Web Ginn House: A Zo�� Martinique Investigation, Short Story

WEB GINN HOUSE

Phaedra Weldon

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Caldwell Press on Smashwords

Web Ginn House

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WEB GINN HOUSE

Phaedra Weldon

A toaster spun across the room straight for my head.

Luckily I was out of body (that's OOB for the uninitiated), so the blasted thing drove right through me and into the ceramic clown behind me.

Crash!

I hate clowns.

But then again, how rude! I didn't feel the solid object, but I sure as hell was going to remember it later as a migraine on the physical plane. Oh I could choose to go through things, like doors and walls, but when I did that— I was prepared. Nothing like walking down Peachtree Street and having some very angry spirit bean you with a kitchen appliance.

Though I'm not sure which is worse—the flying genzu knives or the hideous furniture flashback to 1964, complete with plastic couch cover.

Whoa! Lookout—a juicer!

Oh, speaking of rude, let me introduce myself. Name's Zoë Martinique. Long e sound. Not like toe. I'm not a ghost or anything—not even a distant relation to Danny Phantom (but it'd be cool to have his white hair)—but a living, breathing (and ever curious) Latino Irish American who just happens to travel out of body.

Sounds weird huh?

Yeah, most people hear Latino and Irish and before they see me and think "She either looks like Jennifer Lopez or Opie Griffith."

Hell—you think if I looked like JLo I'd be incorporeal in north Georgia dodging toasters? Nope. I'd be making me some sexy music videos and racking up husband number two.

I'm a stick with mounds of brown hair, brown eyes and freckles.

Ack! This time a Betty Crocker cookbook spun at me, hard cover open, pages flapping in the wind. I moved to the side and did a nice duck behind the sofa. The book dented the wall behind me, just missing—I stopped and glared at the garish figurines on the shelf—what were those things? Gah —ceramic harlequins.

Hideous.

Mental note: I really hate clowns.

If I could, I'd let loose with some rather colorful metaphors about now, but even incorporeal, the SPRITE equipment set up throughout the two story house would hear me on tape. And that just wouldn't do.

Oh yeah, SPRITE stands for Southeast Paranormal Research Investigators for Tactical Extermination. Uh-huh. What kills me is their obnoxious little logo of a fairy holding a ghost around the neck.

Sick, sick, sick.

But with that kind of publicity, I'd rather not be noticed by them. I might be invisible to the naked eye, and I'm not that sure I won't show up on film, but for some strange reason I can be heard . Learned that the hard way once and nearly gave one of my targets a heart attack.

Let me set the stage here so it doesn't seem like I'm babbling.

I learned I could go out of body six years ago, and once I got past that whole adolescent need to spy on people (like boyfriends, hussies who stole my boyfriends, cheating boyfriends) I learned I could make money with this little talent and have for the last two years. I rent out my services for information gathering—well okay I snoop. The code word is Traveler—I'm a Traveler for their information needs.

Don't try this at home, kiddies.

I've also learned the more under-the-table it sounds, the more money customers are willing to pay. People prefer to dish out high dollar for something they think is illegal—and I have a mortgage which keeps a roof over my physical body—which is at present resting comfortably in my condo near Piedmont Park.

I sell my services on Ebay. I know, odd modus operandi (I love using those words) I admit, but like I said before, I Travel for people and my friend and Magical MacGuyver of all things spooky, Rhonda Orly, handles that business end of things. Ebay was her idea.

And as of two days ago, three days before Halloween—which is tomorrow—I received a request from a repeating client. I never know their names, or their locations, just their email addresses. This guy's handle was maharba@maharba.com. Did a good bit of odd traveling for him these past two years.

Paid good too. His requests were pretty straight-forward. Snoop on this meeting, report back in detail. Watch this couple, report back. Watch this building, tell me what happened between yadda time and yadda time. My information wasn't admissible in court—I had no physical proof (as an incorporeal entity I couldn't lift anything solid so no takey evidence from the scene), I couldn’t even take pictures like a Private Investigator.

But the clients didn't seem to care. They trusted me, and I enjoyed the work. I often thought they'd find my methods a bit—questionable. And if not the methods, then maybe my attire. I usually went out in black leggings, black turtleneck and black bunny slippers. They were so cute with their nylon whiskers and pink ears. I could honestly say I loved my job

Except those that put me in front of hurling objects.

My instructions on this little adventure sent me to Web Ginn House road in downtown Lawrenceville, Georgia. I was to examine a haunted house, though my client neglected to tell me I'd be sharing space with a spook team. Oh—I believed in ghosts. Trust me. My mom has a couple living at her house—and I don't mean one or two ghosts—I mean a couple as in they're together . Tim and Steve. Quite a pair. She lives in Little Five Points—the artsy part of Atlanta.

But as for actually seeing ghosts other than those two—nope. This was a new experience for me. And it was just classic that I was doing it the night before Halloween.

Yay. Go me.

This time I wasn't paying attention when two of the members of SPRITE meandered into the room. The hurling of dangerous objects immediately ceased when they stepped in with their equipment held out in front of them, flashlights fixed to their foreheads.

"Randall—look over there!" the thinner of the two men said in an excited whisper. He was pointing in my direction so I exited stage-right, out of the line of fire of whatever electronic ghost snooping gadgetry they had in their hands.

"How the hell did these kitchen appliances get into the living room?" Randall, the wider of the two with less hair, stopped looking down at his display and looked at the ceramic mess to the right of the couch. He had a light strapped to his forehead, and shined the beam onto the floor.

"I told you I heard something in here," the thinner one said. I thought his name was Herb—though I wasn't sure. "I hope the cameras caught this on tape.

"Oh hell. Clowns," muttered Randall. "I hate clowns. Menacing alien creatures."

I like him.

"Well, you know what this proves don't you?"

"What, Herb? That ghosts hate clowns?"

I slapped my hand over my mouth. Nearly chuckled out loud on that one.

"No, that poltergeists aren't always phenomenon attached to teenagers entering puberty. No kids live here."

Poltergeist?

Interesting. Maharba never mentioned anything about poltergeists.

I felt a slight vibration then, something racing up my back. It was the same feeling I'd had right before the first object sailed through me. Martinique Spidey-sense.

Yep! And there it was! I didn't actually see what the flying object was at first because this one came from the living room and not the kitchen. I did feel it as it passed through my chest—a sort of odd pressure. Not a feeling I'd had before—but then again—this was the first time I had things thrown at me.

There was a moment of dizziness as I moved back to see a clock smash against the wall beside the ceramic mess. Whatever this thing was—I got the impression it was targeting me.

Oh joy.

"You see that? The clock's still plugged in." Herb moved over the broken ceramic toward me.

Still plugged in? Electricity. Was that why I felt like I'd been zapped? Might be—I'd always heard that electronic equipment went fritzy around electromagnetic entities (or so Rhonda had said on occasion). So why shouldn't they have the same effect on out of body girlies like me?

"Herb…rewind the thermal imager…"

That's when I saw the first of what looked like a whitish tentacle ooze its way around the feet of the couch. I stepped back and stared at it with crescendoing fear as it wound itself around the stubby couch leg on the front right. Another appeared from beneath, a soft white iridescent squid-like arm, and wrapped itself around the front left.

"Oh geez…." Randall said. "Do you see that?"

"Oh the fuck I do!" I blurted out and moved out of the way just before the entire couch launched itself into the air and came at me. I had just enough time to duck down the hall to my left as the yellow with pink flowered piece of furniture bounced into the wall and landed on top of the floor-model television.

Sorry about the furniture, but what the hell was the squid shit? I ran down the hall and circled around to the den, avoiding the kitchen and its whirling appliances all-together. I was getting winded, which in Traveling speak for me meant I'd been out of body a good while. Four hours appeared to be my limit before all sorts of nasty afflictions screwed up my physical self.

Headache (migraines), lethargy, upset stomach, dark circles under the eyes—not attractive to the opposite sex.

I stopped in my astral tracks once I entered the den.

Well—I'd found the owner of the white squid parts. It was there, standing in the center of the room, all glowy and horror-movie-of-the-week.

A giant squid. And I mean a giant freak'n squid. The thing looked like it was made out of smoke and ash. A monochromatic nightmare of infinitesimal proportions.

This thing made clowns seem normal.

Well—maybe not.

And the mother was staring right at me.

Oh no way!

The tentacles were stretched out all over the house, but here in the den is where the body was. I'd overheard the SPRITE team talking about the upstairs bedroom being the central area where most of the activity was centered, not the den.

So, how come no one told this wacko sea-animal he was in the wrong room?

Astral wind picked up and I actually felt my incorporeal hair stand on end. Two of the tentacles lashed out at me and I screamed as I watched them try and wind their way around my ankles.

Try being the key word here.

They melted right through me. Coiled and then oozed away.

It never touched me.

Well, not completely true. Something happened, because I was abruptly cold. While Traveling, I never experienced the elements. I could actually step out of my body naked (which had been my first one or two full experiences) and not feel a thing.

But this time my teeth were chattering. My ankles were the coldest, and knocking together. Ah! Even my bunny slippers had frost on their nylon whiskers.

Yikes!

"There it is again!" Herb shouted from the end of the hall. The two SPRITE members had moved to the start of the hallway where I had backed into.

Thunder vibrated within the house. Two more members of the team bounded down the stairs from the bedrooms, their little devices up and ready as they descended.

"Oh Jesus, what happened here?" came a female voice. That would be the one called Boo. The one that looked most like Rhonda with black hair and pink eye-shadow.

"Boo," Herb said in a whisper. "You and Ron circle back around to the den and get a shot of this thing."

Yeah, I thought. Shoot it. The giant squid looked as if it were listening—it wasn't making any more attempts at snagging me, or at throwing anything. I stood rooted to the spot in the hall—not because I was scared stiff, but because my legs weren't working. I jerked at them a few times, but I was locked in place!

What is up with this?!

"What is it you see?" Boo said and I heard her moving in the house.

"It looks like…"

A giant freak'in squid. A huge, bulbous octopus with more than eight tentacles. A larger than life Cousteau nightmare. A—

"It looks like a woman."

Blink. No—it looks like a—wait, a woman?

Oh no. I turned my upper body since my lower half wasn't budging. It felt like I had ice-shackles around my ankles. Herb and Randall were looking at the monitor, and then up at me.

At me !

"It is a woman," Randall said in voice full of excitement. "And she's wearing…bunny slippers?"

Damnit.

Boo and her partner appeared at the opposite end of the hall near the front door. The light from her monitor illuminated her face, exaggerating her features. "Where is this woman ghost?"

"Right there," Randall pointed directly at me. "You can't see her?"

Boo looked up from her monitor and squinted down the hall. "No. She's not showing up on the camera."

Well thank goodness for small favors. I was already panicked enough to know I showed up on the thermal imager.

I paused in my erratic thoughts as Randall and Herb started a rather hesitant walk down the hall in my direction. If I'm incorporeal, which means I'm without a warm body, how is it I show up on a thermal imager? Do I look all blue?

"What is it doing?" Herb said. "It looks like it's… looking at us."

"Nah," Randall said in a soft voice. "It doesn't even know we're here."

A movement in the den caught my eye and I looked back at Squid-ward long enough to see several tentacles slither out down the hall in either direction toward the ghost hunters.

I watched in morbid fascination (while trying to make my legs move) as the glowing, whitish limbs wound down the hall toward the unsuspecting, and evidently unseeing people. One tentacle reached out for Randall's monitor.

"Look out!" I shouted.

Well he heard me, but not fast enough to prevent the monitor from bashing up into his face. I heard a crunch and knew the force had done some damage to his nose. He fell back against the wall and was on the floor in seconds.

I heard a yell to my left and turned in time to see Boo's camera fly out of her hands and bean her partner in the side of his head.

"Ron! I'm so sorry, that wasn't me. It was that ghost woman." Boo yelled out.

Me? I did not do that. And I could argue this out loud with both she and Randall. But at that moment I felt as well as heard a low growl. It seemed to come from the floor and up through my ankles.

I looked back into the den door in front of me. The huge squid was gone and I got the distinct impression it was below me now.

And coming up through the floor under my feet. Now I didn't know if this was a bad thing, but it couldn't be good. If the tentacles around my ankles had had such a nasty effect, I did not want to stick around and see what the entirety of the creature did if its body swallowed my incorporeal one.

So I did the only thing any respectable astral presence would do.

I got the hell out of there.

In truth, I concentrated on my silver cord, the one that anchored my spirit to my body, and I followed it back, leaving the squid, and SPRITE, far behind.

<><><>

What I didn't mention was what a really bad idea this little trick was.

Traveling back into my body this way, instead of easing back in like I normally did, caused a great deal of stress on the physical. Meaning when I slammed back into my body (there's an interesting velocity that picks up along the silver cord) it hurts .

Mom said it looked like I'd been shocked with a couple of those paddle things the doctors use to restart the heart. It actually felt a lot worse than it looked. The only way I can describe it from a physical standpoint is to imagine your blood replaced with liquid fire.

Acid. Everything burns.

The immediate reaction lasts maybe about two minutes, and then I'm usually a jelly lump on the floor catching my breath. The burning—that lasts a lot longer. Owch.

I managed to stay on top of the little single bed I'd set up in my office for my traveling jaunts. Usually I fell off when I used my cord. I opened my eyes. I focused on my ceiling and concentrated on my breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Ow, ow, ow.

I could imagine my blood as the sparkling, crackling fire and my veins were the fuse melting away as it grew closer to my heart.

The pain subsided, and a dull ache in the back of my head surged forward. I groaned out loud and lay very still for a while. I caught the front LCD face of the clock beside my desktop computer. Three seventeen in the morning.

Time for a nice glass of water, vitamins and —

Wholly Mary Mother Of God!

I'd sat up slowly, and my black leggings had pulled up to my knees as well. My ankles were black and blue. Literally, black and blue! It looked as if someone had hammered on them with a meat mallet. I touched them tenderly (owch!) and sucked air in between my teeth.

So—could I stand on them?

I tried, and promptly landed on the Pergo floor, knees and elbows first. It wasn't that I couldn't put weight on them—well okay I couldn't put weight on them. It hurt too much and tears instantly sprang to my eyes. I am not afraid of crying. At least not by myself.

This was the first physical manifestation I'd seen of something that happened while I was traveling, and I didn't know if I'd done something permanent.

My purse lay in a heap on the floor a few inches away and I reached in for my cell. One bar left. Curse me and my inability to remember to plug the damned thing in.

I called my mom.

<><><>

"Did you hammer them with a meat mallet?"

I could have smacked my mom. But in truth, I wanted to smack her about once a day. A Debbie Reynolds duplicate, she puttered around in my kitchen after we returned from the emergency room. I lay propped up on the couch, my ankles encased in braces of plastic and Velcro. I didn't get any crutches to hobble on because I was under strict orders to stay off my feet.

And I had Gestapo-Mom to enforce that decree.

Luckily I'd already tried Traveling to make sure I could move on my feet that way. It was slow going, but I could. I just couldn't run any ghostly marathons.

My condo was a decent size, with a living room and fireplace, a small kitchen with a look-through in the wall to the dinning room (which was really just a piece of the living room). I'd had the whole place done in Pergo flooring. Earth tone furnishings and décor. Just the basics.

And two bedrooms and a bathroom down the hall.

Not much, but it was mine. Bought and paid for with my own brand of commerce.

Yay. Go me.

It was nearing nine, Halloween morning. I'd filled mom in on the details of my assignment while we'd been in the waiting room. She then called Rhonda (my magical MacGyver) and filled her in. I flipped through the local news stations while mom made biscuits, gravy, juice, bacon, eggs and grits.

Mmmmm….grits.

I was looking for anything about the night's events. Something on a local station. I mean, SPRITE definitely had some footage on me. They had proof of something . And it was Halloween. So why wasn't there something on a local station showing it?

The front door opened and Rhonda bustled in. She looked ready for Halloween.

But Rhonda always looked ready for Halloween. Her hair was shoulder length, dyed flat-black. Her eyes were brilliant blue (unlike my own dull brown ones) and her skin a near translucent white. Her nails were short and nubby and painted black.

Today she wore a black tee-shirt, black jeans, black boots, and a blue jeans jacket with a black ink rendering of Jesus looking like the statue of liberty on the back of her jacket.

Rhonda was scary looking to some, but she was our Spook-la-pedia goth.

She had her black leather backpack over her shoulder as she came straight to me and started looking at my ankles. The book-bag hit the floor with a thud and she gently pulled at the Velcro.

With a frown, she then bent over her bag, pulled out a small five inch by eight inch book and started thumbing through it.

"Hello Zoë, you look great. Why thank you, Rhonda. You too." I couldn't resist opening my mouth. As usual.

"You look like shit," Rhonda said though her gaze never left her book. "You always do after a tough travel." She turned a page. "So, it was a squid?"

"Yep."

"Poltergeist."

I pursed my lips. "That's what SPRITE thought it was, but aren't they supposed to be attached to adolescents or something?"

Rhonda nodded, but she still didn't look at me. Her eye-lashes were purple. "That's the popular misconception. Most Parapsychologists think Poltergeists are simply the unconscious adolescent lashing out where the consciousness won't. And they're partly true. Poltergeists are entities created on the Abysmal plane, usually created there by powerful adolescents who don't realize they're psychic."

I never pretended to know what she was talking about. And Rhonda knew it. I was patient and watched her until she pulled her nose out of the book and then touched my ankles. I flinched.

Rhonda spoke. "Some psychics can tap the different planes. You probably could as a child and didn't know it. Might explain your ability to go out of body. Some kids tap the Ethereal, and we have moments of psychic phenomenon, like them knowing things, or premonitions that save lives. Usually happens with slightly troubled teens.

"But then we have those in broken or just downright abused homes. These kids come from a darker place and unfortunately some tap the darker side, the Abysmal plane, as opposed to the Ethereal. Sometimes these kids link with a symbiont and go on to do some pretty wicked things. Others see the Abysmal and commit suicide, and then sometimes what manifests is a poltergeist. This squid you saw is just that."

"But," I watched as mom set the table and I wondered exactly how I was going to get over to those biscuits. My stomach growled. "There aren't any kids that live in this house."

"True," she nodded and turned my ankle to the right. I flinched and nearly swatted her. Owch. "But I'm sure there was a kid that lived in that house, and they were abused, only they got out. They either fled, or they got help. Is there anyone living there now?"

"Yeah," I thought back to the file I'd gotten from maharba. "New owners. Elderly couple. Apparently they'd had a few incidents. Just things going missing, and maybe the cabinets opening up. Nothing like what I saw last night."

"Poltergeists are basically the same as bogeys or dust bunnies, Zoë. Nuisances with the occasional bounce off a noggin. It's rare they hurt the living, but they can manipulate physical objects, like you saw. But as for this," she pursed her lips and shook her head at my ankles. "I can only assume it was able to touch you on a physical level because you're still attached to a living body. It squeezed your astral ankles, and it manifested physically. You sure we're not talking about a half-manifested spirit? Ghost? Angry specter?"

I was still stuck on something she said. "Dust bunny?"

"Just an expression—slang for the spooks under the bed. Annoying creatures." She arched an eyebrow. "Focus on me, Zoë."

"SPRITE said it was a poltergeist."

"And the previous reports would lead me to believe that. I'd say this thing was trying to hurt you. Or capture you."

Zoinks. "Why the hell for?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Either because you can see it, you're a threat to it, or it just plain doesn't like you."

Great. "So what do I do to get rid of it?"

She frowned at me. "Why do you want to get rid of it? Is that what your client wants?"

"Well no, but the damned thing hurt two people—I saw it lift that equipment and smack them in the face with it. You think an elderly couple needs to move back in there only to get knocked on their asses by—let's say—a Magic Bullet?"

"Good point. One of two things. You can somehow convince the creator to dismiss it by revisiting the house—good luck on that one in tracking down any kids that might have lived there—or even convincing them you're not a lunatic. Or, you can sever its tie to the physical plane."

I leaned my head toward her. "And that would be…."

"Some physical thing. Some object maybe still in the house from the previous owners."

I was afraid to ask how I could sever this tie, seeing as I couldn't manipulate physical objects while Traveling. And Rhonda knew it. She reached down into her backpack and pulled out a Creative Loafing, a local paper that reported on the happenings in Atlanta, from the arts to the local police dramas.

The front of this one was plastered with a picture of SPRITE, their name spelled out in creaky letters along the bottom. It read SPRITE FINDS EXISTENCE OF FEMALE GHOST IN LOCAL SUBURBAN HOME. See page 34.

Right below the group's pictures was a small image captured from the thermal imager. Me. Or rather an outline of me, in blue and green.

Wow…do my boobs really look that big?

"Focus Martinique. As to how to sever this tie—I suggest you use these guys," Rhonda pointed to the cover with a black fingernail. "Somehow have them destroy it."

I looked from the cover to her smiling face. "Is your brain missing?"

"No, seriously. The only other way to get rid of this thing is to cut its fetter, its link to this plane. Once that's done it'll dissipate and return to the Abysmal. You just have to find what's in that house that's acting as the fetter's anchor."

I pulled myself up on the couch to get a better glaring angle at the little goth chick. "Fetter? What the hell is a fetter?"

"A leash. Most entities like ghosts, specters, and poltergeists are kept here on a leash, or a fetter. You break that, the poltergeist goes bye-bye."

Silverware clinked against ceramic. I glanced behind me at mom who busied herself setting the table for breakfast. She might look like the busy mom figure, but I'd bet my ass she'd heard every word.

"SPRITE has goodies I don’t have access too. Spectral entities like that usually use up the energy in the air around them, which can frak up a camera, or a light fixture. A thermal imager, like the one that caught you, will also catch a fetter. Only a fetter is going to show up very warm. You need to find where the fetter is in the house and destroy it."

"But I have to let SPRITE do it—"

"Because you're not corporeal," mom chimed in from the table.

See? Her ears were still as sharp as the night I tried sneaking out my bedroom window. Whoa be to me when I found mom on the ground waiting for me. She'd heard my feet against the house.

Do'h!

"I need to investigate the previous owners, find out the daughter or son's history, and then find out which room they lived in—"

"Or," Rhonda held up a finger. "Find out if there's something still in the house. Like a toy or even an article of clothing."

I arched an eyebrow at Rhonda. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Any minute now. Just wait. The catch…it's there.

"And you need to do it before nine tonight—evidently SPRITE's heading back to the house to catch their woman demon on film again. After tonight, the present owners are going to raze the house—and that won't get rid of the poltergeist. It'll just be there for the next poor people to build a house on that lot."

Blamo. Told you there was something else.

Great. So I needed to somehow find the fetter and convince the boys and Boo to destroy it.

Oh yeah—my Halloween just got more interesting. Yay. Go. Me.

<><><>

Well, to find out what I could about the present owners, the Brentwoods, I simply learned what SPRITE knew—which was plastered all over the article in Creative Loafing. Elderly couple, just moved here from Florida, escaping the hurricanes, wanting to find a place to retire and make a life after spending years traveling. No children. All their money was tied into the house.

And the previous owners? Now that's the strange part. The Smiths had a single child, a daughter, who now was an almost grandmother. Daughter was born in 1960. But—if she'd created a poltergeist back in her puberty years—would it have lived this long?

Something in my gut told me not so. According to Rhonda these things remained, but without something feeding it, the thing would linger in a weakened state. So—why was it so absolutely all fire creepy now?

There was a gear missing in this mechanism for disaster, and me with my hobbled ankles wasn't sure what it was, or how to find it, or even fix it once I did. I'd spent the entire afternoon on the couch surfing the web and googling all over the place.

I set my ibook on the coffee table and decided it was time to test my ankles and their just over-the-top lovely braces. Time because hydraulic pressure was going to pop my bladder and send me shooting straight up into the cat-lady's condo above me.

I scooted forward, put my feet beneath me, and with a deep breath, stood straight up—and stayed there.

Interesting. Pursing my lips, I took a few steps away from my couch around my coffee table. I could feel the bruises on my ankles, but they didn't hurt. Not like they had earlier. Was I already healed? Wow…was this a super new power?

"What the hell are you doing?"

YOW!! I nearly shot out of my body right then my mom scared me so bad. I turned and nearly fell over. "Geesus would you not do that?"

She came from the kitchen (I had no idea she was still in there) and stood behind the couch. "Zoë those braces aren't meant to be walked on."

"Well duh—I know that. But look," I pointed down at my feet. "I can walk!"

"Because the braces are supporting you." She put her hands on her amble hips. "Try it without the braces."

I did.

I fell down.

"I have to pee," I said from the floor.

Mom towered over me. "Then I'll help you. I used to change your diaper you know."

Ugh.

Rhonda was in the living room holding the remote and flipping channels when we came back in. She must have entered while I was in the bathroom. She'd changed at some point during the day. Actually put on nice pants, a white shirt and a black blazer. Only the black lipstick, nails and spiked bracelets gave her true nature away.

Two clicks to Channel Two Action News. "Check this out."

I looked at the clock over the television. It was after five. Wow, where was the afternoon?

"….as promised…a very startling…and creepy…Halloween event."

The screen broke from the anchor to the Smith house where I'd been last night. Only it was a night shot, and the wind around the autumn turning trees did look spooky. Jump photography, two flashes of special effect lightening and we were in the house with a guide.

And that guide happened to be Randall. Only he looked awful. The monitor had broken his nose and his eyes were bruised. He looked like a raccoon.

I listened with interest as the SPRITE member showed the camera crew the mess and then gave an account of what they saw, and then to my surprise, played out the video they'd taken of me.

"Nice profile," Rhonda said.

And it was, but just not something I wanted filmed. Not that I thought anyone was going to recognize me in the shot.

"We're not sure if this is the entity causing the nightmares the Smiths have been through these past few weeks since buying the house," Randall was saying. "We did catch her voice on tape."

The image changed to a voice image, with a straight line and then a squiggle. Then I heard my voice say "Look out!" as white letters clarified it for the television audience. And CC for the hearing impaired.

Oh greeeeeat.

If there was one thing distinctive about me, it was my voice. Gravely. Rough. Deep. Kinda manly.

"Sounds as if she was warning you," the reporter commented as they stood in the living room carnage.

Randall nodded. "Yeah, yeah. And she did, because right after that is when the camera and monitors we were holding jumped out of our hands."

"So you're saying maybe she's more of a guardian angel?"

Randall smiled. "Right now, I don't know what to believe. We hope to make contact again tonight."

Rhonda switched off the television. "You know what this means?"

I was still on Guardian Angel. Aw. How sweet. "Randall looks like a raccoon?"

"It means the whole area's going to be crawling with people. Kids trying to get in to see the ghost. Freaks. Groups singing outside in midnight vigils to stop the evil."

In a word, Mob.

"Mob," Rhonda said.

Hey, I thought that before she did.

"Zoë," she gave me one of those school teacher looks—here we go explaining it to the slow child. "Look what that thing did to the SPRITE members. With the cameras? All those people I just mentioned will run the risk of that thing pulling similar stunts to them. What if someone gets killed?"

Oh.

"You need to get in, find that fetter, destroy it, and get out. You don't need SPRITE taping you anymore." She tilted her head to the side, almost resting it on her shoulder. "And please…please…keep your mouth shut. If you don't I'll kick your damaged ankles."

Mental note: Rhonda is mean .

<><><>

Goth chick wasn't kidding when she said Mob.

Circus might have been more appropriate, though. There were indeed prayer groups with heads bowed, people with signs saying "ghost have rights too", and even a few men in white colors preaching the dangers of doing God's work.

Wasn't even a full moon tonight and the crazies were there for their Halloween fix.

The SPRITE van was in the driveway, their little blue fairy logo incongruent with the kids in sheets and black robes. Several news vans were there as well. Must not be much happening on this Thursday night.

I kept my body on the couch at home with mom and road incorporeally with Rhonda. She stayed in the background, blending in (LOL!) as I made my way past the cameras and anchor people to the back of the house. There I found an open door and slipped inside, happy I wouldn't have to sieve through the wood. I can do it, but I don't like to. Especially not glass. Too cold.

I stopped in the kitchen. There was equipment everywhere. Camera lenses pointed at me from every angle. Luckily none of them were turned over and running.

Yay.

I moved to the hallway and the den. Fewer cameras here and none of them looked like thermal imagers. My guess was they'd keep those in their hands as they had the night before.

I stood in the room's center. The television in the corner was dark, the books in the shelf all in place. My guess was that since the thing had been centered in here, maybe the fetter was too.

So, what would it look like? Would it glow? Jump and down?

Sing?

I wanted to shout out, call to it. But not if they could actually record me. Think, think, think.

What had SPRITE done to provoke it the night before?

"Randall we can't work with all those people outside." That was Herb and he didn't sound happy. "I told you not to do that interview—not till we were done."

They stopped right outside the den, in the hallway, where I'd been stuck the night before.

"I thought it needed to be shown that we're not crazy people." Randall said.

"I know we're not crazy, and so do you. Why should it matter who else did?"

"But we actually have proof, Herb. We need to show it around."

Did something just vibrate on that shelf?

"Randall, just because we got something on tape doesn't mean people will believe. Hell, someone could say that was Boo we caught on the imager."

Yep, something was definitely vibrating over there.

"That was not Boo," Randall said a bit louder and I wouldn't have been too shocked to see him stomp his foot. "I know what I saw."

A book sailed across the room. I ducked and it slammed into the two-person sofa.

"Randall, we both saw it, and we heard it too. There's something in this house."

"Then why are you ashamed of it?"

Another book flew across the room, followed by a trophy. I ducked both of them and then looked at the two SPRITE members. Uh, hello? Moving objects?

"I am not ashamed of it, Randall. Geesus." Herb put his hands in the air. "We just didn't need that Circus outside."

This time the television actually lifted in the air and sailed at the door.

Right at them.

"Move you idiots!" Okay, so I think my outburst then was justified, right?

Randall and Herb both looked in time to see the television hurling at them. A few girlie screams but the two ducked out of the way.

That's when the giant squid sort of appeared. It didn't take a rocket scientist, or even a Wall Street tycoon to realize what I realized at that moment. The poltergeist activity from last night wasn't fed from the Brentwoods, but from SPRITE.

Point of sale: Randall .

Some unresolved issues there. A little frustration and anger?

"Christ! Get the cameras rolling! We have activity in the den!"

I moved to the side, behind what looked like the eye of the squid. It continued to grab up random objects with its tentacles and toss them at the doorway. Keeping quiet while it was busy, I looked for the fetter. Anything that might work.

A fetter was a leash of sorts. So, it'd have to be somehow connected to old Squid-ward here, right? Not around his neck because he didn't seem to have one. So—where?

Randall and Herb arrived then, as well as Ron, who sported a nasty bruise on his right cheek. Randall had the thermal imager in hand and was getting it geared up to point in the room. I moved to the side, out of the way and hopefully still out of site of the poltergeist.

"Anything?" Herb said.

"No…wait. What the hell is that?"

I moved up behind them, slipping in between the two so I could look at the imager's screen. Had they seen the squid?

"I—that's weird," Randall looked at the monitor and then up into the room. "What's so hot?"

Ah ha! There was a hot thing in there. The fetter? I moved in a little bit closer and saw it. Some orange and red spot in the far corner of the room.

Wait…wasn't that—

"Is that the camera?" Herb said as he squinted into the room.

I'd seen that camera earlier when I'd first walked in. I remembered it because it looked like something CIRCA 1985.

"Yeah," Ron said. "What camera is that? I don't recognize it."

"It's one the Brentwoods found when they moved in," Randall said.

Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. "It's a classic and Mr. Brentwood said I could have it."

"Why is it hot?" Herb said.

Old camera…I moved away from the trio and eased to the left of the room around the squid. It'd been busy extending its tentacles through the house again and it hadn't seen me.

Yet.

So the fetter was a camera. I could see the faint leash or rope or whatever that lead from it to the base of the poltergeist. I guess cameras could be a source of frustration. Especially if they'd been used in some oogy way. Like for porno? For taking pictures that shouldn't be taken?

Ew. That was just a gross thought.

Somehow I needed to convince them to destroy it—and from the sound of admiration in Randall's voice, that wasn't going to be easy.

"There she is," Randall said. "Just to the left in the room. See her?"

"Wow…you weren't kidding," Ron said.

I turned and glared at them. They needed to stop focusing on me and focus on the squid. Why couldn't they see the squid? Didn't make any sense to me—not like I understood any of this.

"Why'd she throw the television at us?" Herb said.

"Because she's a poltergeist." Randall said. He faced the room, with no idea he was less than two feet from a giant glowing squid. "We mean you no harm—why are you trying to kill us? Are you angry? Did something really bad happen to you here?" He held something in his hand and I realized it was an MP3 recorder.

Wow…I'd never been interviewed before.

Something rumbled under my feet. I turned and saw the squid had turned as well, and was looking at me with its one good eye. Yikes!

Tentacles whipped out of every nook and cranny of the room and threw themselves at me. It looked like thousands of white ropes uncoiling my way—and I had nowhere to run!

Within seconds I was encased in them. They moved slowly through me as they had my ankles the night before, but as some fell away they were quickly replaced by others.

I was trapped…and cold. Antarctica cold. My teeth rattled in my head and I felt myself drop to my knees. I tried to concentrate on my cord, but I couldn't find it in all the tentacles encircling me.

"What's—" Randall said. "What's happening? She looks like she's sick."

"Randall…what are those snake-like things?"

I tried to concentrate on their voices to keep from disappearing into the ice surrounding my body. "Destroy…camera," I managed to say. But could they hear me through the sound of the wind in my ears?

Wind? There was wind?

"Ron, did you hear that too?"

"Yeah, yeah. Let me rewind." I heard my voice replayed again and again.

"Does it mean the new camera?" Herb said. Then he said louder. "Can you tell us why?"

"Killing…me," I managed to get out. "You… asshole ."

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have said that last part. But I was cold.

"Killing her," Ron muttered and even I could hear the incredulousness in his voice. "How can it kill her if she's a ghost."

"Randall," Herb's voice sounded a little high. I pushed and pressed on the tentacles encasing me, but they continued to pass through me and then replaced themselves. "Look at the monitor closer. There and there…what the hell are those?"

"Holy—" Randall said and his voice cracked. "They're strangling her!"

Finally! Hello? Geeks are sloooooowwww.

I saw Herb move past me, skirting the edge of the poltergeist's position, and grab for the camera. Two tentacles that oozed through me whipped out toward him—no—they whipped out ahead of him as if to grab the camera.

"Herb!" Randall called out before I could. "It's going for—"

It grabbed the camera before Herb could get to it and slammed it against the side of his face. I felt a slight warming around me and did my best to move away from the tentacles. My mind was racing ahead to my physical body—thinking of the bruises on my ankles from a single brush with its tentacles and terrified what I'd find left in my couch after this little travel.

Herb went down and Randall moved into action. He dropped the thermal imager on the floor and dove for the camera. It whipped about in the air. I screamed for him to watch his left, then his right, and then it moved through me—

And I was free.

Wha—?

I wasted no time in moving out of the way. I was free, and warm, and not rooted to the spot as I'd been the night before. I didn't know why that'd happened and in that instant I didn't care. I just knew I needed to somehow get that frak'n camera away from the poltergeisty squid.

Randall was still doing his jump and duck dance about the den, Herb lay on the floor clutching his head but making a solid attempt to get up, and Ron—well he was struck dumb at the door, probably freaked out by the levitating camera. I moved to the back, able to see what Randall couldn't.

If I looked carefully, the thing's tentacle arms moved as well as looked like a squid, so the lower parts attached to the body lead the movement. I watched it for a few seconds to test my theory, and after two near misses at Randall's skull, I knew right where the camera would be next.

Yelling at Randall to go right and up, I gave a good ole Georgia Bulldog Woof when he caught the thing like a football, intercepting a supernatural pass.

"Smash it!" Herb yelled.

"No," Randall said, scrambling to get out of the den and shoving Ron to the side. "It's an antique."

"It's a damned fetter!" I shouted and ran around the poltergeist, jumping over the tentacles and doing a limbo. "Destroy it."

"I—can't," Randall said.

And just when I thought I was going to have to do some serious tongue lashing (damn I wish I could move solid things!) Ron unfroze and grabbed the camera out of Randall's hand. He moved with it down the hall.

A tentacle followed and so did I. As did Randall and a stumbling Herb.

I got there in time to see Ron set the camera on the counter. He grabbed a hammer from the junk drawer (isn't it interesting how every kitchen has one of those drawers, and they have hammers in them?) and opened a can of whoop-ass on that piece of electronic equipment.

It was broken in two whacks, pulverized in four and by the ninth hit, he was smacking and denting the white, gold flecked Formica counter.

Ohhh…Ron gets busy.

Randall grabbed Ron's raised hammer hand and put a finger to his own lips. Everyone stopped. The hum in the house was gone (not that I'd realized there was one till it was missing). Was it…?

That's when hell broke loose.

Every thingie that carried a current of any kind sparked in the house at the same instant. I ducked, even though my hair wouldn't actually catch fire from the exploding microwave behind Herb. In fact, everyone was on the floor.

Once the fireworks stopped, I stood first and moved quickly back to the den. The poltergeist was gone—but was it really gone? As in dissolved into the abysmal plane?

I didn't know. Nor did I care. I just really didn't want anyone else hurt by it.

SPRITE's electronic equipment lay on the orange and turquoise blue in smoking heaps. Ooh, they were not going to be happy about that.

"Oh hell," Randall said as he saw the mess. "Look what that ghost did."

"This is going to cost us a fortune." Herb still clutched at his head as he knelt down beside the sparking remains of the thermal imager. "And to think we helped her—and she does this to our equipment?"

Me? They thought I did this?

That's it.

I went home.

<><><>

SPRITE did blame me, as I thought they would. All their equipment was destroyed, and in an odd twist of circumstance, the video they'd captured of me went missing. Even the copy Randall had kept was wiped clean.

I didn't know how and I didn't care. The Brentwoods arranged for the house to be bulldozed and sold the property for more money than they paid. Bully for them. Whoohoo.

I did come back to my body with a series of bruises over every inch of skin and muscle. It took me a week to get back on my feet and not have to find a wall to lean to prop against.

Ow, ow, and ow. Rest and plenty of mom's cooking and I was—okay. Maybe a few pounds heavier.

With Rhonda in tow, I tracked down the Smith daughter.

We were sitting in a Starbucks in Augusta, Georgia when I got the story from her. The crisp turn of cold bit at my nose as we sat outside, enjoying the break from the south's cruel and soupy heat. It was nice now, but we all knew it'd be hot again in a day or so.

Pumpkins and corn stalks propped on hay bails still decorated the corner.

The daughter looked less than comfortable, but she was resigned. "I used to come home from school before my parents did—and they put my uncle in charge of me. He used to take that camera out—and we'd go down into the basement—and he'd—"

"Whoa," Rhonda sat forward, her hands up. "You don't have to go any further. We got the picture."

I sat forward. "Did your dad know?"

The daughter nodded. She was still a pretty woman at forty-five. Slim. Delicate. Careful. "I hid the camera, and my uncle accused my dad of taking it and keeping the pictures for himself. Dad found out what he'd been doing," she gave a half smile. "And I never saw my uncle again. Even to this day I don't know where he is. No one's seen him."

Rhonda and I looked at each other then. Her uncle just disappeared after having a fight with his brother—her father?

I didn't know what was going through Rhonda's brain? But mine was on the gravy-train to an episode of Murder She Wrote. The house hadn't been raised yet—that was scheduled for the following week.

Would they find it? The body of her Uncle?

Perhaps buried in a box or a bag along with the naked pictures he'd taken of his niece?

I wasn't sure I wanted to know—but I was pretty sure that whatever came of this—I'd one day soon return to Web Ginn House and whatever the new owners decided to build.

About the Author…

Phaedra Weldon is the author of the Urban Fantasy series, Zoë Martinique Investigation, published by Berkley, available for Kindle. She most recently completed the soon-to-be released Eureka novel, Brain Box Blues. Look for it in stores Winter 2010 under the name Cris Ramsay.

© Copyright 2010, all rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This is a revised edition.

For more information about the author please her visit website at www.phaedraweldon.com

Read about the further investigations of Zoë and her friends in Wraith, Out of the Dark, Spectre, Phantasm and Revenant, available in bookstores now, as well as Kindle and ebook formats