The Spirits of Six Minstrel Run Read online

She crouched to retrieve a dustpan from under the sink and got the oddest feeling someone hurried past her despite not hearing anything. When she pivoted to her right to begin sweeping—she stopped short at the sight of footprints in the pancake mix. Five distinct spots in the shape of a small child’s bare feet crossed from one side of the spill to the other.

  “Oh, crap…” She stared for another moment before yelling, “Adam!”

  Mia dropped the dustpan and brush, sprang upright, and grabbed her cell phone from her handbag on the table.

  “Yeah?” called Adam from the stairway. “Did you yell?”

  “Get in here!” She swiped open to the camera app and took several pictures of the footprints.

  He sauntered down the hall in no great hurry, pausing at the doorjamb. “What are you doing?”

  “Look!” Mia pointed. “I derped the pancake mix off the counter and spilled a little. There’s footprints!”

  Adam’s lackadaisical attitude evaporated. He dashed over and squatted. “This is incredible.”

  “Incredibly sad. Those feet are so small.”

  “Hey…” He pointed. “Make a footprint next to them for scale.”

  She shifted her gaze to him. “Why do I have to do it? I’ve got stockings on.”

  “Okay, fine. Just hold your foot over the dust. Don’t step down.”

  With a sigh, Mia slipped one shoe off and balanced on one foot while Adam took a few pictures.

  “Yeah, that’s a kid all right.”

  Mia stepped back into her shoe and grasped his left arm in both of hers, chin on his shoulder. “That’s so damn sad.”

  Adam rummaged a tape measure out of a drawer, extended it a bit, and set it down beside the prints before snapping a few more images.

  “I thought I felt someone walk past me.” Mia circled around to the other side, close to the little hall that led to the dining room. “Looks like they were running to the back door, maybe to go outside.”

  “Felt someone?” asked Adam. “Did you hear anything?”

  “No… You know how people just know when someone’s around? That. A sense of not being alone.”

  He smiled. “Dare I say, because you weren’t alone?”

  “You’re trying to make sure I never sleep again, aren’t you?”

  “Well, you grew up in a house full of ghosts.” He picked up the oatmeal bowls and moved them to the table. “This shouldn’t be that much different.”

  “It was way different back home. There, I only heard distant footsteps or got creepy feelings. I never heard ghosts speaking or saw footprints or even… okay, I did feel like I wasn’t alone… all the time. But only at night.” She took her seat and ate a spoonful of oatmeal. “Umm. I’m not sure if I should sweep that up or leave it.”

  “Good question. If you don’t mind me asking, how did you manage to knock just the pancake mix over out of that whole row of boxes against the wall by the jars?”

  She got up to grab raisins. “Got the weirdest craving out of nowhere for pancakes, so I picked the box up to read the instructions. Put it down too close to the edge when the micro dinged.”

  “Interesting… Wonder where that itch for pancakes came from.”

  “Don’t say it.” She sat again and dumped some raisins into both bowls.

  “Thanks.”

  They stared at each other while eating for a minute or three.

  “Kids like pancakes.” Adam wagged his eyebrows.

  “Knock it off. I’m too sad to smile at any jokes about that.”

  He suppressed his smile. “I’m not trying to make a joke. We’ve just witnessed legit evidence of the paranormal. I’m excited about that, not… well, yeah.”

  Mia sighed. “Great. I’m going to be in a bad mood all day.”

  “Over spilling a little pancake mix?”

  “No, dammit. Over the thought that a kid might have died here.” She rested her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. “It’s just not fair. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to be parents.”

  Adam raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think the parents—or a parent—did it?”

  “Umm. I don’t know…” Mia paused, searching for an explanation as to why she felt so certain the ghost died at the hands of a parent. “I’m not sure. It just came out without any real thought involved. Felt right.” She sighed. “I dunno. Maybe my parents make me expect the worst from everyone.”

  “Maybe.” He gave her a look that said ‘they weren’t that bad,’ but wisely didn’t open his mouth.

  5

  Freak Events

  Monday, August 27, 2012

  Excited at the appearance of the footprints, Adam hummed to himself for most of the ride to Syracuse University.

  He found it difficult to contain his restless enthusiasm; however, the dean, the HR department, and the bulk of the faculty/administration he dealt with upon arriving assumed his mood to be related to his new position teaching a freshman psychology class. His first session didn’t start until 9 a.m., so he had a little less than an hour to situate himself in his new office.

  A few minutes into arranging the small box of desk kitsch he’d brought, a light knock came from the door. Adam looked up at a young man with short platinum blonde hair and a plain tan sweater. By looks, he could’ve been anywhere between eighteen and twenty. The backpack over his shoulder and ID hanging around his neck on a lanyard gave him away as a student. Slight hesitation in his slate-blue eyes suggested he might be lost.

  “Good morning.” Adam smiled and set his Luke Skywalker pen holder next to the lamp. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Professor Gartner?”

  “Yep.”

  The young man stepped in and offered a hand. “Hi. Good to meet you. I’m Paul Reitman, your UTA. Shame about Professor MacLeod.”

  Adam rested his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know her. All they told me was that a position opened unexpectedly. I hope nothing too bad happened to her.”

  “Bone cancer. She’s still in the hospital as far as I know, but at her age, it’s…” Paul shook his head. “I heard she’d been feeling off for a while, but put off going to the doctor. Kept right on teaching until she collapsed. That finally made her go to a doctor, and they found out how sick she really was.”

  “I’m sorry. Now I almost feel guilty for being happy a position finally opened here.”

  Paul scratched at his arm. “It’s all right. I only knew her from taking her class. She’s amazingly insightful and connects with her students. It’s because of her I’m considering an educational track instead of clinical. Most of the reason I volunteered as a UTA this year is to get a taste for being on the other side of the desk. Still not sure which way I’ll wind up going, but I at least wanted to see it.”

  Adam chuckled. “Both are rewarding, though teaching psychology has the added benefit of preserving your sanity. As a clinician looking into other people’s lives, especially the aberrant ones, a lot of that stuff comes home with you. Kinda like cops. Getting to see the worst in people haunts you.”

  “Are you saying clinicians all wind up divorced alcoholics before fifty?” Paul laughed. “So, you’ve been waiting a while to come here specifically?”

  “Yeah. My wife’s been working over at the Everson Museum for the past few years, commute was kicking her butt. I’ve been trying to get my foot in the door of anything close enough to this area that we could move.”

  “Oh, nice. Welcome to Syracuse.”

  “Thanks. We’re not actually living in Syracuse. We got a place up in Spring Falls.” Adam wagged his eyebrows. “It’s supposedly haunted. Parapsychology is somewhat of a hobby of mine, though I’m primarily focused on spirits and the possibility of psychic phenomena.” He raised a hand. “Strictly from a scientific point of view.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. “Wait… did you get that house?”

  “On Minstrel Run?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Minstrel. I remember reading about it.”
/>   “Oh?” Adam resumed transferring little figures from his box to the desk. “Nothing too bad, I hope.”

  “The place has been on the market for years. Anyone who buys it always leaves in months. Two women who lived there at different times both almost died in freak accidents. One even wound up paralyzed from the waist down.”

  Adam paused, holding his R2-D2 paperclip magnet, staring at Paul. The idea that Mia could in any way be put in danger by their new house had never occurred to him. Everything that had happened so far all seemed fairly tame, but they had only been in the house a few days. At the first sign of serious risk, he’d get her out of harm’s way. No amount of research data would be worth her life, or even permanent injury. “Are you serious or are you messing with me?”

  Paul wagged his eyebrows. “Check the Spring Falls Gazette. They have records. Might even be digital now.”

  “Hmm.” Adam rubbed his chin, feeling remiss in not having researched the house’s history more deeply than ‘it’s haunted and people keep leaving.’ “The house was listed considerably lower than everything else in the area. Our mortgage is less than the rent on our old apartment.”

  “Yeah. I’m telling you, the place is totally haunted. Not so much down here in Syracuse, but up by where you live? All those small towns like to talk.”

  Adam leaned back, folding his arms. “If word hasn’t reached Syracuse, how’d you hear about it?”

  “You’re not the only one in this room with an interest in the paranormal.” Paul grinned. “A friend of mine thought it would be fun to go over there and look around. No one lived there at the time and we didn’t break in. Spent two hours walking around the property. Got an EVP that sounds like a little kid crying. Kelly thought she heard a deep male voice growl at her in the backyard, and Cayden’s box said ‘lonely.’”

  “Cayden’s box?” asked Adam with a head tilt.

  “It’s this device that supposedly lets spirits manipulate electromagnetic energy to pick words out of a database. It’s finicky and doesn’t always work, but at your house, it repeated ‘lonely’ several times. Kelly thinks it’s really a demon because of the deep growl and the little kid voice.”

  “Oh, one of those things. Yeah, I’ve seen them before. Most people who are considered any sort of legit authority on the paranormal state that child haunts are malicious spirits pretending… but check this out.” Adam took his phone from its belt holder, opened to the photos app, and pulled up the pictures from earlier. “My wife bumped a box of pancake mix off the counter this morning. She turned her back on it for only a minute to grab a dustpan… and found this.”

  “Whoa.” Paul gingerly took the phone and studied the photo, zooming it. “This happened in the daytime, with her right next to it?”

  Adam nodded.

  “Not that I’m any sort of expert on ghosts, but”—Paul handed the phone back—“being active in the day makes me think it’s a pretty powerful manifestation. And being active in the room right next to your wife suggests it’s territorial. If that is a demon, you should be careful, professor.”

  “Yeah. Mia hasn’t mentioned picking up on any hostile feelings or negative energy yet.”

  “Your wife, is she sensitive?” asked Paul.

  “I’m sure of it, though I haven’t been able to prove it to any scientific standard. However, she did react right away to the house when she saw it, both the first time we checked it out months ago and Friday when we officially took ownership.” Adam chuckled. “That kinda explains why Joe was so happy.”

  “Joe?”

  “The realtor. You’d think he’d won the lottery or something.”

  Paul laughed. “He basically did. That house is like a cash vacuum for the agency. They sell it and make commission all over again every few years.”

  “Not this time.” Adam shook his head. “I don’t think we’re going to be giving up on it that easily. I chose it specifically because it had a haunt.”

  “Good luck, but I bet most of the people who moved in there said the same thing, or didn’t believe in ghosts. Pretty sure they believed in ghosts when they ran out the door screaming.” Paul glanced at the clock. “Class starts in twelve minutes… takes about six to walk there from here. Got any notes or anything you need help with?”

  Adam opened his case. “It’s only the first day. Work hasn’t quite piled up yet.” He dropped a manila folder in front of Paul. “That’s my lesson plan. Why don’t we go over it so you know what you’re getting into?”

  “Sounds good.” Paul flipped the pages, skimming. “Looks fairly close to what I remember from Professor MacLeod’s class.”

  Adam gestured at the door. “Might as well talk on the hoof. No sense being late the first day.”

  “Sure thing.” Paul closed the folder and carried it out into the hallway. “If you don’t mind, keep me updated on what happens with the house?”

  “Of course. If you can’t tell, I love talking about this stuff… as much as I love talking about psychology. Only real difference is one pays the bills, one gets me laughed at.”

  Paul laughed.

  Adam playfully narrowed his eyes.

  6

  Sensitive

  Monday, August 27, 2012

  A twenty-six minute ride to work blew Mia’s mind almost as much as arriving before she finished her coffee.

  Between having time to finish waking up, eating something, and allowing for traffic, it had been her reality for the past two years and some months to drag her ass out of bed at a little after five in the morning so she could make it to work by nine. More often than not, she arrived early. Leaving work at 5:30 p.m. usually let her get home by eight or a little later. That left only two hours for everything normal people did after a work day unless she cheated herself out of sleep.

  Needless to say, walking out the door at 8:30 a.m. had been amazing. She equally looked forward to being home by six. For the commute alone, moving to Spring Falls had been worth it. Everyone she met on the way to her work area in the back of the museum picked up on her overabundance of energy. After six brief conversations explaining what a drain on her soul a two-hour-plus drive had been, she reached her studio.

  The room reeked of various chemicals, paints, old glue, wood, and concrete dust. She hung her coat in the storage closet and resumed working on the painting she’d started Wednesday before leaving work. She’d taken Thursday and Friday off for the move.

  Inch by inch, she dabbed a Q-tip soaked in cleaning solution around the old canvas, clearing away the effects of exposure to air for two centuries. The donor claimed it was the work of Henry Raeburn, from around 1802, done as a private commission for some long-dead relative of his. Based on the amount of grunge, Mia had little trouble believing it had been either displayed in someone’s home or left in an attic for an extended period without proper care.

  She hummed to herself while making her way across the canvas, noting places where small areas of damage would require patching and repainting. She found color-matching the most tedious part of the process, but also the most rewarding. Breathing life back into something thought dead fulfilled a deep, internal need. She often wondered if the original artists had been as happy to create the paintings as she was to restore them to the way they should appear.

  While working her Q-tip along the jawline of the young woman depicted in the painting, she caught a spell of maudlin at the thought of the footprints in the pancake dust. Ever since she’d graduated college, she’d worked on countless paintings, many of which had been portraits of people who had long ago died.

  It seems I’m fated to work with the dead… either the ones preserved in oils or roaming my kitchen.

  With each successive cycle of dabbing and wiping, an increasing sense of love and sadness surrounded her. The young woman in the painting smiled in the way that newlyweds tended to smile, joy and nervousness and mischievousness and embarrassment all wrapped up in one subtle curve of the lip. She appeared to be staring at the artist as
he worked, but a dark undertone of loss and sorrow gnawed at her as well. Mia pictured the woman being restless, fighting her urge to jump up and embrace the painter, wanting to be close to him. Her feelings didn’t at all fit what the donor had told the museum about it being painted over in London as a simple commission.

  That didn’t sit right with her, so she spent almost two hours analyzing the style, color use, composition, brush technique, and the signature. It resembled Raeburn’s work, but fell short of an exact match. The style approximated his, but after looking up a few of his other works, she felt certain the painting she’d been working on was not a Raeburn. After another half hour or so of research—and lunch—she determined what the acquisitions guy mistook for the big H R in the signature was, in fact, a stylistic M. She eventually tracked down that the artist most likely to have painted it had been named Mendelson. She took some notes, intending to finish the documentation process later, since the actual restoration work called to her more strongly.

  She resumed cleaning the painting, hoping to finish at least the first pass today. Gradually, the dingy canvas brightened under the ministrations of her Q-tip. The monotony of dabbing, wiping, and dabbing took her out of reality into a haze of contentment.

  “Hey,” chirped a nearby woman.

  Mia jumped, having been so absorbed in her work she hadn’t noticed the woman walk up to her. She grasped the huge table to steady herself and glanced over at Julie Wolfe, one of her colleagues who restored primarily vases, pottery, and statues. “Sorry. You startled me.”

  “You don’t need to make up for taking days off, yanno.” Julie winked. “That’s why they call them days off. Or did you intend to stay late? It’s 5:36.”

  “Oh crap. I didn’t notice.” Mia checked her phone to confirm the time and grinned at the idea she’d be home in less than a half hour. “I got absorbed in this painting. There’s so much love in it, but it’s also somehow really sad.”