Dark Night Part 5

While Kerse drove, I used my phone to scour the internet for any trace of Beverly in any historical documents. At one point I found a copy of Rosa Park’s arrest report, which I thought was odd at first, given that there was no obvious link. “Did Beverly have anything to do with the Civil Rights movement?” I asked.

“I…think so,” he said turning down one of the main Lakehaven drags. “It’s hard to say; a lot of people put in effort to get equal rights back then that didn’t want their name advertised.”

I scrolled through the pictures I’d taken of the articles on my phone, doing my level best to zoom them and read the grainy print. “Lakehaven public library doesn’t have the best preservation techniques,” I pointed out.

“Maybe you’d like to give them pointers. Not everyone has an Associate’s degree in historical preservation.”

I stopped. “You have done a lot of homework. I got that…shit years ago.” I recalled the information from that field of study and probably would have gone down that road if life turned out different. Well if I didn’t like seeing my name in print at least.

“I’ll level with you, Spencer; you came into town with a reputation and Lakehaven has its own kind of…weird. I don’t like the idea of importing new weird into our existing weird.” I nodded and went back to the article. I don’t like dragging weird with me and gave serious thought to abandoning the whole thing after Scott was good enough to get on the road. It’s not like there was a damsel in distress. The words "imminent disaster" can have a very wide meaning. But then Scott getting hurt would have been pointless and my friend was not pointless.

“You’re doing that thing with your leg again,” Kerse pointed out. I looked down and it was vibrating.

“It’s a thing,” I said, going back into my world of research.

“The thing is annoying,” he pointed out.

I grimaced, “I know, and for what it’s worth I’m sorry.”

I kept glancing out the window. Once upon a time I thrived in cities like Lakehaven, Chicago, anything with concrete and glass valleys where one could get lost in the crowd. “Want to talk about what happened?”

I looked at him, realizing we’d stopped at a multistory building. “Where are we?” I asked, ignoring the question. I knew, or at least I had a feeling I knew, what he was asking about. Everyone asked about it eventually. Kerse got out of the car and we walked up to the building. “This building houses a lot of the old town records, ones that the folks at the library don’t care about. It’s got a room where the historical society meets.”

“Groovy.”

We walked in and Kerse was met with a small pond of sour faces, people who knew him and did not want him there, but may have been too polite to say anything.

“Hi, folks,” he said awkwardly, placing his right hand on the small of his back. I looked and saw the faint outline of a revolver.

I clapped him on the shoulder. “Good morning!” I said slapping the biggest smile on my face. There was one guy who got up, my guess was to throw us out, but I met him with an outstretched hand. “My name is Ned Spencer, and I bet you guys have a few ghost stories.”

The guy was taken aback and one of the little old ladies from the back said, “Ned Spencer, sakes alive, it is you.” She stood up and hand in her hand a copy of Blood Debt: The Confederate Ghost and shoulder her way past the man asking me to sign her copy.

“Why I’d be happy to.” And honestly I was. She explained to the guy who I was, and we started talking about historical hauntings and the ghastly events that most people don’t read about in high school history classes, all the while Kerse texted me a few questions I answered them quickly and kept the conversation moving. Pretty soon I was presiding over a round table discussion on the topic.

“So what brings you to town, Mr. Spencer?” the guy, a Wade Reynolds asked.

“I’m looking into a few reports of hauntings, but to be honest, one has really captured my focus. Does the name Beverly Hamilton ring a bell?”

“Oh heavens, yes…” Nancy, my number one fan opened up. “Terrible business about her.”

“Well, that’s part of the problem…” I said, “I know next to nothing about her. I went by the library but…”

“Oh, don’t waste your time at the library,” Wade offered, giving a rather condemning critique of brick and mortal book repositories in the process. “No, we got what you really need here.” He motioned for me to join him and walked me to the back.

Kerse was on my heels. “Not him. He destroyed half a dozen artifacts last time he was here.”

I gave him a withering look, and almost came up with a line about how we might need him for heavy lifting. “OK, man I can’t do anything about that. You stay here.”

“Dude, it wasn’t my fault.”

“They sure think it is. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

Wade gave me a side long glance and then led me to the back.

The back of the building was a massive warehouse containing artifacts from Lakehaven’s history. Some were sturdy boxes of records, some historical items that had to be stored lest they be lost to time. There was a 1909 model automobile, a bell split down the middle, a large clock that looked like it’d been ripped out of a clock towner, old wooden signs depicting long forgotten businesses from the 1800’s.

“The records are in the back,” Wade said pointing the way.

“This is pretty impressive,” I pointed out, wandering away towards the older model cars.

“This seems like a more recent model.” I pointed out a black and white Buick, a four seater hot rod.

I glanced up at Wade who nodded. “Yes, sir, that was donated to us by one of the mayoral candidates. It had been in his family since the fifties.”

“Which candidate was that?” I asked.

“Morgan Lighthouse. Good man, pillar of the community.”

I nodded and straightened myself to follow him. As Wade turned around I used my phone to take a quick photo of the car and sent the picture to Kerse before letting my phone slip it into my back pocket.

“Mr. Reynolds…” I said, “I’ve run into a few people who don’t share your opinion of Mr. Lighthouse.”

“I thought you wrote ghost stories, Mr. Spencer. I didn’t think you were one for political drama.”

I chuckled, “Generally no, but it is kind of related to what I’m working on. Do you know of why some folks may not like Lighthouse?”

He led me to the back and went down a line of boxes. “Here you go…” He pulled a box and slid it to me. “You want to find out about Beverly Hamilton? You need to go back further than forty years. You need to…” he was interrupted by the chiming of a text message.

It was Kerse: “Get out of there!”

I looked back up to Reynolds, but his body had become gaunt and deathly pale. Behind him stood a silhouette of a man, it’s head hanging at an awkward angle. Reynolds reached for my throat and I grabbed the box, scrambling away. Behind me the Buick fired up, coming to life and shooting beams of light across the room, creating a maze of long shadows and a series of five or six silhouettes that all looked like men with their necks broken. I turned back to Reynolds, but he was a skeleton now and fell apart as he moved. I ran for the door as I felt the spectral hands claw at me. I hit the door hard and Kerse grabbed me and all but threw me out the front door. He turned and raised his gun, but the room was empty.

“What the hell was that?” he yelled.

I took a look at him, his jacket was tattered, coming apart at the sleeves, and his face was smudged with ash and dirt.

“Get in the damn car!” I yelled at him.

He holstered his pistol and ran for the door but it wouldn’t budge. “It’s not locked!” he yelled.

“It won’t budge!” I yelled back, pulling and pushing on the door, anything to get it open. He drew his pistol again and I moved out of the way in time for this bullet to shatter the window. He crawled through the broken glass and once he was on his feet we both sprinted to the car.

Getting into the car we both breathed a heavy, ragged sigh of relief. He looked at me and started to laugh.

“What?” I asked.

He replied through breaths, “Well, they had a few good ghost stories.”

I shook my head and started to laugh.