Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Slate was testing the motion sensors in the haunted house’s main corridor when the familiar prickle along his spine announced incoming spirits.
They materialized at the foot of the staircase.
Three of them. No one explained how it had happened, but for the past ten days, Cain had inserted himself into Thomas and Oliver’s affairs much more frequently.
Slate was curious, but he didn’t push for details.
Oliver pulled the small notebook Thomas had taught him to create from his pocket and flipped the pages.
Slate had learned a lot of new things about ghosts and their abilities.
Creating tangible objects that had staying power was new.
Cain stretched his arms over his head and inhaled deeply.
That raised yet another topic he wanted to talk to Dash’s grandfather about.
Cain had been dead far longer than he’d been alive, so when would he cast off his ‘living’ habits such as breathing?
“Man, Ollie, you have some seriously rad organizational talent,” Cain said, seemingly oblivious to his new friends’ reactions. “I can barely remember how to get to different places, and you’re cataloging ten different details about every new ghost we meet.”
Oliver went rigid, his hands smoothing his waistcoat as he glanced at Thomas. Thomas avoided eye contact, but was clearly uncomfortable. “Thank you… I think. I want the information we give to Slate and Dash to be accurate.”
“No doubt, man,” Cain continued, completely missing his friends’ discomfort. “You and Tommy are a smooth operation. I’m totally jealous.”
Thomas stared at the wall as if the pattern of the paper was the most fascinating thing ever. Slate knew he should end the awkwardness, but he didn’t know how. If Thomas and Oliver were clueless, Cain was utterly oblivious.
“Sherlock Holmes and Watson are back,” Dash said, arriving from the kitchen. “And who is this? Inspector Lestrade?”
“Whoa, man!” Cain’s eyes widened. “I read those books when we had downtime in ‘Nam. I always thought I’d be a good Watson, not that stuffy inspector.”
Slate blinked in surprise. Cain didn’t talk about his life, only his afterlife. Finding out he read the classics was a shock. “I think Dash would be the best Lestrade. He’s the most analytical in the bunch.”
It might not have been his intention to deflect, but Dash had done a great job of moving them off the awkward moment. “What did you three find out today?”
“We encountered two new ghosts today.” Oliver flipped through his book. “I counted seventeen new arrivals in the past week.”
That was better than the swarm that arrived in the first few days, but he wished they’d stop coming. “Is Gary still calling for more ghosts to show up?”
“Not exactly, but the word is still spreading,” Thomas said.
“From what Cain and other ghosts have told us, Gary and many of those that came to Oriskany Falls hang out around the Woodstock site about two hours from here. Once they decided this was a good place to party, everyone spread the word. We’ve met spirits from Buffalo, Rochester, Syracuse, even one from Burlington, Vermont. ”
This wasn’t what Slate wanted to hear. Gary announcing it to the winds was still one voice. Everyone telling their friends was an avalanche about to drop. “Are they saying anything about Gary’s plans?”
Thomas and Oliver exchanged one of their silent looks—a quick glance that gave Slate a chill. Oliver nodded almost imperceptibly.
“He’s telling everyone this will be an annual celebration,” Thomas said. “Gary says Oriskany Falls will become a permanent Halloween gathering place for spirits.”
“The area where Gary and most of his friends are from is mostly a field,” Oliver said, reading from his notes. “The town is small, so they’re all crowded around each other.”
“Oh yeah, man.” Cain perked up. “There’s like no privacy. This place is like heaven. Plenty of places you can be alone with someone.”
Something cold settled in Slate’s stomach. If they made Oriskany Falls their new home, this wouldn’t end once Halloween was over. “We need to stop this before they settle down here.”
“There’s more,” Oliver said. He flinched when Slate swung his gaze around. “We encountered a group of spirits who sensed the portal. They want to know what it’s for.”
“Why?” Dash asked. “It’s not like they can use it.”
“They don’t want to control it,” Thomas said. “They want to know if it can be opened.”
Anger pushed aside Slate’s concern. Spirits taking control of the portal would destroy everything his family had worked to create. “Not only can’t they open it, but I’ll banish every last one of them if they try.”
“They weren’t hostile,” Thomas added quickly. “But they were curious.”
“Does Gary know about any of this?” Dash asked.
“Gary sees what he wants to see,” Thomas said. “He thinks everyone wants the same as he does—to celebrate and spread positive energy around.”
“He also doesn’t understand what you do,” Cain said. “Gary has good intentions, but in his mind, because you help souls cross over, you’re automatically on the spirits’ side for everything.”
In the quiet that followed, Slate stitched together all the bits of information they’d gathered. Gary was chasing a dream because of something that happened in his lifetime. Finding out what drove him was the key to solving the problem.
“Let’s go over what we know about Gary Torrente.”
“That’s... Wow!” Dash stopped wiping down the kitchen counter. “You’re amazing.”
Thomas looked pleased, and Oliver preened a little from the praise. It was well deserved. Slate hadn’t expected this when he asked for their help.
“Most of the spirits understood once we explained the importance of the portal,” Thomas said. “They agreed they could still have fun without creating problems.”
The door opened and then slammed shut, and Dash shook his head. “She still can’t enter like a normal person.”
After twenty years, Slate wasn’t sure he wanted it to change. “You’re jealous she packs so much energy in her tiny frame.”
“Found them,” Liv said, setting everything on the counter. “Gary Torrente and Cain Suncar.”
“That was quick.” Dash tossed the sponge at the sink. It bounced off and landed on the floor. With a shrug, he picked it up. “I suck at sports.”
“Gary was easy.” Liv pulled up a yellowed newspaper clipping on her laptop as if nothing had happened. “He died in August 1969, two miles from the Woodstock venue when his van went off the road.”
Slate motioned, and she spun the screen around. It was the Davidsonville Daily News: Local Man Dies En Route to Music Festival.
“His sister told the reporter Gary had been planning the trip for months,” Liv continued, scanning her notes.
“All Gary talked about was Woodstock. He said it was going to change everything, and that he’d finally find his people.
There weren’t many hippies in that part of North Carolina at the time. ”
“He never made it to the festival,” Dash said, reading over Slate’s shoulder.
“Nope. He missed a turn in the middle of the night. Given when he left and when the crash happened, he’d driven twelve hours straight.
” Liv pulled out another printout. “I found his high school yearbook online. Gary was class treasurer, honor roll, voted most likely to succeed. In college, however, he joined antiwar protests, dropped out, and turned into the Gary you see now.”
Slate turned the screen around. Gary had been chasing experiences after being denied his dream. “That explains a lot.”
“I talked to his sister on the phone yesterday,” Liv said, flipping through her notebook.
“She’s eighty-three now, lives in a retirement home in Matthews, North Carolina.
She said Gary sold everything to buy the van, quit his job two days before he left, and planned to never go back to his old life. ”
“Wow. That sucks,” Dash said. “He got his wish in the worst way possible.”
Gary died reaching for something that represented everything he wanted to become. Slate hated trying to stop him, but the portal was important to an untold number of souls. “What about Cain?” he asked.
Liv frowned, and Slate wasn’t sure he wanted to hear Cain’s story. “Cain Suncar, killed in action March 1968, near Da Nang. When I searched for any more information, his name came up in a study by a professor at Syracuse who documented closeted servicemen who died in Vietnam.”
“If he was closeted, how did this guy uncover Cain’s hidden sexuality?” Dash asked.
“His older sister contributed to the research project.” Liv tapped a few keys and the study appeared.
“She’s quoted in the study. ‘Cain was always different from other boys. He never brought girls home, never seemed interested in dating. Back then, however, we didn’t talk about such things.
After he got drafted, I hoped the army would help him figure himself out.
’ According to her, he was killed before he got the chance. ”
The kitchen fell quiet. Slate tried to imagine what it must have been like for Cain—young, confused about his identity, shipped off to war before he could understand himself.
“There are entries about letters he wrote to his sister,” Dash said, scrolling down. “He said he felt isolated and didn’t fit in with the other soldiers.”
Slate saw the way Cain acted toward Thomas and Oliver in a new light. The initial forward suggestion had changed into something less awkward. Cain watched them carefully. He had bursts when he spoke like a suburban kid, not a hippie stoner.
“So Cain never got to explore who he was either,” Oliver said quietly.
“I can’t say for sure,” Liv said. “The study relied on his sister for information, and he never said anything to her.”
“Probably worried the army would read his mail,” Dash said. “And don’t any of you pretend like they didn’t do that.”
Slate could’ve brushed this off as Dash’s dislike of authoritative agencies, but his father told him stories about how the government monitored soldiers for antiwar sentiment. “This is great information,” Slate said. “What do we do with it?”
“We use it,” Dash said. “Gary’s trying to reclaim what death stole from him. What do you think he’d do if he missed out on his big Halloween bash?”
“Why would he miss his own party?” Oliver asked, looking to Thomas for help.
“Because Dash is suggesting we threaten to banish Gary,” Thomas said. “Or at least bind him somewhere he can’t make trouble.”
“Banish him?” Oliver looked horrified as he stared at Dash. “Why would you do that?”
Slate hadn’t said it out loud, but he’d thought the same thing. “We don’t want to banish him—or anyone—but we can’t let him bring unwanted attention to the town.”
“Surely you can see the trauma he’s suffered,” Oliver pleaded. “It would be awful to keep him from his own party or worse.”
Faced with two difficult choices, Slate had to weigh the cost of one man’s pain against the needs of hundreds. “Gary’s trauma doesn’t give him the right to selfishly endanger the portal just to throw a party.”
“He’s not being selfish. This party is for everyone,” Oliver said.
The suggestion they might banish Gary had distressed Oliver. Slate understood—banishment wasn’t crossing over. Spirits forced to leave didn’t get the peaceful crossing to a place of rest. He didn’t know for sure, but he suspected it was as close to Hell as he wanted to get.
“Yes it is,” Liv said. “Ezra Reeves gave up his life for this portal. Esmerelda Blackwood spent her life and afterlife to make it a reality. Slate and Dash nearly died to create it. Dozens of spirits have used it to cross over. Gary’s desire to throw the ultimate Halloween Party is the definition of selfish if it jeopardizes those sacrifices. ”
“Maybe he’ll be as understanding as the other ghosts,” Dash suggested. “I mean, you convinced dozens to tone it down when people were around. Why not ask Gary to do the same?”
Thomas and Oliver exchanged looks, and from the way Thomas’s expression changed, they were clearly communicating mentally. Finally, he nodded and Oliver’s lips twitched as if holding in a smile.
“We’ll talk to him,” Thomas said. “But I don’t think he’ll listen.”