I whistle. “Wow. That’s unbelievable…”
“I haven’t been able to verify or disprove it. Couldn’t find any death certificate for him. Only facts on record relate to his son Wilbur taking over the operation in 1928. Did reasonably well, but soon after Wilbur’s son, Irwin, took over, things started to go downhill, and quickly.”
“So, Irwin would be Claiborne’s grandson.”
“Correct.” Nick nods. “By the time James Loughton took the reins in 1968, the mining company was a giant black hole in some accountant’s ledger. They had a joke going around here back then it would cost the bank more in legal fees to foreclose than they’d be able to sell the land for, so they left them alone for years.”
Heh. I chuckle. “Seriously? Or just a joke?”
“Little of both. Nothing’s been done with the land the mine’s on, other than it being condemned. Bank still owns the property around the mine, but they sold off the residence portion.”
“Hmm. Have you ever heard of someone named Jose living there?”
Nick shifts his jaw side to side. “Not exactly. Though, maybe you mean Hosea?”
He says it like ho-zay-uh. Weird. Ghost voices on EVPs aren’t exactly clear, so it’s possible the spirit did say Hosea. “Maybe I misheard. Could be Hosea.”
“The land claim around the mine you’re talkin’ about was first registered to a man named Hosea Povey in 1847.”
I blink. “You knew that off the top of your head?”
“Oh yeah.” Nick laughs. “Bit of local legend. Ol’ Hosea Povey got into a feud with Claiborne Loughton over the land rights before it produced any gold. You don’t normally see something like that.”
“But I thought the Old West had tons of people fighting over land claims… especially when gold’s involved.”
Nick holds up a finger. “Yes, but things don’t get heated until after gold is discovered. Hosea worked the land for months and never found even a tiny pellet of gold. It’s almost like Claiborne knew the mine would produce a fortune in gold before Hosea did. Anyway, Claiborne being wealthy and all, he had the local law in his pocket. Dispute got to the point ol’ Hosea snapped. Completely lost his mind. He up and killed a marshal, a deputy, and his young daughter.”
I gasp, my thoughts leaping back to the child’s voice I heard screaming when I collapsed outside Vincente’s house. “Oh, no… his daughter?”
Dammit! Vincente also mentioned hearing a kid’s laughter outside at night. Could there truly be a little girl’s spirit stuck there? The scream, I’m sure, had been latent, but giggling isn’t often a powerful enough emotion to leave an imprint. I can’t explain why a legit innocent wouldn’t have moved on. It has to be something darker taking advantage of the history.
“Aye. So says the story. No way to know for sure since they never found her body.” Nick glances down. “Crying damn shame. Anyway, they hung him for all three murders.”
Wow… Hosea. What did you do? “That’s so sad.”
“Well, there’s more to it. As I said, bit of a local legend around here. It’s like our regional Jimmy Hoffa story. Keeps changing from year to year. First version’s the one I told you already. Man snaps, kills his daughter, then it’s either he went on a rampage and killed a US Marshal and a deputy, or shot them when they went to bring him in for the girl’s murder. Now, around the time ol’ Irwin Loughton took over, someone claimed to find a bunch of letters written by a feller name o’ Charles Clapp, with two p’s. He claimed on his deathbed to be the one who killed the little girl to drive Hosea mad with grief, on the orders of Claiborne.”
I exhale. “Wow. Think it’s true?”
“Who can say what drives a man to keep such a secret for so long? The Loughton family had a lot of influence around here back then. Lawmen, judges, pretty much everyone who had any political power, the Loughtons had in their pocket. If Clapp told the truth, it probably took him getting to a point where he didn’t care if he lived or died. The Loughton family would have no power over him then. ’Course, you had people saying someone who didn’t like the family started the rumor to hurt them once the mining operation took a hard downturn.”
“Sounds like a total mess.”
“Some of the other stories are even better. I’ll spare you the ones about aliens.”
Wow. I whistle. “Thanks.”
He laughs. “Another legend going around is Hosea worked for Loughton, found gold, and tried to steal it for himself. Resulting shootout killed two lawmen and the girl, who caught a stray bullet inside the house. Yet another story claims Hosea and his daughter picked up and left the area after he decided the mine wouldn’t yield much. Went up by Oregon to pan rivers instead, and no one died at all. They think all of it’s a fanciful legend.”
I shake my head. “Doubtful. Not sure how much credibility you’re willing to give a psychic, but Hosea’s spirit is definitely haunting the property. He was killed by hanging, and not easy. They didn’t do it right. He strangled to death.”
“Aye, figured as much. Not the ghost part. I’ve seen documents pertaining to his trial and execution. Fairly short affair. Trial only lasted a few hours. Ya know back then, if the whole town says someone did something, especially when you’ve got two dead lawmen and a dead child, everything’s decided before the judge even walks into the courtroom.” Nick rubs his chin. “Can see them messin’ up the hangin’ on purpose if he really did kill a pair of lawmen. Damn awful way to go. They do it to send a message about killing marshals.”
“Yeah. Figured as much.”
“So you’re a real psychic, huh?”
“Yep.” I smile.
“What number am I thinking of?”
“The color blue.”
He stares—because he tried to trick me. Wasn’t thinking of a number at all. “Well, I’ll be. Don’t s’pose you can hook me up with the lottery numbers?”
I laugh. “Sorry, Mr. Birch. Doesn’t work that way. I can’t see the future.”
He pretends to grumble, then smiles, leaning on the counter. “So, what do you think happened back then?”
“Not entirely sure yet. Only thing I can say with any confidence is Hosea Povey’s spirit is not at rest, and he died to a botched hanging. He’s also apparently killing anyone who lives in the house by strangulation, or at least affecting their body in a way to simulate strangulation. Vincente told me he’s heard a child outside at night, so it’s also possible the daughter was really killed.”
“Damn shame.” Nick looks down.
“Yeah. What kind of man wants gold so bad he’s willing to murder a child?”
“A real demon,” mutters Nick.
An unusual pang of dread hits me the instant he says ‘demon.’ Aww, crap.
Sometimes, being a psychic is a real pain. My reaction to the word can only mean there really is a demon involved. Question is: would it be impersonating a little girl or is it lurking somewhere else I haven’t looked yet?
Crap. Okay, Universe. I’m on it.