Far away in the distance, a child’s voice shrieks, “Help! Please! Don’t hurt me!”
I’m probably seconds away from a terror-induced heart attack when everything stops. For a moment, I lay there on the ground gasping for breath. My head is spinning, heart racing, thoughts going around in circles.
Next thing I know, I’m on my feet again and Vincente’s holding me upright, asking me if I’m okay.
“Physically?” I rasp. “Yeah. Emotionally, not so much. Something horrible happened on this land.”
He lets go of my arms, hovering close to catch me in case I start to fall again. “You maybe hit your head when you fell. At least, that’s what I think I heard from my kitchen. Are you all right to drive?”
“More a bonk than a hit.” I chuckle. “Didn’t fall fast enough to do damage. Wow.” I rub the side of my head. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just trying to sort out if something dark is attacking me or if the fear that just hit me is latent.”
“Latent?” Vincente opens his mouth to keep talking, but twists to look behind him at a faint ripple of gunfire. It’s either quite far away or paranormal. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes.” Still not getting any sense of a presence around here, so maybe a couple of morons are firing guns into the sky a few miles away. “Latent stuff is like a recording. When emotionally charged things happen, sometimes people can leave a psychic impression on the land, home, or objects nearby. Caught a reading off the land here so powerful it took me off my feet.”
“Anything I should worry about?” Seemingly satisfied I’m not about to faceplant the dirt, Vicente stops hovering over me.
“Only if you’re psychic.” I chuckle.
“Hah. Nope.” He smiles.
We chat for a little while, but nothing paranormal occurs. Finally, we shake hands, me promising to return if he calls following any future ghostly activity. I hope in my Honda, give one last look around, then start the drive home. It’s frustrating to come all the way out here and essentially accomplish nothing. Worse, my supernatural urge to do something here hasn’t gone away or lessened. If anything, it’s gotten stronger. Maddening.
When I reach Kramer Junction, I make a snap decision to stop at the city hall. It’s not the biggest city hall I’ve ever seen, but they do have a records clerk. A woman in the front room points me down the hall to a plain brown door bearing a gold nameplate reading ‘Records – Nick Birch.’
It’s already open, so I walk right into a space about the size of a typical grade school classroom. I’ve never seen so many filing cabinets in one place before. To my right, a hotel-style bell, credit card reader, and several pamphlets sit on a small, wooden counter. A short distance beyond it, a prematurely grey-haired man in his fifties sits behind a steel desk painted ‘government green, engrossed in reading something on his computer monitor. A half-height-door at the far end of the counter creates an enclosed area. Since it’s obvious non-employees aren’t supposed to go any farther into the room, I stand there waiting.
As soon as the man notices me—after I wait like ten seconds—he hops up and hurries over, smiling. “Hello, miss. How can I help you?”
Hmm. I probably should’ve had an answer for this question ready, right? Honestly, I’m not sure what made me come here. “This is going to sound a little off the wall, but… I’m looking for public records of property ownership.” I give him Vincente’s address.
“That’s not too off the wall.” Nick smiles, glances down at the paper he wrote the address on. “Guessing the strange part is why you’re asking?”
“Yeah. What are your thoughts on ghosts?”
Nick shrugs. “No real opinion either way, but I reckon if you’re looking for a haunted house in this area, you’ve found it.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nods. “This property’s seen a whole bunch of bad things. By day, I’m the records clerk. Otherwise, I’m the closest thing the area’s got to a local historian, president of the Kramer Historical Society.”
“What luck I’ve run into you then.”
He chuckles. “Ain’t too impressive. Just me and two ladies from the church.”
I rummage my little notepad out of my purse. “Please, tell me everything you know about the place.”
“Everything, eh? Well… if I recall, it’s recently been sold. The previous owner, Charles Derby, was indeed found dead in the house. Last two owners before him also died there.”
While writing the name on my pad, I get another instant flash of the guy lying on the floor next to the trash bag. Okay, he must be Charles. “The other two owners… do you know if they were strangled? Or if marks were found on their necks?”
Nick rubs his short beard in thought. “It’s possible. Both cases happened quite some years ago. If memory serves, the police didn’t find any indications of foul play like break-ins. Edith and Ralph Larsen owned the house before Charles. Before them, man named Ronald Sanchez. Don’t recall anything about strangulation or marks on their necks.”
“Okay…”
“No point trying to say one killer’s responsible for all of it, miss... if that’s what you’re implying. The deaths span over a hundred years. The house standing there now isn’t the same one Ronald Sanchez owned in the early 1900s. The same killer couldn’t still be alive.”
I grin. “Exactly. I’m thinking it might be a ghost.”
“Say again?”
“The current owner suffered neck injuries that faded away within an hour. Such injuries can be directly caused by spirits.”
“Directly?” Nick raises an eyebrow.
“Like scratches or strangling. If a spirit pushed someone down the stairs and they broke their neck, that injury wouldn’t go away. I’m talking about minor marks on the skin. If my theory is correct, it’s possible the red marks disappeared from the victims’ necks before anyone found them. The house is kind of… remote.”
Nick chuckles. “Yeah, no doubt. Perfect place for someone who doesn’t like having neighbors. At least… now. Back when Loughton Mining was in operation, it would’ve been damn loud. Trucks coming and going all day long.”
“I’d imagine so. Do you know why the mine shut down?”
“Sure do. Money. James Loughton, the man who owned the mining company, went bankrupt. Place closed down in the early Seventies. Hadn’t been doing too well before him. Been on the ropes since the days of Irwin Loughton.”
“Irwin Loughton…” I jot the name down. “And who’s he, if you don’t mind?”
Nick holds up a ‘wait a moment’ finger, then retrieves a bottle of spring water from his desk. Oh, this is going to take a while. He swigs a couple gulps, then sets the bottle on the counter. “All right. Let me start at the beginning. Man by the name of Claiborne Loughton struck gold there in 1849. ’Course, by then he’d already become quite wealthy. The gold he found essentially made him the Rockefeller of the era.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Not everyone with money likes being famous. The smart ones keep it to themselves.” Nick takes another sip of water. “He pulled a whole mess of gold out of the ground. Had more money than any man could spend in a hundred lifetimes. As people tend to do, he got old and died, though he lived a damn long time. Depending on which rumor you believe, he made it to anywhere from 101 to 120.”