A Haunting

         He carefully stepped inside the house, apprehension growing.  It was weird, he thought, to be so nervous already.  After all, he was David Hamilton, the best psychic in four states.  Why be afraid of a little country home, set like a jewel in a small suburb outside Denver?

         Yet afraid he was, he realized, recognizing the gnawing emotion in his stomach.  He was terrified, although it was mild at the moment, just starting to roar up into a blazing maelstrom of fear.

         “Are you Mr. Hamilton?” the owner of the house asked, rubbing his hands together anxiously.  He was a short, mild-looking man with rumpled brown hair and a perpetually squinting expression.  David thought he was probably myopic.  His name was Rupert Farrell.

         “Yes, I’m David Hamilton,” David introduced himself.  “Mr. Farrell?”

         Rupert nodded shortly, motioning for a tiny woman at his side to come forward.  She was dressed in a too-big blouse and skirt that seemed to swallow her, it was so big.  She peered up at him through thick Coke-bottle glasses.  Fear swam in her eyes as she bobbed a swift curtsey that surprised David.  For a moment, he thought he was back about forty or fifty years.

         “This is my wife, Annalisa,” Rupert said.  “You can go take your nap now, Annalisa,” he added kindly.  The woman squeaked and nodded, disappearing into the shrouded depths of the house.  David’s apprehension grew, nearly swallowing him for a moment.

         “So what exactly has been troubling you, Mr. Farrell?” David asked, carefully taking a seat on the edge of the couch Rupert motioned him to.

         “Please call me Rupert,” the man said.  Beads of sweat trembled at his hairline.  “Well,” he began, “it was just small stuff at first.  You know—the stuff out of the movies.  Moans in the night.  Banging in the hall.  Rattling of chains or something downstairs.  Voices whispering in the other room.  Just little stuff.  But then it got worse.”

         He stopped for a minute, his face pale.  David worried that he might pass out, but then the man started speaking again.

         “It affected my wife first,” he said, his voice a little too calm.  “I woke up one night and she was standing at the window, about to…” he faltered.  “About to fling herself out of it.”

         David started, an involuntary motion that attracted Rupert’s attention.  Rupert nodded, a sad, too-knowing look in his eyes.

         “She said that a little girl was talking to her,” he said.  His hands twisted anxiously in his lap.  “A little girl with brown hair and blue eyes.  She looked like a colonial girl or something.  She told Annalisa that she was a monster, that she should put herself out of her misery.  So Annalisa finally…” he stopped again and shrugged.  “Well.  You know.”

         Yeah, David supposed he did.  That’s a hell of a thing, he thought, carefully schooling his expression to show nothing but a sort of mild compassion and understanding.  Waking up and seeing your wife about to take a header out the window.  Some psycho little girl telling her she was evil, that she should die.

         Yeah, that’s one hell of a thing.

         “Then I saw the little girl,” Rupert continued.  His expression was haunted.  “She was just as Annalisa described her.  Wearing some sort of plaid dress, her hair in plaits.  But her eyes weren’t blue…” he shuddered.  “They were red.  Bright, flaming red, like the inside of her head was on fire.

         “I screamed, but no sound came out.  She just looked at me, then said ‘you must die.’  Then she faded.  I started screaming again and Annalisa woke up.  I told her I’d seen the little girl, and she started crying.

         “I tried calling our priest, but he said that because nobody had been possessed, he could just bless the house.  So Father Carver came and blessed the house.  Everything was fine for a week or so.”  His voice trailed off.  For a second, he looked unaware that David was there.

         “Then?” David prompted.  Rupert jumped a little and looked up.  David realized the man was nervously twisting a small silver cross around his neck.

         “Then the little girl came back and got Annalisa to slit her wrists,” he said, his voice so without emotion, so blank, that it hit David like a physical blow.  “I found her lying in the bathroom on the floor.  She’d only managed to slit her right wrist—she’s left-handed, you know.  I called 911, and just before the ambulance came, she woke up and said ‘The little girl’s back.’  Just that one sentence—but I knew exactly what it meant.

         “So I called you, Mr. Hamilton,” Rupert finished.  “Can you help?”

         David was inwardly shaken—he’d never dealt with a murderous spirit like this—but he wanted to help this earnest, rumpled, little man so badly he nearly hurt.

         “I can try,” David said, rising from the couch.  “I need to go through the house, of course.  See if there are other spirits…see if I can make contact with the little girl.”

         “She’s evil,” Rupert whispered, his mouth twisting.  His lips reminded David of worms, and he banished the thought as cruel.

         David reassured Rupert with mild, bland, meaningless words, then prowled through the living room, all of his senses extended and on full alert.

         “This would help if you would go outside or perhaps go be with your wife,” he suggested after Rupert’s wide-eyed staring creeped him out.  Rupert nodded with something that looked like relief and scuttled out of the room, the tail of his shirt hanging out the back of his pants.

         A girl flashed into his vision and he jumped, fear tearing through his mind for just a second.  But she was a teenager, not a little girl, and the fear subsided.

         Who are you? he asked silently.  The girl shook her head sadly.  She was a blonde, her hair in some sort of complicated arrangement on the top of her head.  She wore blue jeans and a blouse that had a large bloodstain on the left side of her chest.

         Help me, the girl finally said, her voice sighing through his ears.  He won’t let me go.

         Who won’t let you go? David asked in confusion, but the girl shook her head again and vanished.

         He shook his head and moved down the hallway.  A guest bedroom was at the end, sparsely but nicely furnished with a floral theme.  A teenaged redheaded girl sat on the end of the bed, her legs crossed.  She wore a yellow dress that was also stained with blood.  She looked frightened when she saw him, then relaxed.

         Who are you? he asked her, sticking to his formula.  Find out who the spirit was, then find out how to help it.

         Lindsay, the girl gave her name, but the terror returned to her eyes.  You must go.  He’ll find you.

         “Who?” he finally spoke aloud in exasperation.  The girl jumped and disappeared, a floral scent, like a girl’s perfume, lingering in the air.

         The kitchen was the same way.  A tiny teenager with blonde pigtails and a spreading stain across her jumper who told him that he must leave now.

         What is up with this? David wondered, frustrated.  Where’s the little girl?  The house was swarming with spirits, but none of them were the evil little girl; they were all murder victims.  And they kept speaking of a strange “he” who would hurt David.  For a second, he wondered if it could be Rupert, but then dismissed the thought as insane.  For one, the man was tiny, with the strength of a child.  For another, the man was obviously terrified of the little girl and what was happening to him and his wife.

         Another girl awaited him in the basement.  Another blonde, with short hair that brushed against her chin.

         Do you know of a little girl? he asked her sub-vocally.  The blonde hesitated, then nodded.  As she did, the front of her shirt gaped open and he could see a dark, clotted wound.  It looked like a direct stab to the heart.

         Where is she?

         Up there, the girl said, jerking her head upward.  She’s evil, the blonde added after a short pause.  But you need to watch out for him.  He’s worse.  They’re both evil, but he’s worse.

         Who is he? David asked, but the girl shook her head and sank through the washer, disappearing from his sight.

         David finally gave up and went in to tell Rupert the strange news.

         “Your house is full of ghosts,” he began.  Rupert frowned, tilting his head to one side curiously.  “I counted at least four spirits, teenaged girls.  They’d all been murdered.”

         Rupert jumped, gasping.  His face was white, the color of chalk.

         “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice strangely weak.  “Murdered?  When?  By who?”

         “They couldn’t tell me,” David said reluctantly.  “But I didn’t see the little girl at all.  One of the spirits told me about her, but that was it.”

         David found himself strangely hesitant to tell Rupert about the man all of the girls had mentioned.  He didn’t know why; he just knew that he did not want to tell Rupert about the mysterious man they were all so scared of.

         Rupert’s shoulders shook, and David thought he was crying.

         Then the man lifted his head and David realized Rupert was laughing.

         “You idiot,” Rupert said, his voice strangely changed.  It was deeper, crueler, less mild and meek.  “You poor, pathetic idiot.  Of course there’s no little girl.  I made her up.”

         “What—why?” David said, his forehead wrinkling in utter confusion.  Rupert got up and David realized the man had been deceiving him all along.  His clothes were too big, to create the impression of weakness, of smallness, but the man now looked strong and powerfully built.

         Maybe even stronger than David.

         “They talk to me at night,” the man said, half to himself.  “The girls.  The poor little dead girls.

         “I killed them, you know,” he confided to David, tilting his head to one side like an inquisitive bird.  “They were hitchhikers mostly.  I picked them up, then took them to my house, fed them knockout drops, and killed them.  You missed a couple ghosts, by the way—I killed seven.  They’re buried in the backyard.”

         “But—what about your wife?” David stammered.  “The girl—the suicide attempts—”

         Rupert laughed again.

         “Pure fiction,” he assured the psychic.  “Annalisa would never hurt herself.  She’s not stupid.

         “You, on the other hand,” he continued, coming toward David.  “You’re definitely stupid.”

         “How’s that?” David asked, playing for time, hoping that something would happen so he could leave…get away from this madman who had openly admitted he was a serial killer.

         “You never realized,” the man said simply, “that Annalisa’s the little girl that stupid ghost mentioned…and if none of them mentioned me, I’d be surprised indeed.  They all remember me, after all.  Even in death, I can torture them…and you poor, pathetic fool couldn’t even catch a glimmer of that.”  He snorted.  “Some psychic you are.”

         He unfurled his fingers and David saw a long-bladed kitchen knife in his hand.  It looked wickedly sharp.

         “Don’t worry,” Rupert breathed.  “Now  you won’t have to wonder how they all died…you’ll get to experience it yourself…”

         David leapt backwards, almost crazy with fear, but ran into the wall with a dull crunch.  Pain exploded through his body and he moaned, a gray film before his eyes.

         “Stupid,” Rupert sighed, shaking his head.  “So stupid.”

         He raised the knife.  David lashed out with his foot, knocking the knife out of Rupert’s hand.  He felt a vague satisfaction at the crunch that sounded through the room.  He had broken some of Rupert’s fingers.

         The killer howled with pain, his mouth drawn down in a white grimace.

         “Oh, you’ll pay for that,” Rupert hissed, grabbing the knife with his other hand.  “Oh you psychic bastard, I’m going to make your death so long, you’ll beg me to kill you.”

         “Cheap words,” David flung at him, carefully maneuvering around the madman, sliding against the wall toward the door.  Pain flared in his back, reminding him that he had hurt himself rather badly.  “But how do I know they hold up?”

         The man’s face contorted with rage and he lunged at David.  The psychic snatched up a paperback book from a side table and flung it, catching Rupert squarely in the chest.  The edge of the binding hit him, so he stopped for a second, trying to catch his breath.  It gave David time to sprint into the hallway, looking frantically for a way out.

         “Leaving so soon?”  It was Annalisa, smiling vaguely at him, but her eyes weren’t watery and swimming behind her glasses anymore, they were hard and sharp, like a razor, and David realized with a sickening jolt that she was just as crazy as her husband was.

         “Why don’t you stay a little longer?” Annalisa asked and hit him over the head with a paperweight.  He crashed to the floor, blackness descending in an overwhelming cloud.

         I warned you.

         A voice reached his ears and he sat up, realizing that he was still unconscious.  This was just in his mind; the spirits of the house were reaching out to him.

         It was the blonde from the basement.  She wore a nametag now; “Becky” in carefully printed letters stretched across her front.

         “I tried to tell you,” she said aloud.  “I tried to tell you about both of them.  But you didn’t listen.  You should have left.  You should have gotten out while you still could.”

         “Yes,” David agreed.  “I should have.”

         “They’re not going to let you go,” Becky warned.  “They’re going to kill you.  Unless you stop them.”

         “How can I stop them?” David asked.

         “The little girl,” Becky said, then faded away.

         “Wait!  Come back!” David said frantically, stretching his hands out as if he could pull her back…

         “He’s awake,” he heard a cold, satisfied voice say above his head.  A moan came involuntarily from his mouth.

         “Good,” he recognized Rupert’s voice, coming closer.  “Have you prepared the table?”

         “Yes,” Annalisa replied.  “He’s restrained now.  I had a fine job, too, lifting him up there.  I think I wrenched my back.”

         “Well, go to the damn doctor then,” Rupert said, irritated.  “If you couldn’t do it, you should have told me.  Stop complaining.”

         The little girl, David thought fuzzily.  The little girl can stop them.  But how…?  And then he realized.

         There was a tentative brush against his thoughts.  He opened his mind up a little and saw the dead girls, clustered around the fitfully sputtering fire of his mind, his life force.  They were all there—all seven.  Two brunettes and another redhead, the three he had missed.  They stared at him with anxious expressions, willing him to get it.

         Come in, he invited, his mental voice implacable with cold fury.  They fluttered in, all of their spirits focused on one thing.

         Revenge.

         He opened his eyes.  Annalisa was bending over him; she jumped back, fear suddenly twitching her features.

         “Um…Rupert?” she called, her voice shaking.  “Rupert, what color were his eyes?”

         “Blue, I think,” Rupert yelled back.  “Why?”

         “Because they’re green…and gray…and brown…and blue,” she squeaked.  “Just—just like all the girls…”

         “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Anna,” Rupert snapped.  David heard footsteps creaking closer.  “Eyes don’t change color.  Certainly not like that…and the girls are dead, remember?”

         David smiled, or rather the girls’ spirits smiled.

         “That’s what you think,” he said.  His voice was a strange conglomeration of feminine voices and his own.  Annalisa screamed, her voice a piercing shriek.

         “What the--?” Rupert said, sounding shocked.  Rupert bent over him and paled, his mouth falling open.  “Oh my God,” Rupert whispered, looking faint.

         “God won’t help you, Rupert,” David said, sounding stronger.  “You’re a murderer.  You killed us.  And now you’re trying to kill this poor psychic who just wanted to help you.  What do you think God is going to do to you?”

         “Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no,” Rupert babbled, sounding perilously close to panic.  Annalisa had fainted dead away; David heard her body thump to the floor.

         “Let him go,” David commanded.  “Let the psychic go, Rupert.  Or else…”

         Rupert tried to grin; his face was waxy white, and his mouth trembled at the corners.

         “Of—of course,” he said, his voice shaky.  “I—I was just kidding, you know.  Ha-ha.  A—a joke.  Th-that’s all.”

         “Now,” David and the girls said.  Rupert quickly untied him, his hands shaking.  The fingers on his right hand were tightly wrapped together with gauze and medical tape.  David thought the man had used Popsicle sticks for splints.

         He sat up, feeling weak and shaky as the girls left him, fleeing back to their more familiar places in the house.

         Rupert stared at him, eyes huge and wet.  A large spreading stain marked the front of his pants.  Contempt filled David as he looked at him.

         You’re so big and tough when it comes to little girls, but when something might actually hurt you, you curl up and cry, David thought scornfully.  It will actually be pleasurable calling the cops on you.

         David turned and left the house, leaving Rupert a blubbering heap next to his unconscious wife.  He pulled out his cell phone.

         “Hello, police?  I’d like to report a crime,” he said, and felt the brush of the dead girls’ spirits on his mind like a benediction.