Kelly Foster; Paranormal Private Eye

Ever have one of those days where within 30 seconds of getting out of bed you ask yourself “why me”?



Imagine it lasting almost a decade and you’ll get a grip on where I’m coming from.



My name is Kelly Foster, ex-cop, ex- husband (twice), ex-boyfriend (countless times), ex-reporter, FBI reject and all around nice guy, just don’t ask anyone but me about the nice guy thing.



As you may have noted from my informal resume, I have two undeniable qualities; I’m annoyingly curious by nature and I don’t take order well…also by nature.



I have a unique niche that I work in now; in this case ‘unique’ meaning I frequently do shit that no one else can or will do. The ‘niche’ part refers to what many people laughingly call my job.



I started as a private investigator with noble enough intentions, if by noble you mean I was just looking for a way to keep myself in a cheap apartment and my two ex-wives in Lexus’ (or is it Lexi?), but somewhere along the line my mission statement shifted somewhat.



Through every fault of my own I found myself being the premier paranormal private investigator in the lower New Hampshire area, oddly enough I am probably the only paranormal private investigator in lower New Hampshire so the premier thing may be something of a stretch, I like how it sounds though so I keep it in my mind when referring to my line of employment.



Surprisingly my job pays pretty well and I usually have a decent docket of rich fruit-loops that interpret faulty wiring and wind noise as ghosts, personality disorders as demonic possession, guys who work second shift as vampires and pasty people with bad skin and worse teeth as the living dead.



Good thing I haven’t become jaded over the years on the job, I left out the part about how open-minded I pretend to be.



Usually my investigation find one of the above listed causes to be an accurate assessment of the cases I’m hired for, making most people believe I’m a one-man-band version of that idiotic cartoon where four weird kids travel around in a hippy van with a large dog that has a speech impediment.



Sometimes, I admit, I do in fact feel that way myself, but I have yet to have anyone I caught say to me “…and I’d have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for that meddling Foster”.



I have a hand gun permit though; just in case a situation like that arises. I really hate clichés and catch phrases but I’m a 'people person', so I try to avoid shooting folks as I’ve found it to be a less than effective way to make friends.



Sometimes, and by sometimes I mean very rarely, I do come across a legitimate case that can’t be explained by weather conditions, amateur electricians or people who lack UV exposure and decent dental hygiene. Sometimes I actually have to live up to what I advertise, if I advertised in anything other than the Yellow Pages.



Ironically those cases never pay as well as the rich fruit loop jobs. I keep hoping a legitimate paranormal event happens to a rich, single, beautiful female nymphomaniac who digs aloof and dashing private eyes, but that convergence of events has yet to happen. Go figure.



Generally, my business comes to me in one of two ways, phone or walk-in.  I despise email. I’d rather beat a fucking jungle drum or send smoke signals than type LOL, IMO, BTW or WTF to some half-wit who thinks his computer is consuming his soul. I blame the movie ‘Tron’ and the pimply neck-fur wearing clowns that always try to help me by confusing the shit out of me at the local electronic mega-store.



Of my two preferred methods of client contact, the phone is by my estimation 99.5% bullshit-chase your tail stuff. The more serious stuff comes from the walk-ins, as well as the more seriously devoted whacko’s (my PC training has been somewhat lax). The key is being able to weed out the folks who have what sounds like a serious problem from those that are ready for the cocktail jacket with the stylish 8’ long wrap-around sleeves.



Sometimes I peg ‘em right, sometimes I don’t. I try to make a game of it whenever possible.



Harold Langston the III came into my office not sounding like he was ready for crayon coloring using only his toes, but he did look unbelievably tense.



Good thing I’m so proficient at putting people at ease. Like I said, I’m a people person.



“Mr. Foster, I presume?” he said as he held out a clammy hand for a weak handshake.



He presumed correctly, seeing as I am actually the guy with the name listed on the front of the building, the door heading into my office and on the nameplate prominently displayed on my desk. Already I could see why this person needed someone with some investigative talent.



“You presume correctly” I replied, trying with all my might not to sound sarcastic, no easy feat for those that know and love me, well…know me anyway, but the Brooks Brothers suit and careful grooming had dollars signs spinning like a slot machine in my head as I shook his cold, wet and disturbingly squid like hand.



“How may I help you Mr…” I asked, leaving the question hanging in the air, it took him a few seconds to realize that he didn’t tell me his name yet, sure sign of a rich guy who was either wrapped way to tight or not tightly enough, they usually loved the sound of their own name.



“…Harold Langston the III, my apologies” He said nervously as he carefully perched himself on the seat across from my desk, crossing his legs and adjusting his pants crease in a fastidious manner.



Noting that this guy would have gone through the ceiling is I said ‘boo’ loudly enough, I decided to try out the time honored but now almost forgotten practice of offering him a drink. If anyone looked like he needed one it was HL the 3.



“Can I offer you a drink before we begin?”



“Please, by all means Mr. Foster. A dash of sherry would be fine if you have it.” Harold replied.



Unfortunately sherry is not one of the three spirits I keep in expensive looking bottles in my small, in-office dry bar. I have a bottle that displays an expensive and rare single-malt scotch, filled with run-of-the-mil Dewar’s, a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, filled with Smirnoff and a bottle of Napoleon Brandy, filled with the E&J derivative. I’ve yet to receive a complaint on any of my selection, demonstrating the power of a good looking bottle.



“Will brandy suffice?” I asked, making sure I display the intentionally slightly dusty bottle as I pull it from the globe dry-bar I purchased for $20 at a yard sale some years ago.



The dry bar came with a complete set of thick cut crystal glasses, their reasonable heft and beautiful finish would make paint thinner look impressive. I poured a splash into the glass and handed it to him, which he downed in a single swallow, nodding his approval of the faux-Napoleon. Being a gracious host, and one that know that a wallet opens more easily when properly lubricated, I refilled his glass to half-full before taking my seat behind my desk.