Chapter Eleven #2
We walk down the familiar stone path, stopping about ten feet from the porch.
The damage is way worse than I thought it would be.
The explosion left a gaping hole. Shutters hang askew and only a few pointy slivers of glass cling to the cracked timber frame of the shattered window.
A broken piece of railing dangles precariously over the garden from where Callum flew through it.
I consider the house, and the dark hole where the window once was.
It’s almost as if something set a trap, waiting for the exact moment Callum got close enough and then, kaboom .
A shiver creeps down my spine. I’ve never witnessed ghost behaviour like that before.
I’ve seen spirits toss objects across the room, including me, but I’ve never seen a spirit explode anything.
Or set a trap for someone. In my experience spirits react, they don’t strategise. So what happened here?
‘This is as close as I will go,’ Mr Rosing says. ‘You see how the garden beds nearer the house are dead? I can’t pluck up the courage to tend to them.’
‘I wondered about that. Negative spectral energy can sometimes cause plants to die off. I thought that might be what’s happened here.’
‘Nothing so sinister. I’ll have to find someone to clean up this mess.’ He waves towards the devastation Callum and I caused. ‘The window and the shutters are original to the building. They’ll be difficult to replace.’
‘Why are the shutters on the lower floor open, but not the top floor?’
‘The lower floor is quite sheltered from the weather, and keeping them open allows sunlight inside, which reduces the chance of dankness and mould.’
‘Oh.’ That makes sense, I guess. I shuffle forward a few steps, peering into the void created by the broken window. ‘Would it be okay if I went up on the porch, Mr Rosing? I’d like to have a peek inside.’
‘I’d prefer you didn’t, not with the glass and broken railings. It’s unsafe.’
‘Then maybe if you have any photos of the interior you could send them through with the ones of the family you’re organising for us?
We’ve asked the Historical Society, but their files are in chaos at the moment, so it might be a bit of a wait.
We have a copy of the house plans, but we’d like to get a better sense of what it looks like inside. ’
‘I’ve already sent some photos through with the information I forwarded to Mr Jefferies last night. Did he not receive them? I assumed he’d share them with you.’
My senses twitch to life. I’d have assumed that too. ‘We haven’t had a chance to catch up properly this morning,’ I lie.
Had Callum not noticed the photos, or did he not get them? Both things seem unlikely. I chew on my lip, an unwanted suspicion needling me, then I turn to Mr Rosing and smile sweetly.
‘I’ll check with him when I get back. It’s such a shame we didn’t get to meet Mr Western when he was in town the other day.
If you’d have let us know his plans, we could have arranged to come out here earlier.
’ He visibly stiffens. ‘Can we at least call him? It’s unusual not to speak to the client in cases like this. ’
‘You haven’t had a case like this, Ms Daniels,’ he says pointedly. ‘And I have already conveyed all the information regarding Mr Western’s schedule to Mr Jefferies. I think you two need to catch up properly . Shall we continue our inspection now?’
It takes everything in my power not to punch him in his smug face.
As we walk along the front of the house, keeping a safe distance from the building, he points to the widow’s walk on the roof above the attic.
‘That was a favourite spot of Mr Brendin Western. He liked to take his whiskey up there in the late afternoon, enjoying the excellent view of the ocean. On occasion he’d invite my father to join him.’
‘Brendin Western was the last person who lived in this house, right?’ He nods. ‘And he was Edward Western’s uncle?’ He nods again. ‘And was your father a friend of the family or did he work for the Westerns too?’
‘He worked for them, as did my grandfather.’
‘Your family histories are quite intertwined, then.’
‘I suppose they are.’ He points to an arched window above the grand front door. ‘That was Margaret Western’s favourite spot. From there she could oversee the entire estate. She was a magnificent woman by all accounts.’
‘Edward’s great-great-grandmother, right? The rumours are it’s her ghost that haunts the house.’
‘There are many rumours about this house, Ms Daniels, but I hope that’s not what you’re hanging your investigation on.’
If you gave us all the information we needed , I seethe silently, we wouldn’t have to .
I point to the impressive oak looming in the distance. ‘Is the Western family plot up there?’
Mr Rosing raises his eyebrows. ‘Maybe you have been doing your research. You’ll find some family members laid to rest there, along with members of the household staff who were particular favourites.’
‘Would it be okay if I checked it out?’
‘Please do. It’s a fascinating piece of local history. I have a little gardening to attend to. When you’re done, you’ll find me among the rose bushes near the front gate.’ He smiles his thin smile and disappears down the side of the house.
I climb the small hill, stopping under the shade of the majestic tree, resplendent in every hue of gold, to look back down the rise.
I recognise the view instantly. This is the spot where my dream took place.
Where I stood and admired the Western home, glowing in its heyday.
Where the beautiful man tenderly kissed the young, fair-haired woman before choking her to death.
Having a dream about a case is not unusual, but having a dream about somewhere I’ve never been before, which then turns out to be stunningly accurate?
That’s new. Something’s happening to me, and I’m sure it’s connected to this place.
I look to the space beside me where I watched the lovers kiss, and I wonder who they were.
Could that young woman be the ghost who’s been seen stalking the grounds?
Callum mentioned something about a girl with a broken heart who had taken her own life.
Maybe that’s not what happened. Maybe someone else took it.
Of course, that’s assuming my dreams are more than just dreams, and I don’t know that, no matter how real they feel.
The graveyard is surrounded by a small iron fence.
Fleurs-de-lis adorn its rails, some with their points snapped off.
Inside is a collection of grave markers in various states of disrepair.
Tiny white daisies dot the ground, and faded, tattered floral tributes sit dried and mouldy among the crumbling marble and stone.
On the gate is an iron plaque with the word ‘Western’ engraved in surprisingly simple lettering.
A small triangular symbol sits below the name.
I flip open my notebook and do a quick sketch, before swinging open the low gate.
It groans and creaks, its old hinges stiff with rust.
Now that’s an appropriately creepy gate noise .
Holding a copy of the Western family info that Callum printed out for me, I step over debris, reading what headstones I can and checking off the names.
Some of the headstones are very close together, and some even bear two names.
I bet if this site was ever dug up, they’d find bodies stacked on top of each other.
For the slabs of stone that have deteriorated beyond legibility, I use a sheet of paper from my notebook to do a pencil rubbing, capturing the letters I can’t see. If I find a headstone with a name that’s not on my list, I make a note of that too. Two of those names are Rosing.
‘I guess you guys were the favourites,’ I mutter to the headstones as I jot down the information. I note the words ‘faithful acolyte’ under the name of the Rosing I assume was Rosing Senior. It seems like an odd word to use. Acolyte. I’ll have to ask the current Mr Rosing about it.
After a while, I tuck my notebook away and focus my energy on connecting with any trace of the spirits that might have once lingered here.
But when I quieten my mind, I’m met with a silence so heavy it presses down on me.
Even the echo I sensed earlier is gone. I’ve never been to a graveyard where there wasn’t at least one ghost hanging around.
Most of them are like the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland – ghosts everywhere.
Maybe the Westerns are particularly contented dead people.
Or perhaps the silence in the graveyard is something more sinister.
Ghosts afraid of other ghosts? I make a mental note to mention it to Callum.
I return to the shade of the towering oak, resting against its sturdy trunk as I contemplate the house below. Under today’s clear blue sky, the sunshine hits the building in such a way that it sparkles, almost as if it’s alive.
I recall my dream, the lamp light glowing in the windows and the laughter floating from the doors.
I close my eyes and soak up the history, the family that once lived here, the love and tragedy that must permeate its walls and the grounds around me.
I try to sense the murdered young woman who drew her last breath only steps from where I stand, but once again, I’m met with an eerie silence.
I can’t remember a time when I haven’t had at least one spirit muttering to me when I’ve opened my mind to them, and lately, even when I haven’t.
But not here, where I’d expect a cavalcade of voices.
This must be what it’s like for people who don’t have my psychic abilities.
Normal people who go about their lives without the dead popping up in front of them.
I never stop wishing for that life. Wishing I wasn’t the way I am – an anxious, lonely, ghost-seeing freak.
I sigh in resignation as I push off the tree and take one last look at the house.