Chapter 4
I didn’t like the sound of this. Gwyn looked desperate, as only a child in trouble could, and my protective instincts engaged at full strength. For sure, I wouldn’t leave her in whatever situation she was in. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.
Mack’s expression turned soft, but he shot me a worried look. “Of course, ma petite. You tell me what’s wrong. I’ll do all I can. First, you come with us, yeah? We were sitting down to breakfast. Sit with us and tell me all.”
Gwyn nodded immediately, the motion jerky.
I escorted them the little bit of distance, an arm around both their shoulders. I trusted Mediums to be distractible under the worst circumstances, and this town was more haunted than advertised, raising the odds of them getting run over because of a ghost. No, thanks.
Gwyn came quietly, her hands latched on to the backpack strap over her shoulder.
It looked as if she’d been walking to school, but it was Saturday, so where was she heading?
It was nearly eight in the morning now. She kept stealing glances up at me, expression hard to read, but she also seemed to lean against my side a little. I couldn’t quite figure out why.
In the restaurant, Mack settled in at a table near the door, and I maneuvered myself to the chair giving me the best view of the room. Gwyn let the backpack drop at her feet, then sat on the edge of the chair and looked around nervously.
“Anything comes, I’ll handle it,” Mack promised her, shooting her a wink. “Not much can get past me. Ma petite, you want a drink or anything?”
“A drink would be good,” she agreed in a soft voice. “Thanks.”
I caught the waitress’s eye and ordered Gwyn some orange juice. She looked nervous, but the relief hadn’t faded. I had a gut feeling whatever she was about to say, it was going to be a doozy. The air was weighted by her unspoken words.
Mack leaned over the table, looking her dead in the eye. “You tell me what’s ailing you.”
She sucked in a breath, then another, before lifting her chin. “I can see…I can see ghosts.”
“No doubt of that.” Mack didn’t even blink. “Your aura’s strong, child.”
I looked between them, eyebrows rising. Oh really? “How strong?”
“Strong as mine, thereabouts,” Mack said. He shrugged. “Who knows how powerful you’ll get by the time you’re out of your teens. Often, people grow into their ability properly in their twenties.”
Gwyn, I think, expected an argument. The way she stared at us, all befuddled, indicated she’d expected something other than ready agreement, at least. Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she said “You can see that I can see?”
“Sure. Just as you can see what I am.” Mack indicated himself with a sweep of his hand. “The glowing aura surrounding my body. What did you think that was?”
“I didn’t know,” she admitted. “I thought maybe a trick of the light, but he doesn’t have it.”
I nodded, not bothered by this observation. “That’s true, I don’t.”
“A Medium or psychic has their own aura,” Mack explained. “We can see each other easily. Those without the Sight can’t see or feel it at all, so it’s always hard to explain to people. But don’t doubt your eyes. You can tell in a glance. Now, you said you see ghosts. Is that the issue?”
Gwyn’s face scrunched in like she was on the verge of tears and fighting it.
“Yes. No one believes me, and I’m hounded by ghosts all the time.
I’m getting hurt, and no one believes that, either.
They just say I’m klutzy, that I need to pay more attention to where I’m going.
They won’t hear it if I say a ghost pushed me.
My parents are super religious, so I can’t tell them half of what’s going on.
They’ve threatened me with exorcisms before.
They’ve talked recently about sending me away to some kind of religious camp.
I think they’re afraid I’m possessed by a demon or dabbling in Satanic worship or something. ”
Fuck. Luckily Mack’s mother hadn’t thought along those lines, but he’d shared how it had been a common belief for many of his relatives—part of the reason why he’d gone no contact with them.
Sadly, Gwyn wasn’t done. “I tried keeping salt on me, ’cause I read online that helps, but my mom’s been watching me like a hawk.
She keeps taking it away and gets mad about it.
She keeps yelling about ghosts not being real, though why she’ll believe in demons but not ghosts, I don’t understand.
I think she’s also embarrassed. Small town like this, everyone gossips, everyone knows about me.
They all whisper behind our backs. Mom tries so hard to pretend it’s just a phase, something I’ll grow out of, but the situation is getting worse.
I need help. I can’t fight them off like this.
About four months ago, I got into a fight with a ghost. He was harassing me, trying to trip me and grab my hair; he wouldn’t leave me alone and kept chasing me.
I ended up falling down the ravine, and broke my arm and skinned up my legs, and—”
My heart broke as she started crying, tears trailing down her cheeks as sobs racked her frame. This poor kid. I knew Mack’s childhood had been rough, but at least he’d had a few people who’d believed him. It didn’t sound like she had any.
Mack was out of his chair in a trice, hugging her into his chest. Gwyn went, wrapping her arms around his waist, burying her face into his shirt. He stroked her hair and promised her in a soft voice, “You’ll not be defenseless ever again, cher, I promise you. I’ll see to that.”
I, unfortunately, had to ask more questions because I needed a clearer picture. “Gwyn, I’m so sorry to ask, but do you feel safe going home tonight?”
She immediately shook her head, face firmly buried.
Christ on a stick. I’d half expected her answer. “All right. Do you have anyone to lean on, anyone at all?”
Again, a shake of her head.
Mack let go a little to see her face better. “Gwyn, what would your parents do if you told them you saw a ghost today?”
“Honestly, I think they’re at a breaking point and would check me into a psych ward.” Gwyn’s mouth twisted up in this bitter way. “I almost wish they had. They’d test me for psychic ability, wouldn’t they?”
“They would,” I said. And would have immediately reported her to the Feds. I almost wished her parents had, too. At least she’d have gotten direct and proper help. But it did bring up the question: “Have none of your teachers reported what’s going on?”
“They talked to my parents first.” Gwyn slumped, eyes on her hands.
“My parents told them I’m hurting myself on purpose and pretending it’s a ghost’s fault, and now they ignore everything.
I saw the school counselor three times, got lectured for causing my parents worry, and that was the end of it according to the school. ”
Uh-oh. Mack had his murder face on, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack molars. Things tended to go poof when he got a mad on. And my cute Creole could get plenty mad. “I’m going to cut to the chase and call Sylvia now, okay?”
“Good thought, mon trésor.”
I hadn’t any idea what the protocol was for dealing with a teenage Medium in a hostile environment, but I was sure the FBI had one. I called our boss, putting it on speaker.
Gwyn lifted her head and asked in a watery voice, “Who’s Sylvia?”
“Our boss.” Mack used his thumbs to wipe the tears from her cheeks, smile gentle. “She’ll tell us how best to help you.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The phone rang three times before it was answered. “Speak.”
“Hey, boss. Got an interesting situation here. I’m sitting at the table with Mack and a new teenage Medium we stumbled across. Her name is Gwyneth Fairchild.”
There was an audible hiccup, then Sylvia’s tone turned excited. “You’re kidding. Please tell me you’re not kidding.”
“Not kidding. But it’s not all sunshine and roses. You remember where we are, right?”
Sylvia hissed in a breath. “Oh shit. That poor kid lives there?”
“Yeah. Gets worse. She’s about as strong as Mack—according to Mack himself—and no one around her believes she’s a Medium.
Her mother is actively taking salt out of her hands if she tries to use it.
Her arm was broken four months ago in an altercation with a ghost. She’s running scared, and we want to help her. ”
Ever hear a woman abruptly lose her temper? Sylvia’s snapped in about 0.2 seconds. “Put her on speaker.”
“You already are on speaker.”
“Gwyneth, I’m Special Agent Sylvia Forsythe, and the supervisor of the two agents with you.”
Gwyn looked a little overwhelmed speaking to someone as high up as Sylvia. She cleared her throat, tugging on her shirt’s hem. She was clearly nervous but managed a “Hi.”
“Hi. I don’t like what my agent is reporting to me so far, and I need to ask more questions. How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“And it’s correct that no one around you believes you are a Medium?”
“Yeah.” Gwyn hunched in on herself. “My parents hate anything supernatural. They won’t even watch the ghost shows that have been filmed in town. My mom won’t let me put up talismans in my room or carry salt or anything. They think I’m hallucinating or making things up.”
Mental illness was something nonbelievers latched on to very quickly as an explanation. And it sort of made sense, really. If you couldn’t see for yourself what was going on, then you’d think of other explanations. But it didn’t help the true Mediums.
“I also understand you’ve been hurt by a ghost recently?”
“Yeah. About four months ago. I’m well now, the cast is off, but…ghosts like to chase me.”