Too numb to think, I throw a few handfuls of water in my face, stand there dripping for a moment, then dry off and zombie-shamble to my sofa. Not until I’ve been staring into space for over ten minutes does the meaning of my experience finally register. Hosea Povey’s execution by hanging was definitely botched. He hadn’t died instantly, as is supposed to happen. His full weight dangled by his neck as he suffocated over an excruciating few minutes. Even if he murdered his daughter, I can’t feel anything but horror at such a death. All those people standing there watching him suffer a slow, agonizing death, no one doing anything to help. His hands would’ve been tied behind him. No wonder I couldn’t move my arms. I shudder merely thinking about the watered-down echo of his experience.
It’s quite possible the executioner hadn’t made a mistake as much as wanted him to suffer out of revenge for murdering two cops and a child. Justice in the 1800s could be quite brutal, after all. But what happened to fill him with rage to the point he murdered his daughter and two cops? Had he resented her as a burden taking time away from his goal of finding gold? And if he’d been at such a tipping point already, his rival striking gold so soon after his death must have driven his spirit beyond sanity. This is exactly how once-human ghosts turn into paranormal monsters.
That odd feeling of anticipation I first felt at Vincente’s house doesn’t make any sense.
Only one explanation could possibly account for such a weird emotion in the area—it didn’t come from Hosea. He would definitely not be happy to see me, or anyone really.
All of a sudden, I have a strong urge to take a closer look at the mine.
Chapter Seven
Second Try
Wednesday. Yay, hump day.
The highlight of my show came from a woman who asked me to check out the man she wanted to make her seventeenth husband. Oddly, neither she nor the guy had any disturbing auras. My best guess is she’s the type of person who becomes insanely attached to people (or possessions) real fast, then just as fast, forgets they exist. Didn’t sense any malice in her—or the guy—so I took the safest way out. I voted hump, but also told her my psychic hit gave me the feeling they wouldn’t last. I suggested they should stay fiancées for a few months before taking it past that point.
Next caller quipped “Number seventeen? I’m as psychic as a brick and even I can tell you they won’t last.”
It’s good I’ve come to really like this job. Even when I can’t wait to be done for the day, time still flies by. Oh, and the station is doing a gimmicky promotion. Six lucky listeners are going to win an Alcatraz ghost tour sponsored by my show. Sounds fun, right? Only problem is, I’ve gotta go with them. So not looking forward to it. The place is creepy as hell. Adding a genuine psychic to a harsh prison where untold brutality occurred couldn’t possibly go wrong in any conceivable way, could it?
Nah. (This is where I bang my head on the desk repeatedly.)
Anyway, after my show, I drive straight to Vincente’s place. I called him earlier while on my way to work, asking if it would be okay if I stopped by. He hadn’t experienced any further paranormal events other than a few unexplained knocks and his cell phone flinging itself at him. Not sure about the average person, but cell phones flying across the room, to me, counts as more than a minor annoyance.
I get there a few minutes short of 9:00 p.m.
From the instant I open my car door, it’s obvious the energy surrounding the house is completely different. It’s what I call ‘French roast energy’: strong, dark, and there’s no way anyone’s sleeping until it’s gone. Vincente meets me at the door. The instant I step into the front room, a soft thump emanates from over by the couch.
“Thank you for coming back.” He waits for me to finish stepping into the room, then shuts the door.
“Did you hear that?” I point toward the thump.
“Yeah. Phone hit the rug again.”
Sure enough, we find his phone on the floor when we walk over there—and it’s open to my number in his call history.
“He knows I’m here,” I say.
Vincente picks his phone up. “How do you know?”
“Look at the screen. It’s showing my number in the recent calls.”
He glances down, shrugs. “That’s like the tenth time it opened to your contact info. Thought it just glitched.”
“Your phone kept showing you my number whenever it went flying?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I exhale. “Oh, wow.”
“Is that bad?”
“Hard to say. The ghost is definitely trying to send some kind of message about me. Considering his history, I’m not too inclined to think he wants me around. It’s probably a warning not to invite me back here. Also, crap.”
“Crap?” He raises both eyebrows, chuckling.
“Yes. It appears the ghost is still able to get inside the house despite my protection spell. Means he’s quite a bit stronger than I thought… or he’s not really hostile.”
Vincente rubs his throat.
“Oh, would you mind playing the EVP for me again? Any chance the spirit is saying his name is Hosea instead of Jose?”
“Uhh, might be. One moment.”
I stand there in the living room while Vincente heads down the hall to grab the digital recorder. Again, a feeling like someone’s watching me makes me twist to look into the kitchen. The window over the sink is black as the night outside in the desert, but a definite presence seems to be there. It’s not giving off anger, though. Perhaps the spirit of some random miner has come to watch the show—me taking on Hosea.
Vincente returns. He plays the EVP again. It’s really damn hard to make out, but if I think about the whispery voice saying ‘Hosea’ instead of Jose, I can hear it. Ghost voices caught on digital recorders always sound sped up. The ‘ay-uh’ part at the end of the name is squished to the point it sounds like someone saying ‘Jose’ with a record skip snap at the end.
“Eh, could be,” says Vincente. “Never heard of ‘Hosea’ as a name.”
“It’s old. People don’t really name their kids that anymore.” I share what I learned from Nick, the historian in Kramer Junction, about Hosea Povey being the first non-Native American to live on this land… at least as far as any existing records can claim. “I’m almost certain it’s him. The marks I saw on your neck looked like a hangman’s rope. They botched—or deliberately screwed up—his execution. He strangled to death over the course of several minutes.”
“Ugh.” Vincente rubs his throat, grimacing.
A door at the back end of the house slams.
I jump and yelp.
Vincente jumps, too, but doesn’t make a sound, giving me side eye. “Why are you screaming? Don’t you see this stuff all the time?”
“Being around spirits, even expecting one to be here, doesn’t make anyone immune from sudden loud noises.”
“Guess I’ve gotten used to them.” He winks.
“You still jumped.”
He holds his hands up, shaking his head in obviously fake denial.
Our moment of levity doesn’t last long before I go serious again. “He is definitely here, and I bet he heard me talking about what they did to him. Even if he did kill his daughter, he didn’t deserve—”