“Bedrooms?” Wren asked.
“It used to be a boardinghouse and now she rents the rooms on the third and fourth floors by the night. Louise lives on the second floor—she turned the entire second story into an apartment.”
“So, we’re talking more than just a few odd incidents,” Hank said. He frowned. “Has anybody been hurt?”
“I was just coming to that,” Tad said. “The reason she waited to call me until now is that most of the activity has been confined to poltergeist activity and a few scary but relatively benign incidents. However, yesterday, one of the waitresses was heading down to the basement to bring up a bottle of their special wine when she was pushed from behind. Luckily, she was only a few stairs from the bottom, but she went sprawling face first onto the pavement and she heard someone laugh. There was no one behind her, and nobody else in the basement. The stairs are in good condition.”
“So, now it’s turned into attacks. The thing about poltergeists is that they usually only hurt people through collateral damage—when something they throw ends up hitting somebody,” I said. “By the time a haunting reaches this stage, where the manifestation is actively interacting with people, that’s when things get dangerous. Well, unless it’s actively altering their mood or influencing them on a psychic level. That’s also dangerous.”
Ghosts and entities could influence the living in several ways—physically, which meant they could actively touch people and be felt, and on a spiritual level, where they could affect the person’s psyche, but that—too—could in turn affect the health of the living. There was no way of telling how far things had gone without interviewing those involved.
“When do we head out?” I asked.
“I want you to go down there this afternoon. Louise said the lunch rush dies down around two, so I’d say you should wait until then. Meanwhile, Hank and Caitlin, start hunting for any references to the restaurant in Moonshadow Bay history. Also research the owner. She may have carried something in with her when she bought the place. She’s only owned the pub for two years.”
“What kind of renovations did she do? That can really stir up things,” I said.
Tad shrugged. “She said they did some work to bring things up to code, and she also had some sort of work done down in the basement, but I’m not sure what. You can ask her when you see her. Do you want to take someone with you?”
I shook my head. “I should be fine. I’ll use a digital recorder—”
“Good idea, but also take notes by hand,” Hank warned. “I can’t tell you how many times ghosts have fried recorders. I usually don’t even bother using them except when we’re trying to see what we can hear in terms of background noise.”
“Will do,” I said, glancing at the clock. “What should I do until then? I finished organizing the list of hell hound sightings you gave me last Friday.”
Tad glanced over at Caitlin. “Didn’t you say you needed someone to start organizing the notes you’ve been taking on Thorkin Hall?”
Thorkin Hall was an old mansion in Bellingham that was built in 1882, when the city was first starting to grow. It was owned by a rich old man who hated the world—a real-life Mr. Potter in every sense of the word. Mr. Thorkin had tried to create a monopoly in the housing department in Bellingham, but his attempts were cut short when he, along with his nephew who was following in his footsteps, was killed in the drawing room of the mansion. Ever since then, owners of the estate had mysteriously died under unusual circumstances.
We were gearing up for a thorough investigation—the current owner, a distant relative of Thorkin, refused to move in. She had asked us to find out what we could, and we were scheduled to start the investigation in a month. Meanwhile, we were gathering every scrap of information we could on the place.
“That would help a lot,” Caitlin said, holding up a thick folder of papers. “I’ve got more on the computer. I’ll email you the file location.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the folder from her. And so, I dove into the task, trying to keep my mind on what I was doing rather than letting myself speculate on the haunted restaurant I was about to go investigate.
Chapter Four
The Spit & Whistle Pub was in one of the older parts of town, down on the docks by the marina. It was in a brick walkup that had one of those old-timey cage elevators. In the 1980s, it had been retrofitted for better accessibility, though it kept the same feel.
I read over the information Hank had given me on the restaurant.
The Spit & Whistle Pub had actually started out as the Spit & Whistle brothel, but when Craig Danvers, the owner, had married, his new wife Harriet took a dim view of the sex-for-sale trade. She insisted he change it into a bar with rooms for rent. The profits decreased, but it still did steady business.
Then, one night a drunken dock worker—one Jace Everett—stumbled in after work. He immediately fell hard for Harriet Danvers, who ran the front desk. She ignored his attentions until the lovesick Everett returned, determined that if he couldn’t have her, neither could her husband. He gunned them both down on the third floor, then turned the gun on himself, effectively ending the killing spree.
The bar had changed hands a number of times over the years, but that in itself wasn’t surprising. Restaurants and bars seldom made it long term, with restaurants closing to the tune of seventy percent during their first three to five years.
The brick building was four stories high, not counting the basement. The second story was Louise’s apartment, the top two floors consisted of rooms for rent, and the main floor was the bar and grill. The Spit & Whistle Pub was quite pretty and well-kept from the outside, and a sign reminiscent of Irish pubs hung over the door.
I glanced at the car clock. It was almost two. Slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder, I parked in the lot across the street and crossed the road, making sure no oncoming cars were headed my way. As I firmly grasped the doorknob and opened the door, I thought I heard a sudden hush and a cool breeze blew past me, from inside the restaurant. The breeze wasn’t physical—it was definitely astral in nature.
All right, I thought. There’s definitely something here.
The Spit & Whistle Pub was dimly lit, with muted light coming in from the row of windows that faced the north side of the building. The windows lined the booths, which were clad in red velvet, and to the left of the booths was the bar, built of a deeply polished mahogany.
The top of the bar was covered with smooth tile, which must have been put in during one of the restorations, and behind the bar were three long glass shelves of bottles—just about any liquor you could care to ask for. Mirrors lined the wall behind the bar, making the space seem twice as large as it was. Back of the room, a stairway led upstairs, next to an antique cage elevator. A door marked “No Unauthorized Entrance” was flat against the back wall. To the left of the entrance, batwing doors led into the back, where I could hear the rattle of dishes.
There were several patrons still eating, but for the most part, the booths were empty and the bar sparsely attended. As I stood in the doorway, trying to gauge the energy, I became aware of a soft rustling coming from near the bar. I glanced over, but didn’t see anything.