.”

The professor cast his eyes around the group. “Are we brave enough to chance going inside again?”

Edgar held up his index finger. “Hold for a moment. I’d like to retrieve my camera and my sample jars.” Edgar sprinted to the rear of the professor’s coach and removed the straps holding a trunk to the back. He opened the trunk and pulled out a tripod, a box camera, a flash pan, a container of flash powder, and a wooden box labeled “photographic plates.” He also removed a milkman’s box with four empty milk bottles, each with a cork stopper.

“First, I’d like to take a photo of people in front of the house.” Edgar directed the others to stand on either side of the entryway, which stood open. He ducked his head beneath the drape on the rear, then reached around the front to fuss with the lens to focus. Edgar retrieved a treated glass plate from his box and inserted it into the side of the camera. He prepared the flash pan, then held it aloft. The other hand held a red ball with a tube running from it to the camera. Sarah knew this would open the shutter on the camera when Edgar ignited the powder.

“Ready, everyone?” Edgar said to the rest. “Don’t move until I say. Here we go.”

The flash powder exploded with a bright burst of light and a cloud of smoke, which caused Sarah to sneeze. She hoped she hadn’t ruined the picture and asked Edgar, who looked somewhat stunned.

“I’m not concerned so much about that as to what I saw in the doorway when I took the picture.”

“You saw her?” asked Annabelle.

Edgar looked at Annabelle in shock. “How did you know?”

“A lucky guess,” she smiled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

With the professor’s prompting, Edgar described the girl.

“She looked about twelve or thirteen years old. Brown hair. Wearing a dress similar to the doll, which she was holding. I hope my photo captured her.”

O’Sullivan turned to the professor. “How could a little girl have blocked the door and prevented me and your boy,” he indicated Edgar, “from entering?”

Sarah saw the professor roll his eyes at O’Sullivan’s last remark; nevertheless, he answered. “The supernatural realm can confer powers we barely understand. That is, in part, what we are investigating. An apparition’s power is not comparable to its human capabilities. ’More a reflection of the spirit’s will—for good or ill.” He glanced around and said, “Where is the doll?”

They all searched but couldn’t locate it.

The professor bade them all form a circle. “Given what happened earlier with the knife,” he said, “it will not lower my esteem for you if any choose to stay outside while we investigate further.”

“I’m not sure outside is any safer,” Edgar said, “considering it appears she came out to fetch her doll.” He looked at O’Sullivan. “In which case, maybe she did take your clothes. Perhaps she hid them.”

O’Sullivan considered this, then broke out of the circle and stormed into an alley. Sarah heard the banging of metal ash can lids. A moment later, O’Sullivan emerged from the alley carrying the armful of clothes. Annabelle and Edgar laughed. O’Sullivan asked the professor if he could place the clothes on the floor of his carriage while they went inside.

The professor nodded. “Be my guest.”

When O’Sullivan returned to the circle, he made a dour face at Edgar. “You the thief?”

“How could I? I’ve been with you since we got here.”

“Then how did you know?” O’Sullivan persisted.

“A lucky guess,” he said, echoing Annabelle’s earlier remark.

“It seems a childish prank,” Annabelle offered.

“Something a girl of twelve or thirteen might do?” the professor asked.

One by one, they nodded.

“For those who wish to proceed,” the professor said, “let’s explore the cellar.”

This time the professor led the way, followed by Sarah, who carried the box of empty bottles, then Annabelle and Edgar, who hauled his camera equipment. At the rear came O’Sullivan carrying nothing at all. They stopped before the cellar door. Edgar set down the camera, took one of Sarah’s empty bottles, and removed its stopper. He waved the bottle around, then recorked it.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” asked O’Sullivan.

Edgar stared at O’Sullivan and shrugged. “I’m collecting samples from the house. When I return to the lab, I’ll test the contents of each bottle to see if some vestige of the apparition is detectable.”

O’Sullivan nodded his head. “If you say so.”

Edgar removed a stubby pencil from his vest pocket, labeled the bottle, and set it back in the box Sarah carried.

The professor turned the white ceramic doorknob. The door opened without protest.

“Apparently, she wants us to proceed,” the professor said. He removed a lucifer from his vest pocket and struck it against the door jamb. The matchhead burst to life with a sulfurous ball of light. The professor held it aloft. The light revealed a kerosene lamp on a shelf above the landing. The professor removed the glass globe, lit the wick, then replaced the glass. He dropped the wooden matchstick onto the landing and ground it out with the sole of his shoe. Picking up the lamp, he held it before him and descended the stairs. The others followed.

Halfway down the steps, O’Sullivan pitched forward and fell.

Having just set his camera equipment atop a crate, Edgar happened to be facing the stairs. He managed to break O’Sullivan’s fall before the man could break his neck. Edgar helped the man stand, and O’Sullivan nodded a curt thanks.

“What happened?” asked the professor.

O’Sullivan looked back up the stairs and shook his head. “I swear someone pushed me.”

“Perhaps the ghost still has it in for you,” Edgar said. “Lucky thing I was there to catch you.”

“Yeah, luck of the Irish,” he offered instead of thanks.

Numerous wooden crates and boxes covered the packed-earth floor, making the area impassable. Spider webs draped down from the crossbeams supporting the main floor of the house

O’Sullivan seemed embarrassed. He started moving boxes, trying to make a passageway. “We haven’t been here long. Hence, the cellar is still all higgledy-piggledy.”

Edgar chose to pitch in. The professor set down the lamp and did the same. Sarah and Annabelle set aside their items, and as more space became available, they drifted through the warren.

Sarah froze when she saw the doll sitting on the dirt floor with its back to a brick-and-mortar wall.

“Professor!” called Annabelle. “Come quick.”

The professor and the others scurried around the boxes to where the ladies stood.

“What is it?” asked the professor.

Annabelle gestured at Sarah and to the doll on the floor.

“Are you quite all right, Miss Bradbury?” The professor asked Sarah.

The intensity of Cathy Feller’s presence brought her up short. Sarah pointed at the bricks and found her voice. “She-she’s behind the wall—Cathy Feller.”

“In my own home?” said O’Sullivan. “How can she be sure?”

“We can’t account for Miss Bradbury’s insights,” the professor said, “but thus far, she has never been wrong. Have you any picks and shovels about?”

O’Sullivan balked. “What? You mean to tear up the foundation? I think not! Not on the word of some sideshow medium.”

Sarah winced. “How did you know.”

O’Sullivan smirked. “A lucky guess.”

Undeterred, the professor said, “We can do it now or wait for the police. I wager we’ll take more care, and I will pay a mason to put it to rights if we’re wrong.”

O’Sullivan still protested. “And what if you’re right? What then?”

“It will be a police matter, but I’ll still reimburse you for the cost of a mason.”

“All right, all right,” yielded O’Sullivan. “There are some tools over there.” He indicated the far side of the cellar.

The professor and Edgar made their way, carrying the lamp to the far end. They left O’Sullivan and the ladies in near total darkness. Sarah used the time to remove a handkerchief from her sleeve, dab the tears from her eyes, and blow her nose. The men returned with various tools, including a chisel, a sledgehammer, a pick, and a shovel.

“Before we begin,” said Edgar, “I’d like to get another air sample, plus photograph the doll sitting before the wall. I need to document our investigation.”

The professor agreed, and Edgar uncorked another bottle and waved it around before replacing the stopper. Then he prepared the camera. When the flash powder ignited, the cellar became illuminated for an instant and then returned to what light a solitary lamp could provide. The smoke from the explosion brought on a coughing fit among all but Edgar. He waved his hands around again, this time to clear the air, to little effect. But the open door at the top of the stairs provided a means for the smoke to escape, and the cellar soon returned to its former dank self.

The professor retrieved the doll and handed it to Sarah. “Might you sense anything more from the doll?”

“Worth a try,” Sarah said. As soon as she touched the doll, she gasped.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” O’Sullivan turned away from the brick wall. “Could things get any worse?”

“She was pregnant,” Sarah added, “and buried alive.”

While everyone else expressed shock at this latest revelation, Sarah remained still while Cathy Feller shared a cascade of images and feelings from the girl’s point of view: Happy times with both mother and father—birthdays, holidays, trips to the Cape. The fear, sadness, and loss surrounding her mother’s sudden illness and death. Her father coming to her bed sometime later, claiming her mother would have wanted this. Nevertheless, he warned her to keep it a secret. Later, her abdomen started to bulge, and she could no longer go outside. And finally, Cathy woke up groggy in utter darkness—feeling dirt on all sides but one. In front of her stood a brick wall. She could feel the rectangular forms and the hardened mortar squished out between each brick. She pounded her fists against the wall and screamed…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five
 

Sarah returned to the present day. Annabelle held her and whispered soothing words. Before them, the men completed a three-foot by three-foot hole in the wall and carefully removed Cathy Feller’s remains. Once they extricated her body, they set it onto several crates as a makeshift table.

Cathy Feller’s body lay locked in a fetal position. Her dress, now of indeterminant color, came away from the body in shreds. Her dried skin stretched over her bones like Harper’s Weekly’s description of Lady Rai, an Egyptian mummy discovered a few years before. Her empty eye sockets nevertheless seemed to stare up at them. Her mouth hung open as though still yelling for help.

The professor examined the body. After several minutes he straightened and said, “It’s difficult to ascertain without dissection, given the body’s condition, but she appears pregnant.” He looked at Sarah. “The father?”

“Her father,” Sarah said. “He kept his daughter hidden in the house until the last part of the pregnancy. In the end, he drugged her and,” she pointed at the hole in the wall, “put her there.”

“Oh, my God,” O’Sullivan said, “Councilman Feller is carrying the paper for the sale. What will happen to my house?”

“Damnit, man,” the professor spoke with uncharacteristic vehemence, “we have a murder here, let alone incest and rape. Your difficulties pale in comparison.”

“Very charitable of you,” O’Sullivan said, “considering she threatened my child and pitched a knife at you, let alone pushed me down the stairs.”

The professor turned again to Sarah. “Any thoughts on these?”

Sarah nodded. “In her mind, so to speak, she attempted to rescue the baby from a situation reminding her of her own.”

“And the knife?” O’Sullivan persisted.

“Professor, you earlier mentioned a spirit’s intensity of feelings gives it power. She became upset when you accused her of harming the child.”

“How else would you call it when your daughter is snatched from its cradle? To say nothing of this thing trying to kill me on the stairs?”

“She seems to hold onto a grudge,” Sarah offered.

The professor kicked at the dirt floor. “Well, it’s high time we contacted the police about our discovery. Mr. O’Sullivan, would you kindly direct us to the nearest precinct?”

The group ascended the stairs, this time led by O’Sullivan, and proceeded outside. But before going further, Annabelle called a halt.

“Gentlemen, Sarah and I have not eaten today. For the rest, you did not stop for lunch. As it is becoming late in the day, we must first eat, or there will be more than one ghost hereabouts.”

The professor appeared about to protest, then nodded. “As usual, you are correct, Miss Douglas. Once the police are involved, we may be occupied for hours, if not longer. I suppose stopping for a repast will not matter much one way or the other to the situation for poor Cathy Feller. Mr. O’Sullivan no doubt knows of a good establishment in the neighborhood. If he takes us there, it would be my pleasure to cover the expense.”

O’Sullivan brightened at this. He took the group to Amrheins, a pub promising good food. Two red-faced men shouted greetings to O’Sullivan’s when they entered. O’Sullivan waved and turned to the Eidola Project team. “This place has an amazing carved bar and the first draft beer pump in Boston,” he said with pride and then lowered his eyes, “from which I shall no longer partake.”

Sarah took a moment to admire the craftsmanship of the bar, which featured the carved heads of two demons. She wondered how long O’Sullivan’s resolve to stay on the wagon would last.

“Let’s sit well away from the bar,” the professor said, “to lessen the temptation for you, Mr. O’Sullivan.” Sarah realized she and the professor shared some of the same misgivings.

The tasty food lived up to the promise, but the desultory company shared few words at the table. Sarah took a drink of soda water. The effervescence did not lift her spirits.

Once they finished eating, the professor paid the bill, and the group headed to the police station. The setting sun made for a shadowy walk. Sarah considered this fitting, considering the gloominess of their news.

When they entered the precinct, Sarah’s nose twitched from the faint scent of vomit, though none was apparent in the lobby. Two long wooden benches stretched across the waiting area. Around the room, gas lights extended from the walls to illuminate the place. Across from the door stood a high wooden desk with a lit kerosene lamp. Next to the desk ran a low wooden partition with a gate. Behind this sat a half-dozen desks that appeared unoccupied. A bald police sergeant with a friendly grin looked down at them from behind the high desk. The professor and O’Sullivan approached. Sarah, Annabelle, and Edgar hung back by the door.

“And what may we do for you all on this fine evening?” asked the sergeant.

The professor removed his hat and raked a hand back through his hair before he spoke. “Good sir, we have the unfortunate duty to report a murder.”

The sergeant’s smile disappeared. He moved a sheet of paper before him, dipped his pen in an ink well, and asked who, where, and when did this occur?

“We discovered the remains of who we believe to be Cathy Feller at her former home, which now belongs to Mr. O’Sullivan here. We unearthed her from the cellar wall where she appears to have been for over a year.”

The sergeant twisted in his chair and let out an ear-piercing whistle.

Sarah noticed someone in a plain brown suit was at one of the far desks. The man’s head rose from the desktop, his expression somewhat dazed.

“Councilman Feller’s girl has been found,” the sergeant told him. “These two claim to have discovered her behind a cellar wall in her father’s former residence, which now belongs to him,” the sergeant indicated O’Sullivan.

The sleepy man became more alert. He nodded, stood, and moved to a rear door. He opened it and shouted within, “O’Bannon, Reilly, and Stark, out here now.” Three officers emerged, and the man in the brown suit led them through the gate in the partition. The professor put his hat back on, prepared it seemed to lead the men to the body. Instead, Brown Suit came around and put a hand on the professor’s chest to stop him. At the same instant, two officers pulled the professor’s hands around his back and cuffed them. They did the same to O’Sullivan.

“What--?” the professor managed to utter before Brown Suit spun the professor around, shoved him through the gate, and then on toward the rear door.

“I’m Detective Clifford Jordan. You, gentlemen, are under arrest.”

Annabelle stepped toward the sergeant in protest. “Sergeant, these men have done nothing wrong!”

The sergeant looked down at her and frowned. “And how would you be knowing that?” He held up the palm of his hand toward her. “Careful what you say, deary, or you and your friends might find yourselves in the lodge too.”

This took the wind out of Annabelle’s sails. She looked back at Sarah and Edgar, then said, “I just know it. That’s all.”

The sergeant grinned. “Fine, fine. Why don’t you and your friends sit yourselves down for a spell? Detective Jordan may be wanting a word with you, too.”

Sarah saw Edgar glance at the exit and assumed he considered running. She put a hand on his forearm and shook her head. “We’re innocent of any wrongdoing,” she said.

Edgar’s brows drew together, and he shook his head. “That don’t count for a lot when you’re my color.”

“Please,” Sarah said, “Let’s sit.”

Annabelle nodded. “Let’s do.”

Edgar shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “’Against my better judgment, ladies.”

When they sat, the sergeant smiled. “There now, aren’t we all cozy? ’A good thing your friend chose to stay. There’s an officer outside. Had I raised the alarm, he would’ve run the darky down or shot him in the back.”

Edgar looked at Sarah and whispered, “Thank you.”

She nodded.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

The three sat in silence. After nearly an hour, several officers left the back area, strode through the lobby, and exited the building. One returned a while later and headed for the rear door where they’d taken the professor and O’Sullivan. As he passed the sergeant, he paused and said, “There’s a body there, by God. Doc Reilly confirmed it’s been buried since her disappearance.”

The sergeant whistled. “Looks like the fireworks will begin shortly. It’s oddly quiet tonight. Where are all the drunks and ne’re-do-wells we usually have around here?”

The officer shook his head and went through the rear door.

The sergeant sat back in his chair and said, “It looks like you folks may be off the hook.”

Annabelle made a wan smile. “I hope so.”

After running his hand back and forth over his bald pate, he added, “But I dare say Detective Jordan will be curious how the hell you knew to dig into a cellar wall. If you’re not guilty of something, I’m a horse’s ass.”

“I’d like to reserve judgment on that,” said Annabelle.

Eventually, a half-dozen officers came from the back room and proceeded out the front door. When they returned, more than an hour later, they escorted a middle-aged man dressed in formal wear. His hands were cuffed. The man blustered with indignation and self-importance.

“Damnit, I don’t belong here!” he told the sergeant. “I demand you summon my lawyer, Erle Gardner. I’ll be out of here by morning. And I’ll make damn sure you’re all tossed out of the force.”

The sergeant got off his high chair and opened the low gate. He smiled at the man under arrest. “In the meantime, we have a splendid cell for you.” He waved him along, and the officers escorted the furious man past the desks and through the rear door.

The sergeant returned to his chair and looked at Sarah, Annabelle, and Edgar. “That, if you didn’t know, was Councilman Feller, who, until last year, resided at the house where you found the body. I guess the detective believed your friends’ story.”

Despite this, the professor and O’Sullivan did not reappear, and the other three continued to wait. Eventually, an officer fetched first Edgar, then Annabelle for an interview. Neither returned. As the evening wore on, Sarah lay down on the bench and shut her eyes.

As with the previous few nights, she found herself drowning in a sea of blood. Hands above and below the surface sought to drag her under. She kicked and punched at these while trying to stay afloat.

An open boat with no sail approached with a dark-haired man standing within. The craft seemed to move of its own volition. As it neared, she saw the word “Atlanta” written on the bow. Then the man reached down and hauled her from the bloody sea.

Sarah jerked awake and sat, breathing hard. Her heart beat against her chest. The name on the boat and her rescue were new additions to the nightmare. With a sudden epiphany, she realized she needed to go to Atlanta. Someone there might just save her life.
A policeman lightly touched her shoulder. “You’re up next, Miss,” he said. Sarah stood and followed him through the door through which the others disappeared. It opened onto a large room filled with card tables and policemen smoking and playing cards. A bank of lockers filled one wall. Sarah and her police escort proceeded through another door to a hallway with two small rooms along one side. The officer directed Sarah into one of these rooms and left. Detective Jordan waited there behind a table next to a policeman in uniform. The detective indicated that Sarah should sit across from him. The other officer had a stack of paper before him, plus a pen and a jar of ink. Sarah assumed he would be taking down her statement.

The detective stared at her for a long while. Sarah shifted uncomfortably on her seat but held the man’s stare. At last, Detective Jordan said, “Miss Sarah Bradbury, is it?”

Sarah nodded.

“It seems O’Sullivan and all your friends are telling the same tale. That, along with the body, the location, and Doc Reilly’s statement, makes Councilman Feller look like the murderer. But one thing is niggling at me and hasn’t been answered to my satisfaction. How did you know where to find the body?”

The sergeant figured right about that being a problem.

Sarah told the detective an abbreviated life story about her abilities as a medium. How she came to work on the midway and eventually became a star attraction. How, nine months ago, she left the carnival and sought out the professor, who led investigations into the supernatural.

She recounted the last day’s events and how her abilities played a part, including knowing where a pregnant Cathy Feller had been buried alive.

“You get all that, Evans?” Detective Jordan asked the officer seated next to him. The policeman continued scribbling in shorthand for a few seconds more, then stopped. He looked over at the detective and nodded.

Detective Jordan commenced a stare-down again with Sarah. At last, he said, “You’re shittin’ me. I don’t believe a word of it. Somehow, you and the others are involved in this girl’s murder.” He stood. “You’re going into the cell with the rest of your group until I get to the truth, one way or the other.”

Sarah blinked away tears welling in her eyes. She grabbed her purse and stood.

Detective Jordan shook his head and pointed at her bag. “You’ll be leaving that here with the rest of the stuff.” He indicated a pile of the group’s belongings lying on a small table in the corner of the room. Sarah hadn’t noticed the items until now.

She hesitated.

“Come now, little lady. Set it down, and let’s be on our way.”

“Might I keep this?” Sarah removed Cathy Feller’s doll from her oversized purse. “I’d like to show it to Mr. Feller.”

“The answer is no.” He took the doll from her and examined it. “You removed evidence from a crime scene. You may not keep it.” He paused, then said, “You know, he’s probably right.”

This confused Sarah. “Who is? About what?”

“Councilman Feller. He’ll probably get out of this and be free as a bird.” The detective smiled conspiratorially and said, “I think it might be useful for you to show this to Feller after all.”

Sarah nodded and took the doll back when the detective offered it. She hugged the doll as the men took her into another part of the building containing two large cells with a walkway in between. The bars from the cells ran from the brick floor to the ceiling. The smell of vomit became more intense here, but as Sarah cast her eyes around, she again saw no evidence of it. Probably a common occurrence back here and permeates the place. Sarah saw the members of her group in one cell. The other cell held only Councilman Feller, now without his hat and tails, which lay on a cot.

“Officers, I want out this instant,” Feller demanded of the detective and the officer escorting Sarah.

“Relax, Councilman,” Detective Jordan steered Sarah to Feller’s cell. “Let’s see what the morning will bring. In the meantime, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” The detective stepped back.

Sarah tentatively stepped toward the councilman’s cell. “I know what you did. Your daughter showed me every disgusting thing.”

The councilman turned his back on her. “I don’t have to listen to the ravings of a lunatic. Take her away.”

“You made her pregnant,” added Sarah, “and buried her alive behind your cellar wall.”

Feller became rigid. When he turned back toward Sarah, his eyes narrowed to two slits. His lips pursed, and his jaw clenched. When he spoke, his words sounded almost like a growl. “You are as crazy as a loon. You’ve no proof and can go to hell.”

“I think you know the way,” said Sarah, uncowed by the man’s hostility. “Do you recognize this?” Sarah held the doll before her.
Feller’s eyes went wide. He reached out a shaky hand and snatched the doll from Sarah. But after a quick examination, he threw it behind him. The doll hit the floor next to his cot, and its porcelain head shattered. Most of the pieces and the fabric body rolled beneath the bed.

“Never seen it before.” Feller looked at the detective, “Why are you subjecting me to this madwoman? I swear, the moment I’m released--”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” the detective cut him off. “I should’ve expected that.” He grabbed Sarah’s shoulders and spun her around to face her friends in the other cell. Officer Evans unlocked the cell door, and the detective pushed Sarah inside with the others. The door slammed shut behind her, and she heard the lock engage.

“Detective,” said the professor, “Our situation is substantively different from the councilman’s. No doubt you’ve been told the remains of the girl predate our arrival and Mr. O’Sullivan taking possession of the home. Continuing to hold us makes no sense. You have your murderer.”

“How dare you!” shouted Feller.

The room went dark. A few seconds later, Feller screamed. Tremendous thuds occurred, and the sound of Feller’s voice shook with each crash, then became a pitiful mewl until it at last became silent. However, the crashing continued until the hallway door opened, and a half-dozen officers crowded into the jail.

“I smell gas!” shouted Detective Jordan, now visible in the light from the hallway. “Open some damn windows before we all go up in flames!” The men in the doorway moved to do so while the detective reached up and shut off the flow to the extinguished light next to the door. He turned toward Feller’s cell. “Oh my God.”

Sarah and the rest of them also looked at the opposite cell. In the half-light, they could make out the crumpled and broken body of Feller lying on the floor. His bloody head lay canted in their direction so they could see his battered face. Feller’s eyes were wide and his mouth, full of broken teeth, hung open in a silent scream. The man’s white tuxedo shirt was now red with blood, and the liquid oozed from his broken body and formed a pool around him.

Above the dead man, sitting on the cot with its back to the wall, sat Cathy Feller’s doll, now whole. The painted expression on its porcelain cherubic face appeared to be a smile.

After a moment, the detective took the ring of keys from officer Evans and used it to unlock the cell holding Sarah and the others. “Fetch your things and go.”

“W-what happened?” asked O’Sullivan.

“Hell if I know,” said the detective. “Go.”

Without another word, the group retrieved their belongings and proceeded out the front door of the police station.

Outside, a cool breeze off the bay washed over them. The professor indicated with a wave of his hand that they should move further from the station. A block away, they stopped.

“What happened?” repeated O’Sullivan.

Annabelle turned to Sarah. “Whatever possessed you to bring the doll?”

Sarah scanned the faces of the group. She lifted a defiant chin and said, “Cathy Feller asked for my help, and I gave it. She wanted to say goodbye to her father.”

The End

 

 

 

If you enjoyed this story, three novels in the Eidola Project series await you! The first, The Eidola Project, gives the back story for each of the characters and follows them on deadly investigation of a haunted house. Book two, Moonlight Becomes You, has the team going to Petersburg, Virginia, to investigate a series of murders in the Black community—allegedly caused by a werewolf. Book three, Totem of Terror, follows the team as they travel across the country to do battle with a deadly shape-shifting demon in the Washington Territory. Each of these award-winning books are available through all major online retailers, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, Kobo, etc.

Here is my Amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Robert-Herold/author/B07YW82TLR

Be sure to visit my webpage: https://robertheroldauthor.com

Best wishes,

Bob

 

Historical Note:
Amrheins, a historic restaurant and bar, is “the oldest bar in Southie.” It features the first draft beer pump in Boston and the oldest hand-carved bar in America. The place has been a going concern since 1890. This story was set in 1885. I hope the reader will forgive my playing with historical details, but I wanted to allow you (if you so choose) to go back in time, near when this story is set, with a place that still exists.