Okay. Note to self: check out the mine after I’m done here. Something is obviously going on over that way. Makes sense. Mines are super dangerous. I’m assuming, but it’s probably a good bet, someone’s died there. Don’t think there are too many mines where people haven’t been killed in accidents. Gold mining in this part of the country used to be super deadly and not only from accidents. Miners, their bosses, criminals, drunks, and so on often got into gunfights. Where mining towns sprang up, gambling, prostitution, and death soon followed.
And sometimes straight-up murder.
Vincente appears at the front door, giving me a quizzical look for standing outside so long. “Miss Lopez?”
“Hi, yeah. Sorry.” I walk over to the little three-step concrete porch. “Getting a feel for the energies in the area.”
He grins, backs out of the way. “Figured as much. Please, come in.”
The house is awash in the fragrance of taco seasoning. AC is on, but not set too high. “Do you know anything about the mine over there?”
Vincente shuts the door behind me once I enter. “Only what the realtor told me. They shut down in 1972. Something about bankruptcy or the owner committing suicide.”
I raise both eyebrows.
“Oh, not here. The guy lived in San Francisco. Loughton family used to have Rockefeller type money, but the son or grandson lost it all somehow. The grandson and great grandson struggled. Great grandson’s the one who maybe killed himself.”
“Ahh.” I jab a thumb toward the mine. “I meant more like has there been any accidents in the mine?”
He shrugs, heading for the kitchen. “Not that I know of. Only the previous owner dying in the house. Don’t know about the mine.”
Another witch hunch tells me Vincente makes tacos almost every day because they’re simple and he’s good at it. Doesn’t want to learn how to cook a variety of things. Bachelor life. Sure enough, he’s making a massive batch and has a bunch of empty plastic containers on the counter waiting to be filled for the freezer. I must rate since I’m getting it fresh. Smiling, I pass on his offer of a beer, but accept an iced tea.
“Thanks, but alcohol dulls the psychic senses. Don’t mind a beer or two on social visits, but I’m here to help.”
Vincente opens a beer, holds it up in toast. “Appreciate it. Feel anything yet?”
“Only a weak presence coming from the direction of the old mining company. Nothing in the house or around it.”
“The spirit only starts messing around after dark. Guess the ghosts have union rules, too.” He laughs.
Makes no sense to me why ghosts are more active at night. As far as I’ve been able to tell, there’s no particular reason for it. Nothing about daylight weakens them. Ghosts—as Millicent proves—do not sleep. I’ve never claimed to be a scientist, but if I had to come up with a logical explanation for why ghosts always seem to be more active at night, I’d say it had something to do with there being less distractions for the living. During the day, people tend to be busy with tasks, surrounded by a loud world of activity. When things slow down at night, it becomes easier to notice unusual happenings.
Over dinner, Vincente and I chat about random things, starting with the phenomenon of ghosts being livelier at night. He points out ghost stories have involved night time for far longer than a loud, modern world has existed. I mention the notion that we, as humans, have an inherent fear of the dark, likely an evolutionary trait because we are—compared to most predatory animals—rather helpless at night. Being on edge when we can’t see well helps keep us alive as a species. Increased vigilance and fear, a desire to be hyper aware of the world around you can open extrasensory perception, too.
Anyway, Vincente’s ‘bachelor tacos’ are surprisingly tasty. Better than I expected for a single guy to make. But I suppose when a guy cooks the same thing all the time, it makes sense for him to become good at it. Practice makes perfect, right? Also, it’s not exactly difficult to make tacos. We’re not talking beef wellington here. And no, I’ve never had it, but cooking shows tell me it’s insanely difficult to make.
I help him clean up once he’s got the vast amounts of extra taco meat packed away. He makes a joke that he doesn’t always have tacos—sometimes he has ‘burritos’. Meaning: same filling, bigger shell. No point saying a burrito is no more complex than a giant taco since I know he’s making a joke out of it to pick on himself.
“Wondering now if someone died in a mine accident. Maybe got trapped in a cave in and suffocated.” I feel good about my idea for less than two seconds. “Nope. Rope marks. Never mind.”
Vincente rubs his throat. “The marks went away a lot faster than they should have.”
“Yeah, that’s common. Paranormal scratches, bruises, red marks… they all tend to fade away pretty fast.” I look around at the walls. “Mind if I check out the rest of the house, see if he’s hiding somewhere?”
Vincente gestures at the archway connecting the kitchen to the living room. “Please do.”
I wander room-to-room, calling out in English and Spanish for ‘Jose’ to show himself and talk to me, announcing I’m here to help. The house isn’t huge, consisting of a living room, kitchen, one bathroom, two bedrooms, and this little den-slash-whatever room presently holding a small collection of cardboard moving boxes. I don’t blame Vincente for not finishing his unpacking. He has to be wondering if he’s going to move right back out.
The house is giving off an eerie presence, but it’s mild. My read is a ghost has been here often enough to leave a residual energy, but isn’t here right this moment. I sigh at the small stack of boxes, mildly annoyed at not finding a ghost before returning to the hallway.
Vincente’s waiting for me in the kitchen, opening his second beer of the night. He smiles over his shoulder at me. “Any luck?”
“Not yet. It’s obvious a spirit has been here, but he’s not in the house at this moment.”
“That’s good, I suppose.” He turns, leaning against the counter. “Kitchen here might be the best place. They told me the former owner was found dead on the floor, strangled.”
Hmm. My attention gravitates toward a spot near the back door. I stare at the relatively new linoleum for a few seconds, then get hit with a brief camera-flash vision of a late-sixties, somewhat pudgy, white guy lying face-down. The bag of trash beside his hand tells me he’d been on his way outside with the garbage when he collapsed. My vision of the dead man is there and gone in an instant, like a still image from a camera painted into my mind’s eye on a brilliant flash. A faint whiff of kitchen trash flickers across my nostrils. Can’t see his throat to see if he’s got any marks. From this angle, I could be looking at a victim of a heart attack. It might be a bit much of me to assume, but he doesn’t look like a guy who’d be named Jose. More like a Wilfred or Abner.
“Are you all right?” Vincente sets his beer down, hurries over, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Looked like you’re about to pass out.”
Admittedly, the vision came on fast and strong, leaving me light-headed. “Yeah. Just got a hard psychic hit. I saw someone dead over by the door. Probably the former owner.”