Hush

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© 2011 Eva Konstantopoulos. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 6/5/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0291-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0292-3 (e)

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Original Cover Design: Matthew Blom

Original Photo: Andrea Konstantopoulos

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Contents

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10

About The Author

It is wonderful that five thousand years have now elapsed since the creation of the world, and still it is undecided whether or not there has ever been an instance of the spirit of any person appearing after death. All argument is against it; but all belief is for it.

Samuel Johnson, quoted by James Boswell

1

The dream is always the same. It’s just a trickle at first, dark hallways, empty rooms, but then I see a face. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, a little girl’s mouth covered with tape. The room is damp and cold and simple, a chair in the middle of it all. That’s where the girl sits in a yellow dress, hands bound and feet dangling off the floor.

I want to tell the girl to run, to fight back, to scream, but I can’t move my lips. I can only watch as a hand strips off the tape over the girl’s mouth and picks up a pair of pliers, the hand tilting the girl’s head back and prying her mouth open. The pliers reach down, pulling on the girl’s tongue, stretching it longer and longer, the walls closing in and the girl’s eyes pleading…

Freak!

I sit up in the back seat and look out the window. Our client’s not here yet. Thank God. We’re parked on a quaint residential street a few miles from campus. Although this is the third house we’ve done and we’re getting into a routine, I still feel guilty about our little business.

Jackson, my big brother, grins at me from the driver’s seat. You really got to stop talking in your sleep.

I wasn’t, I say, feeling saliva running down my cheek. Crap. I look over to Elliot, who fiddles with an EMF meter next to me. He smiles politely and I wipe the drool from my face. Classy, Angela. Really classy.

That same dream again? Elliot asks.

I nod. Maybe it’s a sign.

Bullshit, Jackson quickly chimes in. You’re just not sleeping. It’s those pills. You need to get off them.

She’s had the same dream for months, Elliot says.

Jackson’s girlfriend, Beth, turns around in the front seat. Her blonde, silky hair cascades around her face. She could be a model if she wasn’t so obsessed with my brother. Maybe you should go see someone? she says.

Yeah, because she’s loaded. Jackson rolls his eyes. My brother, like my father, would rather die by firing squad than go to any kind of shrink. It’s partly my mother’s fault. She was such a believer in things that go bump in the night, my father spent most of our childhood trying to prove her wrong. Remember what we talked about, Ange, Jackson says. It’s all in your head. Best thing for you would be to quit. Cold turkey.

A low ache wraps around my rib cage. When my mother was alive she used to call my recurring dreams premonitions. She’d always tell me to keep a dream journal to watch out for patterns, but I never could get myself to write in one. I wanted my dreams to stay in my head. Committing them to paper made the images more real.

You have to admit, Jackson says. Lately, you’ve been nervous. More than usual.

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure how to react, because he’s right. Jackson glances at me in the rear view mirror. We need to stop hiding, he says.

So, you too? I say. Jackson may not be on meds, but I know he has a secret stash of all kinds of fun stuff back home: oxy, booze, grass, snuff…

Sure, Ange. Jackson grips the steering wheel. I guess. But you’re my main concern. Have you slept this week?

I haven’t, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.

After this gig then, we should try it. I’m just saying.

Maybe.

Those pills have never been good for you. Maybe they helped a little growing up, with all that was going on, with Mom’s condition and going broke. It’s time. To move forward.

Beth places a hand on his thigh. He smiles at her.

I’ll think about it, I say, and I mean it. I really will. The truth is I’m terrified about going off them, but I’d never tell Jackson that. He thinks fear is for the weak.

A blue volkswagon pulls up in the driveway and a sixty-something man wearing a plaid shirt gets out of the driver’s seat. Jackson flashes his trademark smile, all charisma and white teeth. Mr. Hampton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

Mr. Hampton returns Jackson’s smile with a timid upturn of his lips. You the ghost catching people? he asks.

That’s right. As you requested, Jackson replies.

Well, you better come in then.

Mr. Hampton opens the door to his house. He walks slowly up the stairs, deep rings of sweat under his armpits. I knew I never should have stayed here after she died, he says. Millie was never satisfied. Should have known death wouldn’t be any different.

Millie…?

Oh, my wife, he says, wiping a thick handkerchief across his forehead. She was always stomping her feet, thumping her cane on the wall, and now she keeps doing it, pacing back and forth, rocking in her chair. Haven’t been able to sleep.

Can we look around? Elliot says. He leans forward, listening intently. To be honest, I’m surprised Elliot and Jackson are even friends, let alone best friends. Elliot’s the sensitive one. The one who always shows up when he says he will, who doesn’t say much, but when he does, you can tell he’s chosen his words carefully.

Mr. Hampton seems to stall at Elliot’s request. Jackson takes over. It would help if you show us where you’ve come in contact with Millie, he says.

Of course. Mr. Hampton takes us around the living room, pointing out where he heard the knock, by the fireplace. There, and then again. I take notes. Sometimes I make diagrams. Draw pictures. Anything to keep my hands busy so I don’t have to look Mr. Hampton in the eyes.

He leads us into the kitchen. Here, in this little door, I heard some scraping, then banging. Knew it was Millie just by the thwacks. She always liked knocking that cane around. Letting me know what was what.

Elliot bends down and glances through the cupboard. There’s a small hole in the back. He hangs back with me as Mr. Hampton and the others go ahead. Probably some animal in the walls. Running around. Starving for food, he says, his voice low.

Nothing we can’t handle, I reply, trying not to show how nervous I am. Mr. Hampton looks back at us.

This is a nice old house, mister, Elliot says to Mr. Hampton. He runs his hands along the wall. Good bones.

Mr. Hampton smiles. Lived here all my life. Don’t know anything else.

He takes us up the ladder to the attic. A couple of rats scurry against the wall. Other than that though, there’s just cobwebs, cardboard boxes, lots of dust. We balance on the wooden beams. Elliot helps me down the ladder, wrapping his arms around my waist and lowering me gently to the floor.

After surveying the whole house and detailing all the places Millie has made contact, Mr. Hampton stands by the sink, washing his hands and drying them with a damp washcloth. So, how are you going to do it? he asks.

Although this is our third gig and we’ve rehearsed this moment, I find myself frozen, smiling dumbly at our customer. Thankfully, Jackson jumps in. Mr. Hampton, do you have family you can stay with? he asks. It’s best if we investigate the house overnight. Ghosts are more receptive in the nocturnal hours. They can be rather shy during the day.

I can go to my daughter’s, I suppose, he says, a bit hesitant.

It’s just better for the occupant to lay low and let us do our thing. We will, of course, provide video footage of any contact we have with Millie. In case she wants to say her farewells, Jackson says.

It’s also safer, Beth says. For you. Less emotional this way.

You’re the experts, Mr. Hampton says. She’s probably tired of having me around anyway.

He stands oafishly by the door.

This is wrong, wrong, wrong, I think. I look to Elliot to make sure he agrees with me. He shifts from foot to foot, but doesn’t say anything.

Mr. Hampton hands over the keys. Jackson takes them with a little bow. As the old man leaves, he rests a hand on the wooden doorframe. Take care, my love, he says. Sleep tight.

When Mr. Hampton shuts the door, we don’t do anything at first. Everyone stands still, studying the old man’s living room. I plop down on the couch. "Can’t believe it worked again," I say.

I know, Elliot replies.

Of course it works. We’re pros, Jackson says.

Next time this might be more efficient if we have them stay, Beth says, hooking up the computer equipment.

You think? Jackson asks.

Definitely. Get in, get out. Then we spend less time with the wackos.

Jackson kisses Beth. Revise. Rinse. Repeat. He claps his hands together. Alright then. Let’s get to work.

I lift the window curtain and peer out into the driveway. Mr. Hampton sits in his car, staring off into space. Elliot sidles up next to me. We watch him start the car and slowly reverse, backing out onto the street.

Let’s go, Ange, Jackson says. Vamanos.

Elliot takes out the cameras one by one. I pick up the EMF meter. Jackson studies my face. Beth, let’s get some more make-up on my sis. Cover up the bags under her eyes.

I can do it, I say.