Ghost in the Machine

Ghost in the Machine

by Sue Latham Published by Lonely Swan Books

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Copyright 2015 by Sue Latham

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

GHOST IN THE MACHINE “Oh for crying out loud!” Before starting out tonight, I had fully charged every battery in every electronic device I own. But now my flashlight was dead, and I bumped into a filing cabinet.

I was on a ghost hunt; I’m a ghost hunter—it's what I do. Tonight we were investigating a small tech start-up company on the ground floor of the Morris Building, one of the oldest office buildings in downtown Indian Springs. “Of all the times for my flashlight to flake out.” There were spare batteries in my equipment bag, if only I could find it. In the vast windowless space, the only source of light was from an exit sign at the end of the hall. I set out in search of the office where we had set up our command center and the spare batteries that were in my equipment bag. Unexplained battery drain is a very common phenomenon during paranormal investigations, so we always carry spares. Still, it's annoying, and I uttered a few choice words when I accidentally tripped over a garbage can.

I paused for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Just as I was getting my wits about me, I was overwhelmed with a sudden feeling of dread. Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead and I fought back nausea. Then the feeling passed as suddenly as it had come on.

Looming in the dark before me was one of those big furniture-sized printers. As walked past, it suddenly came to life and spat out a page. From past experience I know that potential evidence can pop up in the most unexpected places, so I grabbed the piece of paper and took it with me.

At the end of the hall there was a faint glow from the office where Ernie and I had set up our equipment earlier. “Hey, Ernie, did you just send something to the printer?”

Ernie turned in his chair to look at me as I entered the office. “No. Why do you ask?”

“I was walking past it and something printed out.”

“Well, what does it say?”

“Don't know,” I replied. “My flashlight died.”

“Oh, well, I guess that's par for the course,” he replied. Ernie reached for a small flashlight and turned it on. “My batteries seem to be okay.” He focused the beam on the paper. MARGO GO AWAY, it said.

“That’s not funny!” I said.

“What? You don’t still think it was me?” asked Ernie, clearly annoyed.

“No, of course not. Sorry. Are you sure there's no one else in the building?”

Ernie looked at me over the tops of his nerdy black glasses. “At this hour of the night? No, according to my 3D modeling program, not to mention the security cam, there's not another living creature here but us.

Unless you count the goldfish in office 4-C.” He pulled the computer monitor around so I could see it better and showed me a virtual 3-D model of the building constructed from readings from the meters we had placed strategically on each floor.

“Somebody logging in remotely?” I asked.

“It's always a possibility,” he said. He stood up and gathered up a bag of electronic gadgets. “Say, are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“I just need some water.”

“Okay. I think I’ll head to the lobby and see if I can get any EVPs.” “I’ll come with you. I saw a water fountain around here somewhere.”

EVPs are sounds captured on an electronic device. They aren’t usually audible to the human ear. Why an entity might be able to make an electronic device register a sound that the human ear doesn’t has been subject to much debate. We rely heavily on EVPs and have used various kinds of equipment with varying degrees of success.

In the lobby, Ernie put his smartphone on the small coffee table and I got out one of my recent equipment purchases: a high-end voice recorder with lots of bells and whistles. I put on some headphones and set out an iPod equipped with a seismometer app, then settled back onto the small sofa next to Ernie.

“Is there anybody here that would like to speak to us?” I said quietly. “We’re here as friends. We don’t want to bother you. We just want to know a little bit about you and why you’re still here.”

“Can you give us some sign of your presence?” Ernie asked.

And so it went for the next couple of hours, without so much as a flicker on the EMF meter, or wobble on the temperature gauge, that might indicate any sign of paranormal activity.

Ernie finally stood up and stretched. “I don’t think anybody wants to come out to play. How about we pack up?”

As it was almost two in the morning, I had been thinking along the same lines. “Marcie mentioned some possible activity in the employee break room. I’m going to go take a quick peek in there. You can start packing up.”

According to our client, the coffeemaker would sometimes come on by itself. I was a bit skeptical on this point—the coffee maker in question was identical to the one we used to have in our old lab. It was at least 10 years old. I reckoned it would be a miracle if it didn’t occasionally come on by itself. I spent 15 minutes trying to gently convince our theoretical entities that a cup of Joe would be pretty tasty right about now, but finally gave up. When I made my way back to the command center, I was mildly annoyed to find Ernie sitting at the computer. Nothing had been put away.

“I thought you were going to start packing up.”

“I started, then remembered that I forgot to make the log entry. Look at this…” He pointed to the computer’s monitor.

I read his log entry out loud. “‘Thursday, April 4. Offices of Rent-a-Geek, Morris Building, 1485 Main St. Start time approximately 12:45’….no offense, Ernie, but it's late and I'm tired.”

“Keep reading.” “‘Client claims: odd noises reported by people working late, coffeemakers in break room being on when people arrive for work, hand dryers in plEASse WE NEED yur HELP both restrooms going on when no one is near’…” I paused, unsure of what to make of it.

“You don't seriously think I wrote that, do you?” he asked.

“No, but I don’t get it.”

“I was using dictation to text, speaking into this microphone. I didn't even know it was there until I went back and read it just now.”

As we watched, before our astonished eyes, words began to appear in Ernie's log. THIS IS OUR HOME THIS IS OUR HOME HELP US. “Well,” I said, “maybe this isn’t going to be a wasted evening after all.” !

The next day I got to my office in our new lab—I freely admit it—just in time for lunch. We had only recently moved here from our old quarters in an ancient building on the campus of the college in Throckmorton, a small town just down the road from Indian Springs. Though they lacked some of the quirky charm of our old digs, the new quarters were spacious and comfortable, and provided us with 24-hour security.

Ernie was already there, perched on a lab stool in front of a computer monitor. “You're early. How long have you been here?” I said.

“Long enough to find something. Come over here take a look at this,” he said, beckoning me over.

I dropped my purse on the counter and pushed a tall chair next to his. Ernie pulled up a video file. “On a hunch I stuck a couple of web cams in the lobby before we started. Look at the timestamp.”

According to the timestamp, the clip he was showing me was taken well into our investigation. “What am I looking for?”

“Just wait a second. You’ll see.” On the clip, a tiny spot of light appeared. “What do you see?” Ernie asked.

“It’s not the best image, is it? Looks like a light of some kind…”

“Elevator call button.”

“Oh, right.”

Ernie zoomed in on the image and it became obvious that we were looking at the elevator doors.

“Watch!” he said. The tiny spot of light winked out and the elevator doors slid open. After a couple of seconds, they closed.

“What do you think about that?” asked Ernie.

“Mechanical malfunction?”

“Probably,” he replied, “but we would be remiss in our duties if we didn't check into it.”

“That wasn’t one of the incidents Marcie reported,” I remarked.

“That's true, but since paranormal phenomena tend to occur mostly at night, she might not know,” Ernie pointed out.

“Good point. It warrants further investigation. I propose we pay Rent-a-Geek a visit. But after lunch.”

“How does pizza sound?”

“When they have you ever known me to say no to pizza?”

He thought about it for minute. “I seem to remember an occasion about fifteen years ago.”

“I was on a diet. Come on, let's go.” !

Marcie dismissed our elevator evidence right off the bat. “There’s nothing weird about that. According to the night security guard, it happens all the time.”

“You should have mentioned it. Does it ever happen during working hours?” I asked.

“Well, no…”

“And you’ve never had anybody check into it?”

“As long as the elevators work okay during business hours, why would we care?” She seemed genuinely puzzled.

“Any chance you could put us in touch with the company that services your elevator?” Ernie asked. “It's for good cause.”

Marcie gave him an exasperated look. “Come back in a few minutes.”

“Maybe we'll just have a quick chat with the other tenants in the building while we’re here,” he said.

“Well, Dante the designer upstairs is a nice guy, and he’s usually around. But good luck trying to get anybody on the third floor to talk to you.”

Ernie just smiled. “Thanks for your help.” Which is Ernie-speak for ‘You have issued a challenge, and I accept.’

“Oh Marcie, before I forget,” I said, “do you know if it's possible to print remotely to a printer here in the building?”

“What? You mean from outside? No, I don't think so. But you'd have to talk to our network guy. He’s the one who handles all that stuff.”

“Is he here?”

“He’s always here,” Marcie replied.

“Perhaps you could just point us in the right direction,” I said.

“Two cubicles down, on the left. Name’s Sanjeev.”

We found Sanjeev on his hands and knees under his desk. Mumbling, he extricated himself from under the desk, pulling a handful of wires of various colors behind him.

“Marcie said you might be able to help us,” I said. “We’re paranormal investigators…”

“Oh yeah, they told me you were going to be here.”

“We were just wondering if it’s possible for someone to print from a remote location to one of your printers,” Ernie began.

“No, we have a few support people with remote access to the database and emails, but the printers aren’t set up for remote printing. It wouldn’t make much sense. I’m mean, what’s the point of printing something when you’re not even there to get it?” said Sanjeev. “The only access from the outside is by means of tunnel through the firewall over a VPN—a virtual private network. That’s a secure connection through the firewall…”

“We’re familiar with the term,” Ernie said patiently.

“Well, it's strictly controlled, and it's me that sets everything up here,” said Sanjeev.

“Would it be possible,” asked Ernie, “if you could check if there was any activity at all on your network last night?”

With a weary sigh, Sanjeev clambered to his feet and flopped heavily into his chair. He pulled the keyboard toward him and typed, lightning fast, on his keyboard. “Two field techs logged on remotely yesterday at six and 8:30…looks like they checked their e-mail…oh yeah, and Twitter. Need to talk to them about that… strictly against company policy.”

“Okay, thanks,” said Ernie. “You’ve been a big help. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“No problem,” he said, disappearing under the desk.

“Shall we pay the designer a visit?” I asked on the way out.

We headed to the elevators. Marcie was on the phone when we passed her desk. She flagged us down.

“Hang on a minute,” she said, and put the receiver down. She tore a slip of paper from a notepad and handed it to me. “That’s the elevator company’s number and address. I told them to expect to hear from you.”

“This seems like kind of a strange place to set up shop as a fashion designer,” I commented, pushing the elevator call button.

“Why? The rent is probably much cheaper here than in San Guillermo.”

“I guess, but the ambience just doesn't seem right. Why pokey little Indian Springs?”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Ernie. “This is a great historical building; one of the oldest in Indian Springs. It has a certain charm.”

In the elevator lobby on the second floor, we were confronted by a floor-to-ceiling translucent wall upon which was etched in an elegant script “Dante Desjardins Designs”. We opened the door and stepped into a vast space. The floors were bare wood, the walls red brick. Except for a vintage iMac housed in a translucent plastic purple case on a sleek desk in one corner, it looked like a 19th century sweatshop manned by a small army of dressmaker’s dummies. Half a dozen tables were covered with fabric of every color, overseen by mannequins in various states of dress and undress. Amidst all this, at one of the sewing machines, was a man about my age or a little younger—late 30s or early 40s. He was wearing a three-piece suit of a cut reminiscent of the Edwardian era, except it was made of fabric in a combination of colors and patterns not seen in public since Woodstock.

He looked up, surprised.

“Ummm…hi. We’re looking for Dante the designer,” I said.

He looked us over a little bit suspiciously. “Dante Desjardins, at your service.” He pronounced it day-jardahn, which I assume is the correct French pronunciation.

Ernie approached him with an outstretched hand. “I'm Ernie Stapleton, and this is Margo Monroe. We…” “The Margo Monroe?” Dante leaped from his chair and flew towards me. “To what do I owe this honor?”

I thought he was going to hug me, but instead he kissed the air on each side of my face, then did the same to Ernie. I have to hand it to Ernie—he didn't so much as flinch. Dante was perhaps the most flamboyantly gay man I could recall ever meeting in Indian Springs—quite possibly also the best dressed. “I can't believe the famous Margo Monroe is here in my studio, in person. I know all about you…that symphony caper—that was so fabulous!”

I was a little too taken aback to return his air kisses. “Ummm…pleased to meet you,” was all I could manage. “We've been looking into some claims of paranormal activity downstairs…”

Dante clapped his hands excitedly. “Oh my! A ghost in this building?”

“We don’t know anything yet for sure,” said Ernie, “but we’d like to talk to all the tenants, in case anyone else has seen or heard anything.”

Dante waved his hands excitedly and ushered us over to a small, elegant seating area nestled in a corner of his studio.

“Is this a good time? We don’t mean to be any trouble,” I said.

“Oh, sweetheart, but I'm absolutely thrilled. Now tell me what's been going on. I'm happy to help any way I can.”

“Well, the folks downstairs have come in some mornings and found items rearranged on desks, papers on the floor. The night watchman has heard voices—that sort of thing,” said Ernie.

“Occasionally they've come in and found the coffee maker turned on,” I added, looking around. “You don't even have a coffeemaker, do you?”

Dante looked deeply insulted. “Of course not.”

“Computers?” asked Ernie.

“Oh no, there's nothing here but that old thing.” He gestured toward the ancient iMac. “Nothing strange with any of the sewing machines?”

Dante wrinkled his brow. “Now that you mention it, I came in one morning about a week ago and found all the sewing machines turned on. I thought it was the night watchman’s idea of a joke. Oh, and according to Thornton—that’s my assistant—sometimes the elevator doors open and no one’s there. I’ve never seen it. Does that count?”

Ernie smiled. “That's what we're trying to find out. As far as we can tell, the activity is limited to late at night. The tech shop downstairs has some people who keep odd hours.”

“Well, I tend to keep fairly regular hours,” said Dante. “I'm not usually here late. My mother lives with me, you see, and she worries.” For a second it seemed to me that he was a little bit uncomfortable, perhaps even slightly sad.

Just then the translucent glass door swung open, and a man walked in juggling two oversized Styrofoam cups that bore the logo of the fancy coffee shop down the street. He was wearing a black leather jacket and heavy black eyeliner, and his hair had been gelled into gravity-defying spikes. Dante leapt to his feet. “Ah, coffee at last. Allow me to introduce Thornton, my associate.” Thornton nodded in our general direction.

Ernie fished a business card out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Dante. “We'd better get a move on.

We thought we'd stop in at the law firm upstairs before lunch.”

Thornton scowled. “Good luck.”

“Excuse me?” said Ernie.

“You'll see,” he answered.

“Well, thanks for your time,” I said. “Don't hesitate to call us if anything happens that you think we might be interested in.” !

We stepped off the elevators on the third floor into a lobby that couldn't be more different from the one we had just left. Two imposing heavy wooden doors, adorned with a single no-nonsense brass plaque that said “The Law Offices of Welcher and Butz” barred our way. I pushed the door open, and Ernie followed me inside.

The walls were paneled in dark wood. Discrete spotlights illuminated several wall-sized paintings of sailing ships and nautical scenes. A thick Persian rug muffled the sound of our footsteps as we padded across it to a massive wooden desk, behind which sat an immaculately dressed and coiffed woman of about 35. She peered from behind her no-nonsense glasses. “May I help you?”

Ernie turned on the charm. “I'm Ernie Stapleton, and this is Margo Monroe. Maybe you've heard of us?”

We approached the desk. She said nothing, so Ernie continued. “We’re paranormal researchers. We've been doing some work for your neighbors downstairs, and we're hoping you might know if anyone on this floor has been experiencing any unusual activity.”

“Paranormal activity? What? You mean like… ghosts?” She gave us a condescending look over the top of her glasses.

“Well, um… yes, actually.” It’s seldom that I see Ernie flustered. I would almost have enjoyed myself, but I was starting to feel a tad uncomfortable myself.

“Please have a seat.” She motioned us to some chairs and disappeared behind a heavy wooden door without a backward glance.

We took our seats on a hard Chesterfield sofa that had been designed for looks, not comfort. Ernie turned to me and said, “You know, Dante seemed really familiar.”

“Maybe you’ve seen him on TV. It's not like Indian Springs has a plethora of fashion designers.”

“Hmmm, I don't think so. I swear I know him from somewhere,” said Ernie rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

The woman returned, the heavy wooden door gliding shut behind her soundlessly. “Someone will be with you in just a moment.” She turned to her computer. The minutes ticked by, but we might as well have been invisible. Occasionally the phone rang, and she answered it with a graceful “Welcher and Butz. How may I direct your call? One moment please.”

The minutes turned into half an hour, but neither of us spoke. My butt was becoming numb from the fiendishly uncomfortable sofa. Ernie started to fidget. After a while he jumped to his feet. “Back in a flash.”

He was gone an unusually long time. When he finally did return, he seemed to be in a remarkably good mood. I shot him a glance, but he just smiled smugly.

After what seemed to be another eternity, the door behind the receptionist swung open, and two men came out. Both were nicely dressed, but one of them somehow just looked like a lawyer. The two men shook hands jovially and bade each other fake fond farewells. As soon as the door closed behind the visitor, the lawyer’s smile disappeared. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned toward us. “Is that them?”

“Yes, Mr. Butz,” answered the receptionist.

Ernie and I stood up. Butz, his hands still firmly in his pockets, made no effort to acknowledge our outstretch hands. “I'm Margo Monroe…”

“I know who you are. And I don't appreciate you barging in here with your nonsense. This is a law office, not a circus freak show.”

“Excuse me?” I stammered. I could feel my face turning red. “All we need is a minute of your time…”

Ernie poked me in the ribs. “Of course… we understand,” he said. I was completely speechless. “Sorry to have taken up your time.” He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me towards the door.

He pushed me out the heavy wooden door. As soon as it closed I turned on him. “Are you crazy?”

Ernie punched the elevator call button with enough force to assure me that he was not unaffected by our confrontation with Butz. “We’ll talk about it later.”

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. The door whooshed open and a man stepped off, brushing rudely past us. He exuded, if such a thing is possible, even more arrogance than Butz. A weasel-faced young man in a cheap polyester suit followed close on his heels. They paid not the slightest bit of attention to us. We got on the elevator and as the doors closed behind us, we could hear Butz greeting them obsequiously.

“What do you have,” said Ernie as soon as the door closed, “when you have all the lawyers in the world buried up to their necks in sand?”

I sighed wearily. “I don’t know, Ernie. What do you have?”

“Not enough sand. You know who that was, don’t you?”

“Who?” “The smarmy one.”

“They were both pretty smarmy.”

“I mean the guy that got off the elevator just now. That was Ronson Rummel. Of Corvus Enterprises.”

“The big-shot developer? Are you sure?”

“Yep. He and his partner Clay Hawk have been in the news a lot lately. I wonder what he wants with a small-town outfit like Welcher and Butz.” !

Ernie and I got to work at the same time the next day. He dove enthusiastically into his favorite activity: dismantling and reassembling electronic devices into new and improved ghost-hunting gadgets. I settled down at my computer to plow through the deluge of e-mails that I find myself dealing with every day. The lab was quiet except for the sound of Ernie clacking on the keys of his computer. A chime sounded and a reminder popped up on my screen.

“Hey, Ernie. I just got a reminder that we’re supposed to go talk to the elevator guy today.”

“Oh yeah,” he replied. “I almost forgot. We can stop by on the way to lunch.”

I was looking through the monthly newsletter from a distant ghost hunting society, when the door burst open and our research assistant stormed in. Sandy is normally the most cheerful of people, but today there was an angry frown on his face. He rolled his bike to its usual spot along the wall and kicked the kickstand in place brusquely, without a word to anybody.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Huh? Oh, sorry.” He flopped into a chair. “I just came from a city planning commission meeting. It wasn't pretty.”

“Ah yes…the proposal for that MonsterMart on the edge of town,” I said.

“Yep. Good ol’ Corvus Enterprises. Largest property developer in the state. Both Ronson Rummel and Clay Hawk were there.”

“Wow…the big guys in person,” remarked Ernie. “We ran into Rummel yesterday—literally.”

“Lucky you,” replied Sandy sarcastically.

“How did the meeting go? Or should I not ask?” I said.

“I'm afraid Corvus has us outgunned. I don't think I've ever seen so many hand-stitched silk Italian suits in one spot outside of Neiman-Marcus in my life. The parking lot at city hall looks like a Mercedes dealership.

We're just a rag tag band of students and artists. I very much fear we don't stand a chance,” he said with a sigh.

“We had a confrontation with one of Rummell’s lawyers. Butz, of Welcher and Butz. It wasn’t pleasant.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“The investigation for that tech start-up. They’re in the same building,” said Ernie. “We decided while we were there we would pay the other tenants a visit.”

“Ah, yes, the Morris Building,” said Sandy. “Then you must have met Dante Desjardins. He has a studio on the second floor.”

“Yes,” I said. “We spent a few minutes with him.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?” Sandy asked.

“Yesterday morning. Why?” I asked.

“Because he was supposed to be at the zoning commission meeting today. He had to miss it, because his studio was vandalized last night.”

“Oh, no!” I exclaimed. “Who would do such a thing? He's a sweet guy.”

“That's anybody's guess,” said Sandy. “But he's been particularly vocal in his opposition to the MonsterMart. In fact, it was Dante who got the neighborhood organized. He lives just a block away from where it's supposed to go in. He's a local boy—bet you didn't know that.”

I was surprised. “No, I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” said Sandy. “He graduated from Indian Springs high school a few years after you. Of course, back then his name was Gordon Plunkett.”

Ernie snapped his fingers. “I told you I knew him from somewhere!” He tapped around on the computer.

“Come look at this.”

I looked over Ernie’s shoulder at the grainy black-and-white photo that he found from an online high school yearbook service. Sure enough, there was the younger version of Dante, sharply dressed even back then, and still looking pretty much like the guy we met. “What are you doing now?” I asked. Ernie was clicking around, searching for something. And he found it. A few pages down was Ron Thornton—apparently Thornton is his real name. Minus the heavy Goth make up and black, spiked hair, I barely recognized him.

“I feel really bad for Dante. I hope he has insurance. Ernie, what are you smiling at? It's not at all funny.”

“It's possible that I just might be able to offer Dante some assistance. Just give me a minute.”

Ernie turned to his computer. In a few seconds some slightly blurry images appeared on one of the large computer monitors. There wasn't much to see, just some elevator doors and a timestamp in the corner. “That's the elevator lobby on Dante’s floor. You can see from this timestamp that it’s almost two in the morning.”

“So that's what you were doing yesterday when we were sitting there waiting for our audience with Butz.”

“Yep, I hid wireless surveillance cameras in the elevator lobbies on the second and third floors. What did you think I was doing?”

“I thought you were in the bathroom,” I replied.

“No wonder you gave me that look.” He chuckled and went back to the security vids.

“What are you doing now?” asked Sandy.

“Running the comparison tool that isolates changes in the images, so we don’t have to look through hours and hours of video. “Sorry about the camera angle. There weren’t a lot of places to stash the camera where it wouldn’t be likely to be found. Here’s something.”

On the video, we saw the second floor elevator doors open. A man stepped off and looked around. He was dressed in dark clothes and carried a duffel bag, from which he extracted a tool.

“What’s that he’s carrying?” I asked.

“Looks like a crowbar to me,” said Sandy.

The man walked toward Dante’s door. Before he walked out of camera range, we got a clear view of his face.

“Right there!” I exclaimed. “Can you pause it?”

Even before Ernie zoomed in, I recognized the beady eyes and scraggly mustache. It was Ronson Rummel’s weasel-faced assistant.

“Well, what do you think about that?” Ernie mused.

“Do you know him? Who is it?” Sandy asked.

“We don’t know his name,” I said, “but he works for Ronson Rummel. He was at Welcher and Butz yesterday when Rummel showed up.”

“Well, now…things are starting to get interesting,” said Sandy.

!

The address Marcie gave me for the elevator company was just down the street from the Rent-a-Geek office. Indian Springs is normally a sleepy little place, but parking in the center of town is at a premium on the best of days. We were in Ernie's vintage Mini, a more practical choice than my station wagon—Ernie can squeeze into a space half the size my car takes up. After some searching, we found a spot a couple of blocks away, in front of a taco place.

We were just getting out of the car when we spotted Thornton coming out of the taco shop. He was dressed exactly as he had been the previous day. With his spiked black hair and extravagant make-up, he would have been hard to miss. To my surprise, he smiled when he saw us. “Margo and Ernie, isn’t it? Where are you headed this morning?”

“We thought we'd have a quick chat with the guy who services the elevators in your building,” Ernie answered.

Thornton fell in step with us—it was on the way to his building. “Ah yes, Lance. He's an odd one. I predict that no matter what you say is going on he’ll chalk it up to outdated equipment. I’d be willing to bet money he’ll try to convince you the whole system needs an overhaul.”

“I take it you've dealt with him before,” said Ernie.

Thornton shrugged. “We all have. He's been lobbying to replace the elevators for years. The landlord won't hear of it. He knows perfectly well that the tenants would rather put up with a cantankerous elevator than have their rents raised. Except for Welcher and Butz, naturally.”

“So you're happy with your location?” I asked.

“Sure why not? It's a cool old building in a great location. A similar space in San Guillermo would rent for twice as much.”

“Is that why Dante set up shop in Indian Springs?” asked Ernie. “I would have thought business would be better in a big city.”

“Partly, but this is his hometown—mine too, as a matter of fact. Actually, Dante had a studio in San Guillermo for a while, but he moved back here to take care of his mother. She’s elderly and an invalid. They’re very close. Well, this is your stop.”

“Thanks, Thornton,” I said. “Tell Dante we might pay him a visit later. We have something to show him that he will certainly find interesting.”

Thornton raised a penciled eyebrow. “Will do.”

I don't know what we were expecting to find. The building had obviously been a gas station in a previous incarnation. From the outside it had a quaint, mid-century vibe. But instead of the battered shelves of tools and parts and wall-to-wall grease that I was expecting to find, we found a gleaming office space. There wasn't a tool in sight, just cubicles and computers.

“We’re looking for Lance,” I said to the young man who stood up when we walked in. He was tall and thin, and dressed in khakis and a clean, starched denim shirt.

“That would be me,” he said. “Lance Barrick.” He smirked slightly at my surprised look. “I’m guessing you’re the ghost hunters?”

“I’m Margo Monroe, and this is my colleague Ernie Stapleton.” Lance shook our hands with an air of disdain. I had a premonition that we weren’t going to get much cooperation from him.

“Marcie said to expect you, but I don't know how you think I can help.”

“Well, we set up a couple of surveillance cameras the night we were there, and we noticed that the elevators doors opened—several times, actually. We were the only ones in the building.”

“Supposedly the only ones in the building.”

Ernie bristled. “We have several ways of knowing if there's anyone else around.”

“Anyone? Or any thing?” He laughed. “Look, I'm pretty busy. Is that all you have? Elevator doors opening ‘by themselves?’. You know, that building is 100 years old. The elevators haven’t been replaced since the 60’s. If it was up to me, I’d tear the whole thing down and put up something modern.”

I counted to ten and took a deep breath. “We are just wondering if it might not possibly be some sort of software issue. Or maybe an electrical fault…”

“Look,” said Lance, “what do you expect from a 50-year-old elevator? If you don't mind, I have a lot of work to do.” He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. I took that as a sign that we’d worn out our welcome.

“Charming fellow,” Ernie remarked when we got outside.

“So what do we do now?”

“Well, I don't know about you, but the smell of those tacos made me hungry.”

“Me too. I'm famished, but we should pay a visit to Marcie first. Adelberto’s is right next door. That should take care of your taco craving.”

Marcie was filing her nails when we walked in. When she saw us she hastily stashed the nail file in a drawer. “What's up?” she asked.

“We were on our way to lunch and thought we would check to see if anything new has been happening,” I said.

“Funny you should ask. Sanjeev was working late last night and he said somebody's computer came on by itself.”

Ernie perked up. “Did it do anything?”

“I don't know. You'll have to talk to him. Did you get in touch with Lance?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You were right. He wasn't much help.”

“I warned you.” She smiled sympathetically. “Sanjeev is here if you want to talk to him.”

We found Sanjeev at his computer pounding on the keyboard and muttering softly what sounded like curses in some exotic language. When he saw us, he pushed his keyboard away with a dramatic sigh. “I thought I might get a visit from you two today.”

“Just thought we'd check in to find out if you could tell us anything more,” said Ernie.

Sanjeev shook his head. “It must've been about 11 o'clock. I was here by myself—as usual. I heard it boot up. But that's all. The employee it belongs to is on vacation. When I went to look it was on the login screen. I checked the power supply, but it didn’t seem loose or anything.”

“Have there ever been problems with the wiring in the building?” I asked.

“Not that I know of, but I suppose anything’s possible in an old building like this.”

“Is the computer still on?”

Sanjeev shrugged. “Well, I didn’t turn it off and I don’t think anybody’s been in there today.”

“Mind if we take a look?” asked Ernie.

“Knock yourself out. Two cubicles down that way to the right.”

We found the cubicle. When Ernie jiggled the mouse the screen came on. Instead of placidly displaying the login screen, there was a window with a warning box. Maximum number of logon attempts exceeded.

Contact administrator to reset, it said in unfriendly red letters.

“Interesting,” said Ernie. We went back to Sanjeev's cube. “Did you know someone has tried to log on to that computer?”

“Huh? Seriously?”

“Enough times that it’s locked now. Come have a look.”

Sanjeev, now clearly annoyed, accompanied us to the vacant office.

“See?” said Ernie. “How many times could someone type in a bad password before the computer locks them out?”

“Ten.” “Are you positive nobody else was here last night?”

“Positive.”

“In that case, in stands to reason that it was this morning when whoever it was tried to log in,” I pointed out.

“Well, maybe someone from one of the satellite offices was just looking for a place to check email.” He frowned.

“Is that normal?” Ernie asked.

“No. I’ll have to check into it. Potential security breach, you know.”

I found a business card in my purse and handed it to him. “Would you mind letting us know what you find out? Here’s my card.”

“Will do.” He stuck the card in his pocket without looking at it.

“We’d appreciate it,” I said. “Even if it’s something totally mundane. Thanks for your time.”

chin.

“Sure thing,” he muttered distractedly. We left him there, staring at the computer and scratching his

Ernie glanced at his phone. “I’m famished….we’d better hurry. Adelberto’s is going to be slammed this time of day.”

We were just out the door, when we heard footsteps hurrying behind us. A woman called, “Excuse me!”

We were astonished to see that it was the receptionist from Welcher and Butz’ office.

She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “Mind if we go in here?”

“That's where we were headed anyway,” I said. We ducked inside the Mexican restaurant. It was crowded and noisy, and she glanced surreptitiously around. “Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I really need to talk to you guys.”

“Why don't you join us for lunch?” asked Ernie.

She shook her head. “I can't take the risk of them seeing me talking to you.” I didn't have to ask her who 'them' was.

“I’ll just go add our names to the waiting list,” said Ernie, and began snaking his way through the crowd to the hostess stand.

“Is there someplace we could meet—discretely, I mean,” she asked. “Maybe this evening, somewhere where there aren’t so many people around?”

I dug around in my purse and found the last of my stash of business cards. “Here's our address. Why don't you just come to our lab?”

She barely stood still long enough to grab the card. “Thank you so much. I’ll come right after work…won't be able to stay long, but it's really important. Five-thirty or six if nothing goes wrong.” And she was out the door.

Ernie edged his way back through the thronging crowd. “Fifteen minutes. I may starve to death before then. You couldn't convince her to join us?”

I shook my head. “She's coming to the lab tonight, as soon as she gets off work.”

“Well, what does she want?”

“I don't know. She was afraid of being seen talking to us,” I said.

“What's her name?”

I stared at him blankly. “I don't have the foggiest idea.” !

It was Ernie's turn to pay. While he was waiting in line for the register I checked my phone, as I always do when I've been somewhere where it would be impossible to hear a phone ring. I had missed a call. I didn't recognize the number, but could tell it was local. Motioning to Ernie, I stepped outside and returned the call.

They picked up almost immediately. “Hello, Margo. It's Sanjeev.” He actually sounded somewhat flustered. “You were right,” he said.

“Right about what?”

“That vacant workstation—the one that someone tried to log on to. It happened again. Where are you?”

“We just finished lunch. I'm just a couple of doors down—do you want us to stop by?”

He sounded relieved. “Can you? Yes…yes…that would be great! Thanks so much!”

“We'll be there in less than five minutes,” I said, just as Ernie stepped out the door. I said goodbye to Sanjeev. “That was Sanjeev,” I said to Ernie. “I told him we'd pop in.”

“New development?” he asked.

“Quite possibly.”

We found Sanjeev in his office looking more stressed than normal. When he saw us he turned his monitor toward us. “This is a list of the passwords whoever it was used last night when they tried to log on to that workstation. This is a diagnostic tool that the tech support guys use to identify potential security issues.

Look!”

Sanjeev's diagnostic tool showed the passwords used in each of the ten logon attempts. The first few attempts were just a scramble of letters, but by the fifth attempt, something recognizable started to form: 1Reveng$E

!

It was almost six that evening when the buzzer sounded and George the concierge informed us we had a visitor. I went out into the hall to greet Nora and showed her in. I invited her to have a seat and she sat perched on the edge of the sofa as though expecting she might have to make a quick getaway.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered.

“No, thanks. I have to pick up my kids in a few minutes.”

“What can we do for you?” Ernie asked.

“Well, to start with, I wanted to apologize for Mr. Butz’s behavior. I felt terrible after the way he treated you the other day. I wish I could say that he's not usually that way, but in fact he’s like that to everyone. Except people like Ronson Rummel. What a jerk.”

“If your boss is such a jerk, why don't you find a new job?” Ernie asked.

She looked at him with a resigned expression. “When was the last time you looked for a job around here?” Ernie shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and mumbled some apologies.

“Surely you didn’t come all the way here to apologize for something you have no control over,” I said.

“No, you’re right. I came here to tell you something that I thought you might want to know.” She tapped her perfectly manicured nails nervously.

“You can trust us—nothing you say will leave this room without your permission,” I said.

“I hope so. It might not be the best job in the world, but it pays well. I'm really taking a chance by coming here. Look, I need my job, and if anybody finds out I was here talking to you that'll be it for me. If I lose this job, the MonsterMart will be the only game in town. I'm raising two kids alone—my husband was killed in Iraq.” She shrugged off our awkward offerings of sympathy. “I'm in a lot better shape than some of my friends.

My kids will be starting high school soon, but as soon as they graduate, I'll be out of this town so fast will make your head spin. The day I get to tell Alvin Butz to take a flying leap will be the happiest day of my life. Anyway, I haven't seen any of your alleged ghosts, but my teenage daughter is crazy about that stuff. According to her, paranormal activity tends to increase when something happens to these old buildings.”

“True enough,” I said, “but there hasn’t been any remodeling work in your building recently, has there?”

“No, that's not it. Corvus Enterprises wants to buy out the entire block so they can tear it down and put up a parking garage. They’re doing everything they can to keep it quiet.”

“That's crazy!” cried Ernie. “There's no way they could do that—that entire section of Indian Springs is designated a historical district. The entire block is more than a hundred years old.”

She smiled sadly. “And why do you think Corvus is talking to Welcher and Butz? They make sure their clients get what they want.”

I shook my head. “There’s no way they could pull that off. This entire section of town is protected.”

“Oh, anything they do will be legal— but just barely, mind you. They’re masters at putting together convoluted, confusing proposals. No one on the zoning commission will admit to not being able to understand them, so they get passed. The public doesn’t realize what’s going on until the demolition crew shows up. Then when the citizens get angry, they say, ‘Hey, you should have come to the hearings and spoken up.’ And they have a point. Most people don't pay the slightest bit of attention until it’s a done deal. Welcher and Butz are working with Corvus on the MonsterMart deal. What makes you think an old downtown building is any different? Look, I have to go.” She jumped up and headed for the door. “You didn't ask for any advice, but I'm offering it. Be careful of Ronson Rummel and Clay Hawk. And my boss, for that matter. They’re dangerous men.”

“Wait,” called Ernie she dashed out the door. “We don't even know your name!”

“Nora.” And she was gone before we could even say goodbye.

“What do you make of that?” asked Ernie.

“Hmmm…not sure. But I'm beginning to see now why Sandy hates Corvus so much. But it does make sense. If the entities that have been trying to communicate with us are about to lose their home…”

There was a timid tap at our door. I answered it and was surprised to see Nora there. Before I could say a word, she said breathlessly, “Weldon Spradley—Rummel’s assistant…he's out there!”

“Where?”

“Right outside. Just sitting there in his car, watching. Oh, what if he knows I’m here? He must have followed me.”

Ernie whipped out his phone.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“Front desk.” He held up a finger. “George? Ernie Stapleton here...listen, I need you to do me a favor. Can you have a look and tell me if there’s anyone out front? Be very discrete, though—try not to let him see you.

Sure, I’ll hold on.” To us he said, “He’s going to check.”

“Isn’t there a security cam out front?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there is. Yes, I’m here. Okay, thanks George. Yes, I was just going to suggest that.

Thanks again.” He hung up and put his phone down. “Definitely somebody out there. George is going to look at the security vids and get back to us.”

“In the meantime, we have to find a way to get Nora out of here without him seeing her. Where's your car?” I asked Nora.

“At a meter about a block away,” she said, motioning in the general direction.

Ernie pondered for second. “Give me your keys. I’ll go get it and pull up around back.”

Nora looked visibly relieved. She handed her keys to Ernie gratefully. “The metallic beige Buick about a block down, on this side of the street.” He went out the back door and down the alley.

A few minutes later, the Buick coasted slowly down the alley with only its parking lights on and rolled up to the loading dock at our lab’s back entrance. Ernie got out, handing the keys back to Nora. “I went around the block to cover my tracks, but I don't think he paid me the slightest bit of attention. He’s still out front,” Ernie said. “Keep your lights off until you get to the end of the alley—just to be safe—and take a right at the next block. It’ll take you right to the main road.”

As we watched the Buick creep down the alley, Ernie said, “What’s the difference between a lawyer and a catfish?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure I’m about to find out.”

“One of them is a scum-sucking bottom-feeder. The other lives in a pond.”

I was spared from having to respond when Ernie’s phone rang. It was George, to tell him to check his email. George had sent us a screen cap of a grainy but fairly clear black-and-white image from the security cam.

Sure enough, lurking in front of our building was the polyester-clad toady who bumped into us as we were getting on the elevator at the Morris building. As an added bonus, we had a clear image of the car, along with its license plate.

When I left, I drove around the front of the building in to see if Weldon Spradley was still there. Sure enough, there he was, under a lamppost in the gathering twilight, staring intently at our building. !

There's a cool new bookstore in my neighborhood, and I decided on impulse to stop by on the way home.

In one corner is a coffee shop noted for their tasty sandwiches. I took the scenic route through my favorite shelves and picked up a couple of mysteries.

Just outside the coffee shop are some tables and assorted comfy sofas arranged invitingly. I was scanning for an empty spot, when I saw Sandy, deep in conversation with a woman I didn't recognize. She was smartly dressed and a little older than me. I was pretty sure it wasn't a date. His back was to me so he didn't see me.

When I came out a few minutes later, they were gone.

I would've forgotten all about it, but when we went to Dante’s studio a couple of evenings later, the same woman was there, talking to Dante. A mountain of shredded fabric and remnants of some broken tables were piled in one corner. One of the elegant glass doors had been replaced with a sheet of plywood.

The woman got up to leave when we came in with our suitcases full of gadgets.

“Sorry, we didn't mean to interrupt. We are just here to set up our equipment,” I said. “We can come back in a few minutes.” Actually, I was slightly irritated. We had arranged to be here at this precise time.

“Oh no, not at all!” exclaimed Dante. “We were just discussing the recent…incident…here. Ruth Wakefield, this is Margo Monroe and Ernie Stapleton. I'm sure you've heard of them. Commissioner, I thought it might be helpful if you told Margo and Ernie what you told me on the phone earlier.” “‘Commissioner’?” asked Ernie.

“I'm on the city planning commission,” Ruth replied.

The smile disappeared from Ernie's face. That the atmosphere in the room suddenly became slightly chilly was not lost on Dante.

“Won't you sit and let’s talk for a few minutes? Commissioner Wakefield is on our side,” said Dante.

Ernie looked visibly relieved.

We settled into the sitting area, but politely declined Dante's offer of a glass of wine—mixing late-night ghost hunting and alcohol is never a good idea.

“Dante has already filled me in on your suspicions,” she said.

“I don’t know if “suspicion” is the right word. We know exactly who it was,” replied Ernie. He extracted his iPad from one of this gadget bags and showed them the video he’d shown me. Dante was overwhelmed. He seemed more sad than angry—for a few moments, he was unable to speak.

“We’ll do anything we can to help,” I assured them. “We have really good evidence that would stand up in court—” The commissioner interrupted. “Can I make a suggestion? Going to the police may not be the smartest course of action.”

Ernie stared at her in disbelief. “How can you say that? This is solid evidence.”

“I’m not arguing with you on that. But do you understand that Ronson Rummel is the most powerful man in this county? He can and will do whatever is necessary to push through his agenda. This goes beyond business. He takes any opposition as a personal attack.”

I was becoming annoyed. Commissioner Wakefield was sounding more and more like a mouthpiece for the Powers that Be who were responsible for the whole fiasco in the first place, and I told her as much.

I expected an angry retort, but the commissioner just shook her head sadly. “Margo, Ernie—you’re missing the most important point here. Corvus Enterprises seldom fail to get what they want, and do you know why? Citizen apathy. The average person doesn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to local politics. I mean, how many people even know who their city Council person is? What part of town do you live in?”

“Oak Gardens. Near the Garden Heights shopping center,” I replied.

“I thought so. I represent your district. Look, much as it pains me to say this, municipal government here is still very much a good ol’ boy network. My philosophy is that cities exist for the people who live there, not for corporations to profit from. But representatives like me are in the minority, and we get accused of being antiprogress often enough. Take your friend Sandy, for example. He rides his bike everywhere, right? It's good for his health, it's good for the environment, and it doesn't cost anything. He doesn’t even own a car. Not only that, he supports local businesses. But if it were up to Ronson Rummel, there wouldn't be a bike lane anywhere in the county. Corvus Enterprises have their corporate fingers in so many pies—construction companies, car dealerships, oil and gas. Riding bikes, shopping locally—where’s the profit in that? As far as Corvus is concerned, people like Sandy are the enemy.”

“If that MonsterMart comes in, there won’t be any small businesses left before long,” Ernie said.

“That’s precisely my point,” replied the commissioner.

“But what about the mayor? In the last campaign, he talked a lot about improving the quality of life in Indian Springs,” I said. “Or was that just a bunch of hot air?”

The commissioner sighed heavily. “Like in a lot of small towns, a handful of companies are the major job providers around here. All they have to do to get the mayor's attention is to threaten to move elsewhere. His job is on the line, you might say. Mine, too, for that matter. Rummel knows perfectly well that all he has to do is throw out a hint to his business cronies that Indian Springs isn’t business friendly. They have the money and political clout to influence the outcome of an election.”

“What you say makes sense,” said Ernie. “We’re David, and Corvus Enterprises are Goliath.”

“Now you get the picture,” Ruth replied.

“Did you know about his plan to demolish those historic buildings on the square?”

“I do. The MonsterMart is just the first phase of a sweeping plan to start bringing a whole host of big-box stores into town. Phase 2 is putting in more parking.”

“But that would ruin Indian Springs! What can we do?” I asked.

“Ronson Rummel can be outsmarted, but it won't be easy. It will take a grassroots effort, but I think we can beat them at their own game. They're not going to do anything that threatens their bottom line, so we have to act, and act fast.”

!

“It's all starting to make sense now,” said Ernie later, after Dante and the commissioner had left and we were setting up the equipment in Dante's studio. “It sounds like whatever entities are here realize their home is being threatened. Which would explain the sudden upsurge in paranormal activity.” Ernie whistled cheerfully as he set up a new piece of equipment.

“What's that?” I asked.

“What does it look like?” he replied.

“Well, from here it bears a striking resemblance to that old radio that’s been sitting in your garage for ages.”

“And you would be correct.”

“I always assumed it was broken.”

“It was, but not any more.” He turned it on and spun the dial, not pausing on any station, until all we heard was static. “This was a top-of-the line model. It gets not just AM and FM, but also shortwave, VHF and UHF.” “I thought VHF and UHF were television.”

“They are. My dad used to listen to reruns of Star Trek while he was in the garage tinkering with stuff. It was quite the thing back in its day, and there's a reason why I kept it all this time. It’s set to 740 MHz, which is the part of the spectrum that used to be reserved for the UHF television channels.”

“Why 740 MHz in particular?” I asked.

“Because back in the 60s Thomas Edison long after his death supposedly appeared to a guy in Germany and told him it was possible to contact the dead by a tuning into that frequency.”

“Yes, I've heard that before, but don't you think it's kind of a long shot?”

“Maybe, but it's worth a try. Edison was working on a machine to communicate with the dead when he died. I’m going to record whatever we get from it,” he said, unfurling the cord to a USB microphone, which he hooked up to one of the laptops.

“Great idea,” I said, and left him to finish setting up while I took some readings. I got some spikes on my EMF meter, but they were suspiciously close to an electrical outlet that looked like it had seen better days. “I wish I knew how old the wiring in this building is.”

“We should have looked into the history of the building,” he said.

“I asked Sandy to do some research. If there’s anything out there pertinent to the case, he’s the one to find it.”

Ernie nodded and fiddled with the controls on his laptop. “I’ve been tinkering with a new supersophisticated algorithm for enhancing video. This should be the perfect opportunity to test it out. Testing. One, two, three. There, that should do it.”

I continued around the room’s perimeter until I came to Dante’s computer. “I don’t remember the last time I saw one of these. Hard to believe it still works.” When I jiggled the mouse on the elderly iMac, it sprang to life. The spreadsheet Dante had been working on appeared on the screen. I waved my K2 meter around the outside of the computer’s translucent plastic case. There was a brief flicker of lights when I waved it around the computer’s speakers, but otherwise the device remained quiet. “Base readings normal,” I said, speaking into my voice recorder.

A sweep of my electronic thermometer gave similar results: except for a draft near a floor vent, Dante’s studio was a consistent 76°. “Ready to turn off the lights?” I asked.

“Let's go for it,” said Ernie, flipping the switch. The iMac cast an eerie light for a few seconds, then it went to sleep and we were in partial darkness. Outside, a street lamp created a distorted rectangle of light on the floor near the window.

We spent a few moments, as we always do, just sitting quietly in the dark, and trying to absorb vibes from our surroundings.

“Is anybody here?” Ernie asked. “My name's Ernie, and this is my friend Margo. We’re here to help you.”

“We know about Corvus’ plans to try to demolish this building. We hope you will trust us and think of us as friends. And we're going to do everything in our power to save your home. We'd really like to hear from you and we've brought some equipment that will hopefully make it easier for you to communicate with us,” I added.

Our devices remained discouragingly quiet. “Please, if there's anything you'd like to say—”

“Hey, I think I heard something out in the foyer,” whispered Ernie.

Sure enough, I heard a faint whir and the whoosh of the elevator doors opening. Ernie pointed to a laptop that displayed the live feed from the camera in the hall. “Look! I think Otis is coming to pay us a visit.” “‘Otis’?”

“What else would you call a ghost in an elevator?”

We watched the elevator doors open, then close. At the same time, the lights on my K2 meter flickered encouragingly.

“Hello there, we know you’re here. Is there anything you’d like to say? If you can speak into that device with as much energy as you can muster, we might be able to hear you,” said Ernie, pointing to the radio. We waited in silence, but not a sound came from the speakers.

Suddenly there was a distinct change in the atmosphere in the room and I began to feel uneasy. I could have sworn that the room grew suddenly darker. Wondering if the streetlamp outside had gone out, I went to the window and looked out. The streetlamp was still shining warmly from the street corner outside. A lone car passed beneath the window; for a fleeting instant, I wanted to be out there in that car, going away from this place.

I began to feel dizzy, as though I had just stepped off of a merry-go-round. I grabbed the nearest chair and the feeling passed as soon as I sat down.

“Did you feel that?” asked Ernie. “My temperature gauge is showing a sharp drop in temperature.”

Before I could reply, sounds suddenly crackled from the radio.

Ernie and I moved our chairs in front of the table that held the radio. I could hear what sounded like voices coming from the radio, but couldn’t make out any words. “I think you’re just picking up a weak station from—” Ear-splittingly loud static suddenly drowned my words. Ernie scrambled for the volume knob.

YOU…ARE NOT…WELCOME HERE! The voice that boomed from the radio’s small speakers was deep and rasping. The feeling of dread came over me again.

More static, then whispering from the radio.

Ernie moved the microphone closer to the radio’s speaker. He bent over the speaker and listened intently. “It sounds like multiple voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.”

“Let me try,” I said, grateful for the distraction. I put my ear to the speaker. “It sounds like they’re saying ‘We are many’.”

WE DEMAND YOU LEAVE! “OW! Right in my ear!” I exclaimed indignantly. My ear throbbed, but at least the queasiness had vanished. “Look, whoever you are–we’re not going to leave. We’re here to help you any way we can. We want to hear what you have to say but you don’t have to shout.”

“How many of you are there?” asked Ernie.

We are multitudes, said a softer, less sinister voice from the radio.

“That’s more like it,” I said. “Can you tell us why you’re still—” LEAVE NOW! “We’re not going anywhere. Can you tell us your name and why you’re here?” Ernie said. On the surface, he was maintaining his calm but I know him well enough to tell that he was as rattled as I was.

We are not happy, said the softer voice. They will destroy our home.

“We know, and we’re doing what we can to stop that from happening. Can you tell us why you’re still here?” I asked. “Did you live here? Maybe you worked here?”

For several minutes, there was only static from the radio.

“I think we’ve lost them,” I said. “Maybe we should–” Many have joined us.

“Who am I talking to? Please tell us your name,” Ernie begged. “We want to help you, but we need to know more about you.”

Much danger.

“Danger?” I asked. “Danger from what?”

There is bad here.

Ernie and I exchanged worried glances. “Can you tell us where the danger is?” Ernie asked.

Not safe.

More static crackled from the radio. There was the chorus of voices again, whispering unintelligible words. Ernie leaned over the radio speaker.

“Can you understand them?” I asked.

“No, but wait…is that music I hear?”

He was right. The voices were being drowned out by music. Soon, I could tell it was Prohibition-era jazz, scratchy and a bit hollow sounding. Without warning, my vision started to blur. Dante’s studio vanished, and suddenly I was in a cramped, seedy little place. Something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

A pretty woman in a red dress took a long, deliberate drag off her cigarette, sending a wreath of smoke circling her head. On the table in front of her was a half-finished cocktail. A jazz band was crammed onto a makeshift stage in a corner. They were smartly dressed, in black-tie evening wear, but their collective elegance was an illusion that vanished when seen from close up—their threadbare tuxedos were shiny and their shirt fronts beginning to fray. The music started, drowning out the buzz of conversation and clinking of glasses. A couple got up to dance. They were young and dressed in the latest styles: the woman’s sleeveless, beaded dress sported the low waist that recently had become all the rage, and her hair was almost scandalously short. Her date wore a bow tie and slicked-back hair. The woman in the red dress watched them idly for a few minutes, then stubbed her cigarette out. As she finished her drink, the saxophone player caught her eye. She smiled boldly at him, then stood up to leave. His gaze followed her as she wove her way among the tables to the door.

And then the music stopped and the vision was gone, and I was back in Dante’s studio. The silence seemed to buzz in my ears.

I took another drink of water to soothe my now-parched throat. What had I just seen? The music, clothing, and hairstyles were unquestionably from the 1920’s. I dismissed it as something I saw on TV—a documentary, probably. Except that it couldn’t have been, for the simple reason that it was in color. A movie perhaps? Or, more likely, my over-active imagination.

“That was cool,” remarked Ernie. “Not at all what I was expecting…are you okay, Margo? You look like you just saw a ghost.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Very funny. Just feeling a little bit queasy.” My hands were shaking. I took a drink, hoping it would settle my stomach.

“You see? I warned you not to order the burritos at dinner. Maybe it’s time to—” He was interrupted by a soft boing. A square of light winked on as Dante’s iMac woke up. Ernie and I looked at each other. “Shall we have a look?” he said.

I followed him to the desk in the corner. Dante’s spreadsheet was still open, but something new had been added to his rows and columns of numbers. A new entry in a cell of the spreadsheet said #Use cAre ErnieMargo much EV1L &here. Ernie whipped out his phone and took a photo.

“Let’s get out of here. For once I can’t wait to pack up,” I said. !

Do I need to tell you that I didn’t sleep a wink that night?

I gave up finally and got dressed and got to the lab just after daybreak. I was expecting to have the place to myself for at least the next few hours, but I was astonished to find Ernie’s car already parked at the back entrance.

“Looks like you couldn’t sleep, either,” he said when I walked in. He was sitting in front of a bank of giant high-definition computer monitors.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been here all night,” I said.

“No, I couldn’t sleep to save my life. I figured if I was going to be awake anyway, I might as well get a head start sifting through the stuff from last night.”

“I wish I felt as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as you sound,” I said.

“We’ll see how long it lasts,” he replied with a smile. “I thought it might save us some time if I ran my new image comparison algorithm on these videos.” The tool in question saves us the tedious task of having to examine every second of video evidence by comparing the frames and flagging the most minute changes. It now takes us seconds to find what used to take hours or even days. “This is from the webcam in the hall outside Dante’s studio. Look right here.”

I pulled a chair up next to him and looked at the fuzzy image on one of the monitors. A dark shadow in the doorway of the open elevator might have been a light artifact, but probably wasn’t.

“What about the elevator lobbies on the other floors? Do we have corresponding footage?”

“Indeed we do,” he replied. “Give me a minute.”

“I’m going to get some caffeine while you find them.” In the office kitchen I filled a reusable capsule with my favorite concoction. I popped it into our new high-tech espresso machine that the college had given us when we moved into this space last fall. It was a major improvement over our old coffee maker—and totally Ernieproof. The coffee Ernie makes could be used as paint stripper. Before we got the new machine, we poured out many a carafe of his near-toxic attempts at coffee making.

“What did you find?” I asked when I returned with my steaming cup of latte.

“After it stopped on our floor, the elevator went up to the third. According to the time stamp, that was at exactly the same time we saw the message on Dante’s computer. And then it went up to the third floor.”

“Any idea where it went after that?” I asked.

“It was still on the third floor when we left. I’m not sure what to think of it.”

“Neither am I. How much of the conversation with the entities did we manage to record?”

“Margo, you surprise me. All of it, naturally. Look right here—at the precise time the voices started coming over the radio, this dark shape appears.” He indicated a dark area on the video.

It was just the faintest of dark blobs, but the video showed the shapeless mass moving into the room. I felt a cold chill run down my spine and shivered. “We’ve encountered unfriendly spirits before, but this one was different.”

“Absolutely. However, I think it’s pretty clear that we were dealing with multiple entities here. They aren’t all hostile. I had a microphone on the radio and I'm going to try to enhance the whispering to see if we can get anything,” he said. “The other thing that interests me is that music right at the end.”

“Why?” I asked. “Surely that was just a stray radio broadcast. I once read that some stations can reach hundreds of miles.”

“That's true, but you’re thinking of AM radio. Under the right atmospheric conditions, AM radio signals can reach for more than a thousand miles, especially at night. That’s anything in the range from 535 to1605 kilohertz. But we were set to 740 megahertz. It actually falls in the frequency range that used to be for television broadcasts—from 300 megahertz to 3 gigahertz. And those frequencies aren't even used for television broadcasts anymore.”

I pondered the implications of what he’d just said. “So there's no possibility it was just the campus radio station?”

He shrugged. “Not unless something's seriously wrong with my radio.”

“You have any idea what that song was?”

“You're kidding, right?”

I sighed. “No, I know better. But there has to be someone around who knows.”

“The music department?”

“It can't hurt to try.” I glanced at the time. “Soon as people start showing up for work.”

The door opened and Sandy came in, wheeling his beloved bicycle. I could tell by the forbidding scowl on his normally cheerful face that something was wrong.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“No, everything is not okay. Look at my bike!” Both tires were flat and the seat had been slashed. But most disturbing of all, his brakes had been cut. He propped it against the wall. “Kickstand's broken, too.”

“When did this happen?” asked Ernie.

“Last night. There was a neighborhood meeting, to talk about the zoning commission meeting that's coming up. I just heard from Thornton: one of the girls had a flat tire on the way home.”

“Coincidence?” asked Ernie.

Sandy shook his head. “Jason's cat is missing, too.”

“Somebody must have known about the meeting,” Ernie mused.

“Sounds like it. It's almost like we're being followed or something.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Ernie replied, catching my eye.

Sandy sighed heavily. “I'm going to take it over to the bike shop…when they open. How come you two are here so early? It's barely light out.”

“You probably don't want to know,” replied Ernie with a sly grin.

“Right. Well, we can leave it at that.” Sandy is a champion researcher and the best assistant we could possibly ask for, but he gets utterly oogied out by anything to do with ghosts. His bike was a sorry sight. I felt terrible for him. He depends entirely on his beloved bike for transportation and wouldn't dream of owning a car and. I'd add that he's in great shape, but you've probably deduced that already.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Throw your bike in the back of my station wagon. I'll take you and it over to the bike shop if you'll help me find a jazz expert.”

“It's a deal,” he said with a broad smile, retrieving his phone. “I know who will know.”

“All right. I should probably let Dante know about the message on his Mac.” I dialed Dante’s number and he answered immediately.

“Oh, Margo! I’m so glad you called. How did it go last night?”

It didn’t seem like a good idea to give him too many details until we knew more about what we were dealing with, so I just said, “I think we made contact with at least one entity. We’re looking at the evidence now.”

“I was going to call you: do you know if my computer was okay when you were here last night?”

“The old Mac? Yes, I think so. Why?” “I think it died. I can’t get it to come on this morning,” replied Dante sadly. “It was working just fine yesterday.”

I cast a glance at Ernie, who was looking at me with raised eyebrows. “Are your files backed up?”

“Not recently,” Dante sighed. “First my studio gets trashed, and now this. I hope I’m not going to have to fork over big bucks for a new computer. That would be a stretch right now.”

I decided telling him about the cryptic message on his spreadsheet wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do, so I left it with a promise to show him our evidence later. That seemed to cheer him up. !

Sandy and I left Ernie glued to his computer and hopped in my car for the short drive across campus.

I love having an excuse to visit Merrifield Hall, home of the music department. It's one of the oldest buildings on campus and being there is like taking a trip back in time. Sandy led me past a practice hall where a string quartet was playing something that might have been Vivaldi. His phone chimed from his pocket. When he looked at his message, his face lit up. “Roscoe's back.”

“Who's Roscoe?” I asked.

“Jason's cat. Says he's limping and missing a couple of patches fur but otherwise safe and sound. Here we go—this is the guy you need to talk to.” We were standing in front of an office with a wooden door. A nameplate next to the door indicated it was the office of Fulton Brooks, Associate Professor of Jazz Studies.

Brooks looked suitably like an aging jazz musician. His black turtleneck sweater contrasted unbecomingly with the pasty complexion of someone who spends little time in the sun and his long graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail. There was a saxophone on a stand in one corner of the small office. Except for a promotional poster for the 1967 Montreaux Jazz Festival, the walls were bare.

I explained why we were there and played the fragment of music for him. “We were wondering if you could help us identify the piece.”

Brooks scratched his head. “Early 1920’s from the sound of it.”

“Is there any chance you could tell us more?” I pressed.

“I personally can’t, but I know someone who can,” he replied, whipping out a phone and tapping a message into it. “Are you a fan of jazz?”

I wasn’t keen on telling him any more than necessary. People can be unpredictable when it comes to the paranormal—either they want nothing to do with it, or they want desperately to get involved. “A friend of mine was playing around with an old radio and got this. He…um, decided it was something he wanted to know more about.” “‘Friend’?” asked Brooks, with a not particularly discreet glance at my left hand. “Boyfriend?”

“More like a co-worker,” I replied, now annoyed. “But yes, I do have a boyfriend.”

Brooks stole a quick glance at Sandy, who’s a good fifteen years younger than me. Great, I thought. Now he thinks I’m a cougar. “His name’s Tim and he lives on the West Coast.”

“Lucky guy,” muttered Brooks.

The door opened and a young black man came in. Everything about him seemed like an anachronism. He was wearing a three-piece wool suit of an archaic cut, complete with starched high collar and neatly tied bow tie. His crinkly hair was parted in the middle and slicked back against his head. He had skin the color of dark caramel with thin lips and an aquiline nose.

“Ah,” said Brooks, “here’s our resident time-traveler. Margo, um…Monroe, did you say it was? And um…”

“Sandy.”

“Of course. Allow me to introduce Armstrong Fitzgerald Leonard.”

“Call me Lenny,” said the young man.

“Nice to meet you, Lenny,” I said. I played the snippet for him. “We were wondering if you could help us identify this music.”

“Of course I can,” he said. “Come with me.”

Brooks waved at us and went back to his desk. Sandy and I followed Lenny into a room a few doors down the hall. Every wall was lined with hundreds of vinyl albums, neatly stored in narrow vertical slots. He went straight to a shelf and pulled out an ancient record. “That song is a recording from 1924 and we happen to have an original 78 rpm here in our library. It was on a small label from Indiana called Gennett. Crude sound quality, but of great historical significance. The band is called the Wolverine Orchestra. They’re important mainly because the cornet was Bix Beiderbecke. It sounds old-fashioned to our ears, but his solo on that piece was groundbreaking.” He held up the record for us to see. “We’re lucky to have this copy. Only a few thousand of these were ever produced. At the time, except for a few jazz fanatics up north, nobody had ever heard this. Of course, nowadays you can download it off the Internet. It was on the radio? It’s kind of odd—I didn’t know there were any stations around here playing that sort of thing.”

“Sort of. My friend has one of those multi-band radios. It picks up all kinds of frequencies.”

That seemed to satisfy him. “Yeah, you can get all kinds of stuff on short-wave.”

We thanked him for his time and left. I dropped Sandy off at the bike shop and went back to the lab.

Ernie was still in the same spot where he'd been when I left and looked like he was fading fast. I was, too, for that matter. !

When he returned that afternoon with his newly repaired bike, Sandy tossed an article from the newspaper archives on my desk. It was from the Indian Springs Herald and dated August of 1924. The subject was an elevator accident in the Morris building in which two men had been killed. A faulty safety brake was blamed and the men had died particularly gruesome deaths. Interestingly, the article also mentioned rumors of apparently long standing that the building was haunted.

“Ernie, listen to this,” I said. “This is from August of 1924. ‘Horrific accident at the Morris Building’.”

Something poked at the edges of my consciousness, but I brushed it aside. “Two men were killed and one seriously injured Thursday in an elevator accident at the Morris Building. Witnesses say a safety brake failed, sending the men plunging to their deaths. Amid allegations of negligence…” Then I realized what was trying to get my attention: 1924.

“Well, go on,” said Ernie impatiently.

“Oh, right. Sorry. ‘…the families of the victims have laid the blame squarely on the landlord, Ambrose Rummel. Numerous accusations have surfaced in recent years that much-needed repairs to the building’s infrastructure have not been made in a timely manner.’”

“Three guesses as to whose grandpappy old Ambrose was,” said Ernie. “Seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.”

“It gets better,” I said, and continued to read. ‘Killed in the accident were Ephraim Hawk, 33, and Wilson Greenwald, 26. Mr. Hawk, a well-known and admired figure around town, had been the night watchman at the Morris Building since his return in 1919 from the fighting in France. He was a native of Indian Springs who will best be remembered for his role as star quarterback and captain of the Indian Springs High football team during the victorious 1907–08 and 1908–09 seasons. Mr. Greenwald was a machine operator and mechanic at Palace Printing and Engraving who only within the past year relocated to our fair city from New Paris, Ohio. He

was a talented musician and aficionado of jazz whose energizing performances at the Indian Springs Dance Club will be much missed.’

“Well, now. That’s interesting, on a number of different levels,” said Ernie.

“There's more,” I said. “That song we picked up on the radio: according to our resident jazz expert, it was recorded in 1924.”

Ernie shrugged. “Coincidence.”

“Could be, but something tells me it’s not. It was a limited recording from a fairly obscure record label.”

“If you say so,” mused Ernie. “Of more interest to me is the fact that one of the guys killed in the accident was a jazzman. What else do we know, Sandy?”

“Not much. The musician, Greenwald, had no relatives that anyone was able to locate. Hawk left behind a wife but no kids. I don’t know if it as any bearing on this story, but a few years later a man named Levi Hawk married one of Rummel’s daughters and ended up going into business with Rummel. That’s when they changed the company name to Corvus.”

Suddenly it all made sense to me. “And now their descendants are trying to tear the building down! No wonder Greenwald’s ghost is upset. I certainly would be—a double betrayal.”

“Speaking of Corvus, how’s the battle against the MonsterMart going?” Ernie asked.

“We had a rally over the weekend and half neighborhood turned out.”

“Was Rummel there?” Ernie asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I would recognize Rummel or Hawk, and I’ve never seen the lawyers.”

“I imagine they have their underlings take care of things of that nature,” I said.

Sandy shrugged and fished a phone out of his pocket. “I took some photos. Have a look.”

I took Sandy's phone. There was an impressive crowd, but something else caught my eye. I had to zoom in on one of the photos to be sure, but it confirmed what I suspected. “Speaking of underlings…Ernie, tell me if this is who I think it is.”

Ernie studied the photo on Sandy’s phone. “Well, well, well. If it isn't our favorite personal assistant.”

A little alarm bell went off in my head. “Can I have that back for a second?” Ernie passed me the phone and I zoomed in on the photo of Weldon Spradley. “Look right here,” I said to the two of them. “On his hand.

Are those scratches?”

“Cat scratches! That son of a bitch!” exclaimed Sandy.

“I think I might be missing something,” said Ernie, looking puzzled.

Sandy explained the mysterious disappearance and return of Roscoe the cat.

“Margo,” Ernie said, “I don't have a dog in this fight, but I think it's time we sent a message to Weldon Spradley.”

“I'm inclined to agree. What say you, Sandy? Are you in?”

Sandy grinned. “I'll come up with a plan to make sure we get our point across.”

“I knew we could count on you,” replied Ernie. !

On an intellectual level, I knew Weldon Spradley was just doing the bidding of a powerful and unscrupulous employer. Like Nora, he probably felt like he didn't have much choice if he wanted to keep his job. But I was enraged all over again when I thought about the damage he’d done to Dante’s studio. It was someone’s livelihood…if Spradley would do that to a man working to support an invalid mother, what else was he capable of in the name of following orders? Spradley didn't strike me as being the brightest bulb in the chandelier, and when Ernie, Sandy, and I put our heads together, it didn’t take too long to concoct a plan that we hoped would send a clear message to Corvus Enterprises.

First, we visited Sandy’s favorite bike shop and bought a simple device used to locate stolen bikes. The next step required finding Spradley’s car and attaching the device. A short session with Google Earth had assured us that the only complicating factor would be the guard in the security kiosk near the front entrance at the Corvus headquarters.

Getting around this was easy enough. One afternoon Ernie and I drove in separate cars to Deerfield and found the dark, looming office building that housed Corvus Enterprises. With Ernie in the passenger seat, I drove up to the front door and Ernie—minus his nerdy black glasses—got out. With a big show of waving

goodbye, he went in and I drove off. While Ernie went into the barbershop on the building’s ground level arcade to inquire about a haircut, I drove around the block and parked his car along the street about a block away. I then walked the two blocks to the lot where earlier we’d parked my car. While Ernie was getting his usually rather longish locks chopped off (he complained vociferously about this part), I let about half the air out of one of my own tires and waited. Once divested of his signature hairstyle, Ernie put his glasses back on and sent me a text. Now in my own car and wearing a blonde wig, I pulled into the Corvus parking lot. The security guard was only too happy to help out with the air pump that he kept on hand for such emergencies. Distracted by a charming blonde damsel in distress, the guard paid not the slightest attention to Ernie when he strolled out the front door and across the parking lot. It took Ernie only a few minutes to find Spradley’s car and attach the device. We were on the road by 5:00 and having drinks at the Monk's Habit by 5:30.

A pattern quickly emerged: most days, Spradley left his office around 6:00 and drove to Indian Springs, passing by the site of the proposed MonsterMart, and occasionally stopping at the offices of Welcher and Butz.

Then he would drive the five minutes back up the road to Throckmorton and park about a block away from our lab. He usually remained until both Ernie and I had left for the evening.

Ernie and I came and went by the back door, and always took circuitous routes home. We insisted that Sandy leave his bike in the lab. One of us picked him up each morning and took him home every evening. He grumbled, but we knew from a previous incident that he was a vulnerable target on his bike. Last fall, we investigated the murder of a local professor—at the deceased’s request. We found ourselves a little bit in over our collective heads, and Sandy only narrowly missed being the second homicide victim in Throckmorton County in 80 years.

We warned our ever-vigilant night concierge, George, to expect something unusual and to go along with whatever transpired. Sure enough, Spradley soon showed up in the lobby and offered George money to “accidentally” forget to engage the intruder alarm the following evening. With a show of reluctance, George pocketed the wad of cash Spradley offered. A more intelligent man might have realized that his plans were meeting with alarmingly little resistance, but Spradley, in his arrogance, just assumed we were clueless.

The next night we waited in the darkened lab with 20 or so of our closest friends. Just after dark, when we heard the door being jimmied with a crowbar, we knew we were right on track. When Spradley stepped quietly into the lab, dressed in black from head to toe, we sent George a text. From his station at the front desk, George threw the switch that locked the back door and we turned on the lights. Spradley found himself surrounded—and trapped.

When Spradley saw that Dante was among our number, he began whimpering. I almost felt sorry for him. Now, it’s my philosophy that to do something truly harmful would only lower us to his level (or perhaps more accurately, to the level of Ronson Rummel). But we intended to send a clear message, and so we did.

In a flash, Spradley was divested of his clothes except for his dingy and rather ratty tighty-whities.

“Good evening, Mr. Spradley,” said George politely as we carried Spradley bodily through the lobby, with Dante in the lead.

As soon as Spradley was deposited on the pavement outside, we threw his car keys after him and he sprinted (it was a rather chilly night) to his car. However, more surprises awaited him when he reached his car, which had been decorated rather…artistically. We cheered loudly when he turned on the ignition, for his horn now blared loudly. It had been rigged to stay on even after the car was turned off and the keys removed from the ignition. I dialed 911 to report a disturbance, and we locked up and adjourned to the Monk’s Habit to celebrate.

George offered to buy the first round with the money Spradley had given him. I thought he should keep it for himself, but he insisted. Our drinks had just arrived when Ernie gleefully showed me his phone. The tracking device was dutifully sending out its location: the Indian Springs police auto pound.

“Ha! Serves him right,” Sandy gloated.

Ernie chuckled. “I confess to succumbing to a touch of schadenfreude myself.”

“Huh? Shadenwhat?” asked George.

“You know: that sneaky little feeling of delight you sometimes get when something bad happens to someone else,” answered Ernie.

George pondered this for a minute and rubbed his grizzled chin. Then he said, “I don’t think it’s schadenfreude if the guy really deserved it.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at this wisdom. “Good point,” I responded, and worried no more about it. !

A couple of evenings later I was at home, about to curl up with a book, when my phone rang. It’s a rare occasion when Sandy disturbs me after hours, so I reluctantly put the book aside and answered the phone.

“What’s up?”

“Remember I told you about Levi Hawk marrying Old Man Rummel’s daughter? Something about that didn’t seem right, so I’ve been digging around. You know me, there’s few things I like better than spending an afternoon rooting around in the county archives. Anyway, Ephraim Hawk, one of the guys who was killed in the elevator accident, had a brother named Owen who suddenly went from rags to riches. He bought quite a bit of property and shortly after the accident was living in a big, fancy house not far from the town square. It was his son that married Rummel’s daughter.

“Sounds like the Hawk family benefited handsomely from Ephraim’s death. How'd you find this out?” I asked.

“Property records are public; you’d be amazed at the information you can get from them. Unfortunately, we have to read between the lines to figure out the whys and wherefores.”

“Lawsuit?”

“Possibly,” replied Sandy. “But I didn’t find anything in the papers along those lines. This may surprise you, and I don’t know if it even matters, but Rummel was a judge; a well-respected pillar of the community. He was a rabid supporter of Prohibition and was instrumental in putting several bootleggers behind bars.”

“And he had the financial means to ensure that things went his way in Indian Springs. Sounds a lot like his grandson.”

Sandy chuckled. “I’m inclined to agree. What doesn’t make sense is that a man like Rummel doesn’t strike me as the type to countenance a marriage between his only daughter and a working man, much less go into business with him.”

“I agree, it does seem odd. Hush money?”

“Blackmail…that never occurred to me. That would certainly tie things together neatly. But blackmail for what?”

“Finding the answer to that is going to be the tricky part.”

“Agreed. Here's something else I found that might be of interest: a routine follow-up report from the police archives. Attempts to locate any family of the other victim, Greenwald, came to nothing. They quizzed Greenwald’s landlady, but she had no information. She was more worried about what to do with his personal effects so she could rent out his room. According to the report, his earthly possessions consisted of a clarinet, some jazz records, and a photograph of an unidentified woman.”

“I wonder what happened to that stuff.”

“Says here she donated them to the church bazaar. Which might explain how a rare recording ended up in the archives at the music college. There’s one other thing—remember in that article from the newspaper in 1924 where it mentions that the Morris Building was reputed to be haunted?”

“Of course. But I didn’t give it much thought—what old building isn’t rumored to be haunted?”

“Well, that’s just it. That section of that block isn’t all that old, or at least it wasn’t in 1924.”

“But the façade says 1888.”

“I know. That’s because the façades are all that remained of the original buildings, which were destroyed by fire in 1902. Four buildings were destroyed in total. Everything behind the façades was rebuilt a few years later.”

“How’d you find this out?”

“In the August 1956 edition of a magazine called Small Town Adventures. The article is called “Haunted Throckmorton County” and it mentions the Morris Building specifically. Five people were killed in the 1902 fires, but that’s not even where that story started. Listen to this: ‘The earliest settlers avoided the area, having been warned away from the spot by local Indians. According to Indian folklore, angry spirits have guarded the locale since time immemorial. But the arrival of the railroad late in the last century spurred a building boom and the advice was either forgotten or ignored.’ That might explain the multiple entities. The place has some seriously bad mojo.”

“True. And it fits neatly into my theory that there are locations that just seem to be vortexes of paranormal energy. Anything else?”

“Only that the Indian Springs Dance Club was in the building two doors down from the Morris. And it was owned by none other than old Ambrose Rummel.”

“Where the Mexican restaurant is now?”

“Exactly. A few years later it was raided and closed down. I bet you can guess why.”

“Selling alcohol?”

“Bingo!”

“Sandy, I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Me neither,” he answered cheerfully. “Have a nice evening. See you tomorrow.” !

That night I found myself reading and rereading the same page of my book. I finally slammed it shut in frustration. Various scenarios kept replaying themselves in my mind. Why would a man like Ambrose Rummel give the brother of his former employee substantial sums of money? Maybe Hawk came into the money by some other means. But I didn’t think so. Did Hawk know something Rummel didn’t want made public? Or was the old man just trying to assuage a guilty conscience? I finally started to drift off to sleep, then woke with a start when I realized I probably had the answer. The only problem was, the only person who could really tell me the truth was long dead. !

I had never considered getting involved in local politics—to be honest, I had never really paid the slightest bit of attention. But it seemed to me like we had the perfect opportunity to address an injustice from the past and perhaps prevent another wrong from happening. It was clear that Corvus had to be stopped. They had always relied on citizen apathy to push through their agenda, and until now it had worked. But that was before they went head-to-head with us.

Through the efforts of Sandy’s neighborhood group and Dante’s close network of friends—and with a little help from social media—we launched a grassroots information campaign. Sandy (who is, after all, an art major) designed posters and flyers, and we took a few days off from ghost hunting to take to the streets.

The day of the zoning hearing, I considered it a good sign when we had to park several blocks away from City Hall. We got there just in time to see Ronson Rummel and Clay Hawk pushing their way through a shouting, angry mob. The mayor was there as well. I felt a surge of optimism: few things get the attention of a career politician like a sea of signs bearing slogans like “We’re Watching and We Vote”.

Ernie and I joined the surging crowd as it pushed forward into the council chamber. The council chamber was vast and dark and full to overflowing. There weren’t nearly enough seats, and many of our number were forced to stand in the hall outside and listen to the proceedings over the PA. Some well-meaning person had cranked up the air conditioner to full-blast. I shivered and put my jacket on.

Rules of conduct for council meetings strictly forbid any kind of outbursts or unruly conduct of any kind.

Corvus’ lawyers were careful to conduct themselves with utmost courtesy. In fact, they were polite to the point of condescension. But then Dante stood to address the council. He was dressed in a formal morning suit, complete with top hat and kid gloves, but his waistcoat was of a shimmering peacock pattern. A shocking lime green tie completed the outfit.

His presentation was beautifully prepared. When he explained in eloquent detail the tax advantages of mixed-use, small footprint development over big-box sprawl, I noticed a number of commissioners nodding their heads in agreement. When he went on to explain the historical importance of the town’s downtown core, I glanced at Welcher and noticed beads of sweat forming on his brow. It certainly wasn’t because he was hot; the overflow of warm bodies was not enough to offset the artificial chill in the chambers.

“Don’t worry, Margo,” said Ernie once it was all over. “We’ve got them coming and going. Did you see Commissioner Wakefield give me a thumbs up?”

“No,” I said honestly. “But I saw Welcher give Rummel a high five.”

“Just whistling past the graveyard. Trust me, we have this one in the bag.”

“I hope so. If not, we’ve got some explaining to do. The ghosts of those guys that died in the Morris building aren’t going to forgive us if we lose this one.” !

Two evenings later, I was about to settle into my comfy chair with my book and a glass of Merlot when I got a text from Ernie. Turn on TV to ch 5 was all it said.

I flicked the TV on, and there was Jessica Sharpe, our local anchorwoman. Behind her was City Hall, and crowds of people chatting and milling around, looking happy and relaxed. I recognized some of them—they were some of the same people who had addressed the council at the hearing. I felt an excited tingling, although whether it was a premonition or the Merlot was hard to tell. I turned up the sound.

“Good evening. This is Jessica Sharpe coming to you from City Hall in Indian Springs. In a surprise development this evening, Channel 5 news has learned that the Indian Springs zoning commission voted earlier this afternoon to deny developer Corvus Enterprises’ petition to replace a block of historical buildings on Main Street with a parking garage. The commission cited strong citizen opposition as among their reasons for denying the developer’s request. Attorneys for Corvus have vowed to fight the decision. In a related story, another major client of the developer, the MonsterMart Corporation, has decided to withdraw its highly unpopular proposal to build a retail center in the Woodlawn Historic District…”

The shrill ringing of my phone interrupted Jessica’s conclusion. It was Ernie. “You know what we have to do, don’t you?” he said before I even got a chance to speak. !

When we went back to the office building, we took a carload of computer and audio equipment along with the usual array of EMF meters and infrared cameras. Ernie set out one of his favorite pieces of equipment, a parabolic microphone. We call it the Sonic Ear. Although it looks for all the world like a toy ray gun, it’s actually a high sensitive piece of equipment capable of detecting the faintest of sounds. Ernie hooked it up to a recorder and a set of speakers so that we could simultaneously hear and record anything it picked up. I noticed Ernie extracting from his large duffel bag something that on closer inspection turned out to be a vintage Mac even older than Dante’s.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

Ernie shrugged. “They seem to like Macs.” He turned it on and waited patiently for it to boot up. With an affectionate pat on its top, he said, “This was my first computer.”

“And you’ve kept it all this time?”

“Margo, you should know me better than that by now. Of course I kept it, and I’m happy to have found a use for it. Are you going to test out your theory?”

“I’m going to try. Are we recording?”

“Everything’s all set,” he replied.

We dispensed with the usual check of background EMF levels and temperatures. As soon as it got dark, we turned out the lights.

Ernie whispered into his voice recorder. “Ernie and Margo in the offices of Rent-a-Geek, follow-up visit.

Attempting to contact resident spirits…is there anybody here with us tonight?”

“If you'd like to communicate with us, we have a computer all set up for you here.”

We spent a few minutes making similar entreaties, keeping an eye on the various monitors. The office was unnaturally silent for several minutes, then the energy in the room suddenly changed. The feed from the cameras in the hall showed the elevator door opening, and there was a noticeable drop in temperature.

“Can you do something or say something to confirm your presence?” Ernie asked. He pointed to the Sonic Ear. “If you'll try to talk into this device here, we might be able to hear you.”

We held our breaths, waiting for any sound from the speakers attached to the Sonic Ear. Nothing.

I decided to try a different tactic. “Look, we understand that there are some among you who don’t welcome our presence here. But you must believe me that we have only your best interests at heart. And we have some good news for you.”

“They don’t seem very talkative tonight. Maybe we need to…”

Ernie was interrupted by a soft electronic quack. He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “You see? I knew the old Mac would come in handy. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

The computer’s tiny screen had come on. A smattering of primitive-looking icons was scatted across its black and white screen. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “Maybe it just has a loose connection somewhere,” I said.

Ernie seemed deeply offended. “I’ll have you know this machine is in fine working order. We just need to make things a little easier on them, that’s all.”

He clicked on an icon and a program began to load.

“What's that?”

“Text editor. Bare-bones to us nowadays, but it was quite advanced for its time.”

“And you propose to use this how?”

“Just humor me a minute, please. If there’s anybody here you can communicate with us by using this device—see, what’d I tell you?”

Letters began to appear on the tiny screen: we aRE heere “How many of you are here?” I asked. many “Is Wilson Greenwald among you?”

HEIs he4re “Can we talk to him?” asked Ernie.

To this we received no response.

“Hmm, maybe he’s shy,” Ernie commented.

“I doubt it. Wilson, if you’re here, we’d like to talk to you. I think I know what happened, but you have to help us out. I don’t think that elevator accident was really an accident. Am I right?”

There was no response on the computer, but I thought I heard the faintest of rustlings through the speakers attached to the Sonic Ear. Ernie shivered in the darkness next to me. “Is it just me, or did it just get cold in here?” he asked.

“No, it’s not just you.” I took a deep breath and prepared myself for a wave of nausea, but it never came.

“Look,” I implored, “I know it’s not pleasant to talk about, but we mean you no harm and really want to know what happened to you. We beg you to please allow Wilson to come forward.”

We waited patiently, but the Mac’s screen finally went to sleep. Ernie sighed. “And we were doing so well —” With the sound of an electronic duck quacking, the little square screen flickered on.

“Well, now. That’s more like it. Can you do that again?” asked Ernie.

Quack!

“You see? I told you they like communicating via computer,” said Ernie smugly.

“Wilson, if that’s you, can you make it make that noise twice?”

There was a pause, then two more electronic quacks from the little Mac. “Woohoo! I knew this would work! All right, now we’re going to ask you some questions. One quack means yes, two means no. Can you manage that?”

Quack!

“Who are we communicating with? Are you Ephraim Hawk?”

Quack! Quack!

“Wilson Greenwald?” I asked. After a few seconds, we were rewarded with a single quack.

“Good. Now, here’s what I think happened. I think old Mr. Rummel had something to hide…something he didn’t want people to know. Am I right?”

Quack!

“He wasn’t the righteous man that people thought he was. Am I right?”

Quack!

Ernie gave me a high-five. “Wilson, my name’s Ernie. That elevator accident wasn’t an accident, was it?”

Quack! Quack!

Ernie continued. “Was it because you found out something Rummel didn’t want people to know?”

Quack!

“Was he bootlegging?” I asked.

Quack!

“And you found out.”

Quack!

“It was no accident—you were murdered.”

Quack!

“Thank you for your help,” I said. “Now we have something we want to share with you.”

A single word appears on the Mac’s screen: teLL “Wonderful,” Ernie said. He opened a laptop and launched a recording of the newscast from the previous evening. We listened in silence to Jessica's report of our victory over Corvus.

When it was over, Ernie said quietly, “What this means is that your home is now protected. So you're safe now, and you never have to worry about this building being torn down.”

We paused, and listened carefully for any sign that our message had been received. Then, suddenly and very briefly, all the monitors on all our devices dimmed just perceptibly. There was a subtle but perceptible change in the atmosphere of the room as the chill dissipated. And then I heard something. “Ernie, do you hear that?” I whispered.

“Hear what? Oh, that.”

We had to strain to hear it, but coming from the speaker attached to the Sonic Ear was the sound of cheering.

The air pressure in the room seemed to change and what felt like a cold breeze washed over me.

Strangely, it felt comforting and pleasant, quite unlike the previous encounters that left me shaking and nauseous.

“Ernie”, I said, “I think a ghost just hugged me.”

His eyebrows rose. “I think I’m going to call Tim and suggest he visit you soon.” !

Sometimes the hardest part about the aftermath of an investigation is wrapping things up with the client.

Dante was thrilled to have a resident ghost in his studio, and renewed his lease for five more years. The publicity that Dante got from his leadership of the neighborhood group earned him more favorable publicity than he could have imagined. Business picked up so much that he was able to buy a brand new, top-of-the-line computer. He, Thornton, and Sandy were approached by citizens’ committees in nearby communities, who asked for their help with similar campaigns against urban sprawl.

According to Ernie’s surveillance cameras, nightly activity continued in the elevators. But Marci was thoroughly annoyed when she found out we hadn't asked the entities to move on.

“Why do you want them to?” I asked.

“They're not hurting anything,” Ernie added.

She thought about it for a minute and rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever you say.”

“There haven't been any more incidents, have there?” I wanted to know.

“Well, no, but…”

“Then you're happy, the ghosts are happy. It's a win-win situation. Look, we're ghost hunters, not exorcists,” Ernie said. “They have as much right to be here as you do.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Whatever.”

“Well, if anything else happens, you know how to get in touch with us,” I said with a discrete tug at Ernie's sleeve.

We stopped by Sanjeev’s cubicle on the way out. He was on the phone, but gave us a friendly wave and the first smile I remember seeing from him. !

Later that afternoon, we drove out to Deerfield to interview a potential client about investigating a derelict hospital.

“So,” I asked, “after everything that happened, was it worth getting your hair cut for?”

Ernie made a show of preening in the passenger-side vanity mirror. “It’s all in a day’s work, I suppose. I think we made our point with Spradley but I’m not sure about Rummel and his cronies. Not that it

matters―it’ll grow out again soon enough. There’s something I still don’t get about that case,” he said. “How would Wilson and Ephraim have found out about Rummel’s bootlegging?”

“Oh, to me it’s obvious. Wilson was a musician, and he played in clubs—speakeasies. Rummel was probably supplying them with their booze. Here’s a supposed pillar of the community and outspoken supporter of Prohibition. Of course he was! He was making a fortune off of it.”

“And Ephraim Hawk?”

“Well, he obviously knew something. I don’t think he was just an innocent bystander.”

“Based on what?”

“The fact that his brother was probably extorting money from Rummel.”

“Do you think Wilson and the Hawk brothers were friends?”

“I guess we’ll never know for sure,” I replied, “but I like to think so. Did you read the article in this morning’s paper? About Corvus selling off some properties?”

“Yeah, I saw that. Serves them right.”

“You don’t think they’re trying to punish the good citizens of Indian Springs for rejecting their diabolical schemes?”

Ernie smiled at my choice of words. “I wouldn’t put it past them, but I don’t think so. Losing that deal with MonsterMart hit Corvus pretty hard. They’re getting an awful lot of negative press lately and their stock prices are dropping like a rock.”

“I almost forgot to tell you—I heard from Nora, and she got a new job. Huge raise, the whole bit.”

“Where?”

“At the college, in the Legal Affairs department.”

“What’s wonderful,” Ernie said. “She certainly deserves it. Maybe we’ll run into her on campus. Turn left here; we’re almost there.” !

As we headed home after our interview that afternoon, we spotted a new MonsterMart on the outskirts of Deerfield.

“Let's stop,” Ernie said.

“Whatever for?”

“I need to pick up a few things. Besides, that's what we fought so hard to fight down. We ought to at least have a look and see what the fuss was all about.”

I conceded that he had a point, although it was with reluctance that I took the exit off the highway. After circling a parking lot the size of a football stadium, we finally found a parking space. We were steps away from the door when Ernie grabbed my arm.

“What is it this time?” I snapped.

“We can't go in there.”

“Are you crazy? It was your idea to come here…”

He pointed toward the massive store's entrance. There, greeting shoppers as they entered and handing out sale flyers, was Weldon Spradley.

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By this Author Want to hear more from Margo? Check out the full-length Margo Monroe Paranormal Mysteries, available in ebook or paperback: The Science Professor’s Ghost The Haunted House Symphony

About the Author After living abroad for many years, Sue Latham returned to her native Dallas to write about ghosts. She has a rabbit, an opera-singing parrot, and a fondness for lawyer jokes. Connect with her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SueLatham.novelist or follow SueLathamTX on Twitter.

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