Chapter 4 #5
“I feel a nap coming on,” Brent replied, only partially in jest. “Let me know if you find out anything.”
“You’ll be the first person I call,” Travis promised before he ended the call.
Brent stretched, finished his cup of coffee, and ate a couple of cookies before he returned to his computer. He wasn’t ready to sleep yet, and he wanted to run down some possibilities while they were still fresh in his mind.
He dug a card out of his wallet, one that he had gathered when they had gone to the Steam and Gas show with Mark. Ed Finley owned the portable calliope, and Brent remembered him saying that it had been used in a circus long ago.
Finley picked up on the third ring. “Hello?” he answered cautiously, probably suspicious of an unfamiliar number.
“Mr. Finley, I met you at the Steam and Gas show when my friend and I were there with Mark Wojcik,” Brent spoke quickly before Finley hung up. “You gave me your card. I thought of a couple of questions, if this isn’t a bad time.”
Finley laughed. “I’m retired, so unless I’m napping, there’s not much going on. What’s on your mind?”
“Did you ever hear of the Walter Brothers Circus?”
Finley was quiet for a moment. “Yes. Terrible thing that happened. But that was a long time ago. Why’s a young guy like you interested?”
“Do you believe in circus hauntings?” Brent figured he’d just dive in.
This time, there was a longer pause. “Anyone who knows much about the circus believes in the ghosts,” Finley replied. “Circuses were big operations—lots of people, wild animals, props, tents, railcars. Plenty of things could go wrong—and they did.
“Performers got hurt, animals got sick, tents caught on fire, and sometimes trains wrecked,” he went on.
“For all the ‘show must go on’ theatrics, there was a lot of hardship, even on a good day. The only one who ever got rich on a circus was P.T. Barnum. The smaller circuses squeaked by, barely making expenses. Performers didn’t earn much, but most of them fit in better with circus folks than with civilians, so they stayed and made do. ”
Brent had read enough history and lore last night when sleep was scarce to validate Finley’s less-than-glamorous description. Running away with the circus definitely wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
“Was there anything unusual about the Walter Brothers’s accident?”
“It was a bad night,” Finley said. “Rain, fog, and a winding stretch of track that had more than its share of wrecks. Circus cars weren’t always new or in the best shape, although the good outfits tried to be safe. The reports chalked it up to wet rails, going too fast, and bad luck.”
“What do you think?”
The question hung there for a moment. “I think that people look for explanations, and when they can’t find one that suits them, they make them up,” Finley said.
“The Walter Brothers outfit was small potatoes, playing the second-tier cities. They weren’t competing for the big arenas, so they weren’t a threat to other operations. ”
The explanation was good, as far as it went. But Brent’s intuition told him to keep digging.
“Did circuses have witches?” Brent remembered the mine magic and took a guess.
“Not that they admitted, but many did,” Finley replied.
“Circus people are particularly superstitious, and a little magic took some control back, put it in their own hands. Lots of folks wore amulets or had little shrines in their tents to protect themselves. Tattoos weren’t as acceptable back in the day as they are now, but ‘lifers,’ performers who were with the circus for their whole careers, usually had a protective mark somewhere no one could see. ”
He paused. “I always figured the magic helped, but it couldn’t keep away everything bad. The incident that destroyed the Walter Brothers’s show wasn’t unusual as a wreck, only that it involved lions and tigers.”
“Some of the performers died at the scene, didn’t they?” Brent asked, confirming what he had found online.
“So did a few of the animals. People told stories that the lions had gotten loose and ate someone, but that’s a bunch of hooey,” Finley said. “I’ve never found any official or eyewitness accounts that back that up.”
“Was the circus unlucky?”
“I guess that’s in the eye of the beholder, but there were rumors at the time,” Finley replied.
“One of the survivors told the police the train had been hexed. There had been some accidents at the last show—a trapeze artist fell, and one of the fire show performers got burned. They closed up a day or two early because turnout wasn’t good.
I guess that could feel unlucky. And before you ask, my calliope isn’t from Walter Brothers. ”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Why are you interested in something that happened a hundred years ago?” Finley asked.
“Because we’re getting reports of strange things happening near the accident site, and people have gotten hurt,” Brent replied. “Whether it’s ghosts, dark magic, or bad people, we need to make it stop.”
“That’s what you and your friend do? Hunt ghosts like on TV?” Finley asked.
“Yes, but it’s not nearly as glamorous,” Brent replied. “We just try to keep people from getting hurt and send the spirits on to rest.”
“Huh. Just when you think you’ve heard everything,” Finley said.
“I don’t know anything else about the Walter Brothers Circus, but if you haven’t found it already, there’s a pretty comprehensive website that has a collection of old timers’ stories and photos.
I haven’t been out there in a while, but as I remember it, they had a nice collection about the Walter show. ” He gave Brent the web address.
“Thank you for your help,” Brent said. “This has been great information.”
Finley didn’t rush to end the call, and Brent paid attention to his instincts that said the man had more to say.
“There’s another legend connected to the Walter Brothers’s wreck,” Finley offered after a pause. “Anyone ever tell you about Eagle Eye Ike?”
Brent shook his head. “That’s a new one. What’s the story?”
“I don’t know much, but back in the 1850s, there was a guy named Ike who was the grandson of runaway slaves. He was a farmer, and in his spare time, he hunted ghosts. Folks called him Eagle Eye Ike because he was a dead shot.”
“He hunted ghosts?” Brent echoed, intrigued.
“Yep. Some folks thought he was crazy. Others whispered about Voodoo or some such. But when something they couldn’t explain came around in the middle of the night, they’d send word and Ike would come and banish the ghost.”
Brent knew that ghost hunters had been around throughout history, but at the same time, thanks to television, the idea felt oddly modern.
“Was he a witch?”
“No idea. By all accounts, he was a God-fearing church-goer. But according to the stories, when people got a fright and the priests and ministers didn’t know what to do, Ike took up his shotgun and did what needed done.”
“The circus wreck didn’t happen until the 1890s.” Brent frowned as he did the mental math. “Ike would have been really old to show up afterward and banish ghosts.”
Finley chuckled. “By then, he was a ghost himself, still putting an end to harmful spirits and chasing off monsters. Lots of folks swore that it was the ghost of Eagle Eye Ike who chased away their haunts. Guess he thought the afterlife was too boring.”
“That’s quite a story.” Brent knew he would be digging for resources as soon as the call ended.
“Didn’t say I believe it, but you’re likely to hear it from someone, if you don’t run into Ike himself,” Finley replied.
“One last question,” Brent said. “Do you keep in touch with any of the smaller modern circuses? And if you do…any chance you know someone who might know a circus witch?”
Finley was quiet for a few moments, and Brent figured the man was deciding how far to trust him.
“Circus people are a special breed,” he finally said. “Plenty superstitious. They’re tight with their show family and suspicious of everyone else. With good reason. Outsiders might like the entertainment, but they often look askance at nomads who don’t observe all the social conventions.”
Brent heard the crinkle of a cigarette package and the flick of a lighter. “Got something to write down the number?” Finley asked.
Brent took down the digits on his phone and entered it as a contact. “You have a name for me?”
“Everyone calls her Helene,” Finley said.
“Probably not her real name, but when you go by it for long enough, that hardly matters. She’s a tough bird, but if she likes you, she might tell you what you want to know.
Left the circus and quit traveling a few years ago.
Now she does blessings on shows that come to the area and is an elder for a community of retired circus folks that put down roots near here.
They keep a low profile, and the locals leave them alone.
” Finley paused. “I’m trusting you not to fuck this up. ”
“I won’t,” Brent promised. “Thank you.”
“Look, I don’t know whether ghostbusters are for real, but if you are, I hope you can take care of whatever’s causing the problem,” Finley said. “Good luck.”
The call ended, and Brent stared at his phone in silence for a few minutes, processing what Finley told him.
When he looked up, Danny was watching him with an accusing glare that Brent easily translated as an accusation of nearly ending up as a ghost.
“You saw?” Brent took comfort speaking aloud to Danny.
Danny nodded. He gave Brent a pointed glare, and Brent knew his brother thought he had taken too big a risk.
Brent sighed. “The situation got out of hand.”
Danny cocked his head the way he always used to when he caught Brent in a falsehood, and the simple gesture flooded Brent’s heart with feelings.
“Guilty.” Brent held up a hand in appeasement. “We thought we had it covered and we didn’t.”
Danny frowned, and Brent knew the ghost wanted more information. Danny had always been intuitive, easily reading Brent and calling his bluff.
“Something’s supercharging monsters and killing hunters,” Brent replied. “I want to stop the deaths and not end up on the victim list. Hear anything about that?”
Danny shook his head.
“I used to think that ghosts somehow knew everything, like mind-readers,” Brent said. “I guess not. I suppose there isn’t a Grand Central Ghost Station where all the newly dead get welcomed to the afterlife for you to check out the new arrivals and look for dead hunters.”
This time, Danny rolled his eyes. Then he gave Brent a look and pointed at him. Brent never had trouble knowing what was on Danny’s mind, even long before he died. That hadn’t changed.
“I never meant to worry you,” Brent replied. “Sorry about that. Right now, we’ve got lots of suspicions, but not enough solid leads. And I can’t shake the idea that it’s all much bigger than just offing a few hunters.”
He didn’t need to hear Danny to guess what his brother would say, making him promise to trust his gut and reminding him that Danny didn’t want Brent to cross over to him anytime soon.
Danny’s ghost was fading, and Brent knew his brother couldn’t keep the connection open for long.
“Thanks, kid. I miss you.”
Danny faded out of view, but Brent imagined him saying, “Kick it in the ass.”
Brent felt a mix of comfort and sadness after a visit from Danny, and being able to see his brother without help was fairly new.
When Danny’s spirit sacrificed himself to save others, he regained the ability to return to Brent slowly.
Despite their bond, it wasn’t nearly the same as having Danny with him in the flesh.
To break the mood, Brent got up and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee.
He checked the dressings on his wounds, took the antibiotic and pain medicine Matthew had given him, and grabbed a box of crackers.
He munched as he stared out the window, thinking of ghostly tigers and a hunter who kept watch even after death.
Armed with hot coffee, Brent looked for stories about Eagle Eye Ike.
Now that he knew what to search for, his results lit up.
Paranormal chat boards were full of supposed sightings.
Sites catering to paranormal investigators and people who explored abandoned places shared stories that they swore happened to them.
Brent was used to trying to parse urban legend from real supernatural situations.
Most of the Eagle Eye Ike stories had a ring of truth.
They weren’t sensational, and they didn’t make Ike out to be a superhero.
Other than the advantage of not being able to be killed because he was already dead, the tales recounted a ghostly man who showed up to rescue people from harmful ghosts armed with an old-fashioned shotgun.
Brent grabbed a map and started to mark where Ike had been spotted. While the majority of the incidents had been north and east of Pittsburgh, the Walter Circus case was at the western edge of where Ike had been sighted.
His phone rang, and Brent had been concentrating so hard that he jumped. “Travis,” he greeted, “ever hear stories about Eagle Eye Ike?”
“Wasn’t he a ghost hunter, back in the day?” Travis sounded confused at the unexpected question. Brent felt vaguely disappointed not to be the first to share the story.
“I talked to the guy who owned the calliope at the steam show, and he said to watch for Ike if we went to chase away the ghosts at the circus wreck site,” Brent said.
“Makes me wonder why there’s still a haunting, if it’s in his territory,” Travis said.
Brent was grateful his partner didn’t doubt the story. “Maybe there are too many ghosts for a hunter who’s a ghost himself. Or maybe he can only do so much as a spirit, and he’s kept the haunting from being more dangerous, but he doesn’t have the mojo to stop it altogether.”
“Interesting theory,” Travis allowed. “As long as he doesn’t get in our way, I won’t turn down help, living or dead.”