The Franklin Castle - Chapter 7

Table of Contents
Floor Plan 

Chapter 7

“Mr. Ryan,” Sir Nolan said. He waved his hands in a flourish and bowed. He rolled the R’s in Archer’s name, his English accent slipped off his tongue as smooth as silk. “How grand to finally meet you in person. I’d like to thank you for inviting my team into your home for the weekend. I am so excited to participate in this weekend’s paranormal investigation in this legendary house. We can’t wait to get started.” The silver-haired man walked through the door, his cape fluttered behind him in the face of a woman and two men.

“Nolan Knight,” Dr. Fran said. His face contorted with a scowl of distaste.

“That would be Sir Nolan Knight, Dr. Rogers. It seems the Queen holds me in higher regard than you.”

“So it would seem,” Dr. Fran said. He turned to Archer. “Mr. Ryan, I’m confused. What are Knight and his people doing here?”

“Well, as Terry said, your team concentrates on one aspect of a haunting, and I am interested in your results. But, I am also very interested in what Sir Nolan and his team has to offer on this, as they concentrate on a different aspect altogether,” Archer said. “Given the amount of history and notoriety associated with this house, I couldn’t leave the investigation to just one team to investigate in a skewed way. His team will investigate alongside you this weekend.”

“But, Mr. Ryan, I must protest,” Dr. Fran said. “I have a hard enough time stomaching that a team such as Knight’s even exist in the same industry, let alone the ridiculous amount of press and credibility they get. But, to force me to put up with their infernal tactics and trite theories for an entire weekend are out of the question.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Fran, but they’re in. If you are not happy with it, the only solution I can offer you is to leave,” Archer said.

Sir Nolan walked towards Dr. Fran. “Really, Fran. This is not a civilized way to behave. We have worked in the same area before. We last worked together in Minnesota in that haunted farmhouse, right?”

“That farmhouse was not haunted,” Dr. Fran said.

“So you say, but we found tremendous evidence to the contrary,” Sir Nolan said. “Even your psychics told you something was going on. Of course, you do not listen to them. That’s not your modus operandi, is it?”

“You leave our techniques out of this, they work just fine,” Dr. Fran said.

“For someone like you, I suppose they are adequate,” Sir Nolan said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dr. Fran bellowed.

“Well, you have to admit we are more successful and respected in this field than you,” Sir Nolan said.

“By what standards? Because you agree with every nut that sees a ghost in their basement?”

“Every nut, eh?” Nolan said. “Your former President Reagan made a statement once about the ghost of Abraham Lincoln in the White House. Is he a nut?”

Dr. Fran cleared his throat.

“Quite right,” Nolan said. He turned his back to Dr. Fran. “Mr. Ryan, may I introduce my team. As you know, I call my organization PRETA, the Paranormal Research Evaluation and Termination Association.”

Sir Nolan pointed to a tall woman with dark red hair and a light complexion. “This is Larissa Schoenborn,” Sir Nolan said. He looked at Dr. Fran with a smirk. “Dr. Larissa Schoenborn, full professor of Sociology at Hofstra University in New York. A published author on the subject of the paranormal, she specializes in haunted locations.”

Larissa smiled a side smile and shook Archer’s hand. “A pleasure to be here this weekend.”

“I remember you,” Dr. Lyman said. “You wrote a book on theories on how the dead live and organize themselves. I believe it had something to do with an alternate plane of existence in another universe, or something like that.”

“No, no,” Larissa said. “They live on this earth, but in another dimension invisible to anyone without sixth sense perception.”

“And where does Elvis live?” Dr. Baer said. A few stifled laughs around the room broke the silence.

Larissa forced a smile. “The scientific community greeted Einstein with the same sarcasm at first as well.”

“Next, I’d like to introduce Clifton Stefani,” Nolan said as he pointed to a rugged man with light brown hair and a long smooth face stepped up. He wore a green flannel lumberjack shirt, dirty blue jeans, and hiking boots with dried mud on the sides.

“Nice to meet you,” he said with a strong Tennessee accent.

“Clifton is our adventurer, and spends a great deal of his own time in the Pacific Northwest where he studies Bigfoot,” Nolan said.

John Silver covered his mouth as he giggled. “Bigfoot?” He asked. “Does anyone still believe in that?”

Clifton stepped over to John and leaned down nose to nose. “Yes, someone does, Pencil-Neck. And I’d ask you to mind your Yankee manners before I mind them for you.”

John sunk in his chair. “Okay, sure,” he said.

“And lastly, we have Vivek Rushdan,” Nolan said. “He is our electronics expert. He has designed and built all our equipment.”

“Awesome, good to meet you,” Vivek said. He looked around the table, his smile wide. “Don’t worry, I get that all the time. I surprise people when I talk like a surfer. My parents are from India but I’m from Silicon Valley.”

“I remember some of your gadgets,” Dr. Fran said. “You were working with one up in Minnesota that flashed and beeped every time you approached water. What exactly did it do?”

“Let’s just say I’ve perfected it since then,” Vivek said. “And as to what it does, well, if I have to explain it to you, then you just wouldn’t understand.”

The people in the room remained silent. The palpable silence filled the room.

Dr. Fran cleared his throat. “Nolan, I don’t know whether we have room for you. We’ve taken up the Ballroom.”

“We prefer the basemen, Dr. Fran,” Nolan said. “And we’re already setup.”

Dr. Fran sighed. “Then it looks like we’re ready to go,” he said.

“The game’s afoot,” Nolan said.

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The Fenian Avenger - Chapter 2-b

Table of Contents

Dublin, Ireland

October Present

The section called Ballsbridge suffered in similar fashion to the rest of Dublin. Before the Drop, prestigious Ballsbridge represented the prosperity and hope of the New Ireland with large Georgian homes and swanky stores lining the streets. Most foreign governments established an embassy in the village. A bridge spanned the River Dodder, still adorned with a sign that read Ball’s Bridge, and everyone called the neighborhood that name from that point. Ballsbridge Village displayed the disparity of pre and post Drop, a former upscale neighborhood now teetered on the brink of urban collapse. The village housed pubs, a college, and many former luxury hotels, some abandoned and transformed into drug dens. Stately older homes fell into disrepair after the economic collapse. More storefronts stood empty and boarded up than open. Business ventures still in operation barely functioned, stock full of dusty and slow moving merchandise people either did not want or could not afford.

RTÉ News presented a statistic on the evening news. Since the Drop, the occurrences of rainy days increased at a substantial pace. During the boom times, in an average month, Dublin experienced thirteen days of rain. Since the Drop, the number of rainy days increased to twenty-five, and overcast days rounded out the remaining days. Most Dubliners could not remember the last sunny day.

A five-block section of Merrion Road appeared more prosperous than the remnants of the once proud neighborhood. The area contained sparkling addresses such as the Royal Dublin Society, the US Embassy, and Herbert Park. The prestigious attractions still lay between interspersed empty or burned out husks of buildings past their former glory. Despite the eyesores, the section fared far better than the rest of Ballsbridge. A grocer occupied a central spot on Merrion Road. Fítheal’s appeared on the marquee, pronounced Fee-hulls, translated from Gaelic meant “goblin” in English. In actuality, Fítheal was the surname of the original grocer who opened the establishment in the twenty’s. A new green awning covered the entrance, fragrant flower boxes adorned the windows, exposed original brick floors added character to the interior, and a large crusty old manager who could tell a customer everything about a particular fruit or vegetable added charm. A constant stream of Dubliners moved in and out of the store, mostly because of the affordable prices. New products come in from the back, moved by men with dust and sweat pooled on their brows.

To the Gardaí, Fítheal’s Grocery presented the perfect definition of a suspicious business that operated as a front. Neighborhood residents speculated on how a small shop operated with the high degree of success in this economy. Speculation aside, people overlooked suspicious behavior on a business that made affordable to provide food to their families. Little evidence existed of any negative impact of Fítheal’s side business on the locals. In fact, in addition to prices, the store employed many residents, including numerous cashiers, who greeted each customer with a smile, and stockers who brought a continuous supply of fresh produce from the storeroom with a jolly demeanor.

As the stockmen passed through the double push doors into the back storeroom, their manner dropped like a guillotine into scowls as if the distaste of dealing with the rabble out front produced vile in their mouths. A pall of smoke filled the air of the warehouse. Combined with the humid odor of sweat, the foul atmosphere assaulted the nose. Past the legitimate shelves of warehoused stock operated the true business, this business made the owners wealthy. Half a dozen men operated two greasy rusted press machines and hand-cranked counterfeit twenty punt notes. The high quality of the notes proved sufficient to pass in the stagnant Irish economy, as most any local business found themselves desperate enough for any currency coming through the door to ignore the quality. On the front of each note in pastel shades of pink, grey, and blue emblazoned the logo of Banc Ceannais na hÉireann in Gaelic letters, and on the back the English translation of the Central Bank of Ireland. Organized crime in Ireland managed to stall the politicians who tried to persuade the Irish to join the European Union and adopt the Euro. Counterfeits of the Euro presented a tougher challenge than the Irish Punt. If Ireland joined the EU, it would make a dent in the only profitable industry in the country.

The printing press stained black in on the men’s overalls, t-shirts, dungarees, faces, and hands. Several bottles of Bushmill’s Irish whiskey passed from man to man, ended in the hands of a man who gritted a Churchill cigar in what passed as his teeth. 

The door to the alley in the rear of the warehouse opened. A large in a shabby grey suit swaggered into the room. Sweat glistened off his forehead and the damp spot under the arms of his suit expanded. He wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve and looked at the large patch of wet cloth. His moustache appeared twice the size of his face. He walked into the center of the room and waved a piece of paper in his hand.

“We made the list, lads,” he roared. “The South Balls made the list.”

“What you talking about, Errol?” The man with the cigar clamped in his teeth asked.

“The South Balls made the Garda’s most wanted list,” Errol said. “Imagine that boys, we pass off thirty percent of the bills to the local Gardaí station so they have spending money, and they got the nerve to put us on their most wanted list.”

“Bullocks, you just can’t trust criminals these days, even when they’re dressed as Gardaí,” another said.

The South Balls represented the new breed of up and coming Dublin organized crime groups. Mild in comparison with several of the other mobs, The South Balls focused on victimless crimes such as counterfeiting, gambling, and black marketing. Recently, the group upped the ante when they staged a daring broad daylight execution of an honest Ballsbridge magistrate who caused problems by having the nerve to show morals as he stood up to them and refused their bribes.

“How much do we have?” Errol asked his men as he looked over the stacks on counterfeit bills on the table.

The six men looked around at each other and each shrugged their shoulders. The last turned, picked up a stack of bills, and slowly started to count aloud.

“Oh bogger, never mind,” Errol said. “I don’t have that much time for you tossers to count it. Let’s get it boxed up and ready to go.”

The men scattered about the warehouse, dumped produce from boxes to ground, and boxed the counterfeit notes into the emptied boxes.

“You two,” Errol said. He pointed to the two youngest members of the group. “Go get us some more boxes.” The two young men disappeared down a corridor with floor to ceiling shelves.

A loud crack surprised Errol and his men. They men stopped their tasks when the sound of grunted voices came into the main room.

“What’s going on?” Errol yelled.

The sound of booted footsteps echoed in the silent storeroom.

From the darkened aisle, a figure came into view. Only the outline of the man appeared, though all in the room saw him as a tall imposing body in a trench coat. The silent room allowed the faint sound of fresh leather squished and the chink of metal to boom as the figure walked towards them. A single glowing oval pierced the darkness where the figures eyes should be.

A smooth steady voice flowed from the darkness. “You want to know what’s going on, do you, Errol?”

The figure stepped forward into the light.

“The Fenian Avenger,” a man whispered.

Urban legends of the Fenian Avenger proliferated through the Dublin underworld. His face struck fear into the criminals first. A green mesh mask extended from the leather exoskeleton suit entwined with a metal fiber that covered his entire body. The suit provided protection from knifes and protected him from a standard bullet. His nose, mouth, and chin exposed by the mask added a human touch. The mask contained a slim microphone embedded in the material, unnoticeable to anyone. At his waist, his utility belt resembled Batman’s in the comics. On his left thigh, a strap secured a long rod with a wicked electric tip capable to send a volt of electricity into a body. His eyes covered by a visor that with an eerie green glow. The mask ended at his hairline, and a mop of sandy brown hair dithered down to his shoulders. The Avenger stood tall with an angular muscular frame. Description in the gangland world described him at six feet eight inches and two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. In reality, he stood six feet four inches and tidy two hundred pounds soaking wet.

The members of the South Balls backed away in cautious steps from the Fenian Avenger.

“Don’t let him scare you!” Errol shouted from the safety of behind his men.

The four men looked at each other with tentative expressions before they advanced on the Avenger with slow steps. The Avenger’s gloved hands snapped towards the closest two men, grasped them by the neck, and cracked their heads together. The two men dropped unconscious to the ground.

In less than thirty seconds, the South Ball’s advantage in numbers dropped by four unconscious bodies. The two remaining men exchanged nervous glances. The blonde man on the left stepped back with a shaky leg.

“Get in there, you boy,” Errol shoved the young blonde man and he stumbled to the ground at the Avenger’s boots.

The blonde man lifted his head and gazed at the masked face of the Fenian Avenger. Tears streamed down his cheeks, the boy looked no more than nineteen years old to the Avenger. His lips trembled and mouthed the word “Please.”

The Avenger nodded his head imperceptibly.

The Fenian Avenger cocked his left arm in the air and swung his fist with speed and force. The punch appeared to everyone in the room to know the boy out. In reality, the swing was a nifty piece of stage fighting. A stomp of the Avenger’s boot simulated the sound of contact with the boy’s chin. The Avenger’s right arm pushed the blonde boy to the floor to complete the illusion. The boy lay on the ground and appeared unconscious.

Flick!

The sound of a switchblade opening pierced the large room.

The Fenian Avenger spun to face a dark featured man who held a six-inch blade. In his other hand, he held a broken bottle of Bushmill’s whiskey. He crouched and jabbed the switchblade towards the Avenger.

Clink!

The blade struck the Avenger in the abdomen, bounced off the mesh armor, and nicked the blade. The Fenian Avenger stepped to the side in a quick motion and the dark haired man lost his balance. The Avenger grabbed his wrist and twisted. The knife fell from his hand to the floor as the sound of bone crunching caused him to scream. He waved the broken bottle of Bushmill’s and struck the Avenger in the back, not enough to penetrate the exoskeleton. The Avenger drove his right elbow against the man’s forearm that held the bottle and snapped the bone. The bottle shattered on the concrete floor. The dark man howled even louder with the second broken limb.

The Fenian Avenger raised his left leg and spun in a half circle. He landed the side of his foot in the dark man’s temple. The Avenger applied his knee against the man’s shoulder, dropped him hard to the ground, and rested his weight on the man’s windpipe. With a quick blow to the chest, the Fenian Avenger forced the last gasp of breath from the dark man’s lungs.

***

The Fenian Avenger stood and scanned the room. His distinctive visor enhanced the darkened corners, recognized facial features to match against database picture, and allowed his partner at the control center to see everything he saw. The latest design of the visor, to allow advanced facial recognition, also limited peripheral vision. During the fight, he lost sight of Errol.

Whoosh!

The Avenger heard the sound just before his visor alerted him a fiery object approached him. His quick reactions allowed him to duck his head, and the flaming object flew past him, a bottle of Bushmills transformed into a Molotov cocktail. The bottle hit a rack of wooden pallets, which engulfed in flame. In a few seconds, half the storeroom became a glowing orange Hades as the temperature raised at a rapid rate.

“Damn, Angus,” the Avenger said into the microphone. “I hate wearing this getup. Not only do I look like a tosser, but I can’t see anything to the sides.”

“Can you stop whining for once?” The voice on the earpiece said.

The Avenger spotted Errol, he ran through the door into the storefront. The Fenian Avenger detached a nightstick, which he flung like a Frisbee. The stick caught Errol on the base of the skull and fell into the main section of the store unconscious.

The Fenian Avenger scanned the storeroom for survivors. The first two men he attacked awoke during the scuffle and he saw them run out the back of the building. The dark man gasped for breath while he struggled to crawl into the front store with two broken arms.

The Avenger’s new ally, the blonde boy, arise from his feigned unconscious state as the fire worsened around him. A set of wooden shelves above him erupted in flame and collapsed, buried him in burning timbers.

The Avenger leapt to the fallen shelves and pulled burning timbers off the boy. His hands grasped the blazing wood, his hands protected through his gloves. The heat from the fire hit his exposed face and scalp. When he removed the last shelf, he saw the boy’s clothes on fire.

Removing his trench coat, the Avenger snuffed out the burning man. He picked up the boy and slung him across his shoulder. The Avenger ran across the room.

“The fire in the room is spreading fast,” the Avenger said. “It’s going to spread to the residences close by soon.”

“I’ve already called the Fire and Rescue,” the voice on the microphone said. “And for what it’s worth, someone has notified the Gardaí already, they may already be there. Better hurry it up.”

As he crossed the doorway into the fiery storefront, the Avenger knelt down and grabbed Errol by the ankle, and picked up the nightstick lying next to the unconscious boss. He dragged the body out the front glass doors.

On the street, a large crowd gathered. Smoke billowed out of windows on all floors. The crowd cheered at the sight of the Fenian Avenger. The Avenger set the blonde boy down, he softly set his head from his glove to the floor. Errol began to cough and the Avenger dragged him away from the blonde man and handcuffed him to the lamppost.

Fire engines arrived, the throngs of gawkers parted. Many onlookers surprised at the sirens, as the fire interested them, however sightings of the legendary Fenian Avenger presented a once in a lifetime opportunity. YouTube and status pages filled in a rapid pace with pictures and videos of the Avenger.

The Avenger hopped on the hood of the nearest car and raised his hands to the crowd to quiet them.

“This man,” he pointed to Errol handcuffed to the post, “is the leader of the South Balls. Make sure the Gardaí know this and make sure they actually arrest him and see to it they do it, as the South Balls are some of the most wanted fugitives in Dublin currently. He is also directly responsible for this fire.”

“You got it, sir,” a young boy in front of the crowd. He saluted the Avenger.

The Avenger smiled and saluted the boy back.

“There is a chance these men will be back on the streets before this fire is out,” the Avenger said. “We all know how things are, and I will make every effort to ensure it doesn’t happen. But, as you can guess, I don’t carry a lot of weight with the Gardaí.”

The Avenger jumped down from the automobile. He turned to face the blonde young man, still lying on the sidewalk.

“Why?” The blonde boy asked, his face a mask of confusion.

The Avenger smiled and knelt down. “Why would I save you and that scumbag?” He said softly.

The blonde man nodded. “But, I tried to hurt you.”

“You’re heart wasn’t in it. I’m offering a second chance,” the Avenger said. “What’s your name?”

“Boone.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Boone, after the paramedics give you a look, I want you to go home to your family.”

Boone’s face relaxed as the meaning of the words sunk in. “You’re not sending me to jail?”

“Screw up again and I’ll do more than that,” the Avenger said.

“Thank you,” Boone said. “I owe you, and I promise I will be of service to you.”

“Good, I’m glad,” the Avenger said. “It’s good to have friends. A man can never have too many friends. Someday I may ask you to help my cause.”

An ambulance pulled up in front of fire truck. The Avenger turned to the technicians. He pointed to Boone. “This young man’s name is Boone. He helped me in the fire against the criminals. Make sure he gets taken care so he can get home to his family before they worry about him.”

The Fenian Avenger walked to the burning building.

Boone meandered through the crowd away from the spectacle. When he cleared the crowd, he broke into a sprint and only slowed when he reached home.

 

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The Franklin Castle - Chapter 6

Table of Contents
Floor Plan 

Chapter 6

 “Thank you, Dr. Rogers. I appreciate you coming here this weekend,” Archer said. “As you said, I grew up in Cleveland. As a child, the Franklin Castle fascinated me. I wanted to live here. Everyone thought I was crazy. A few months ago, I worked in Silicon Valley, and I tried to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I saw a real estate listing about this house. I jumped at the chance to purchase the house,” he said with a sigh. “And now, everyone is certain I’m crazy, after recent events, so do I.”

“Mr. Ryan, here is our process,” Dr. Fran said. “As I’ve alluded, this is a scientific study, along with our psychologists and observers. Team members will have little contact with each another. Every fifteen minutes, members write in their journals with precision everything they did and experienced during a fifteen minute period.”

“What will that accomplish?” Archer asked.

“One person may hear tapping on the ceiling. They will write their actions in a journal. A garden-variety ghost investigation will claim this as proof of the existence of ghosts. However, in the case of our investigation, another person writes in their journal during this same period of time they were bouncing a tennis ball on the floor. We read about this following the investigation, and discover the person who heard the noise was in the room beneath the person who bounced the tennis ball, and voila. We have just proven the noise was not a ghost. That is scientific, and validates what we believe.”

Terry propped his feet on the table and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “So, what happens if you can’t connect the noise with an incident in a journal?”

“That’s a good question, Terry,” Dr. Fran said. “Dr. Baer, would you elaborate?”

“Certainly, Dr. Rogers,” Dr. Baer said, as he stood up and stroked his grey beard. “The second set of proof is in our equipment. In the lab we will set up in the ballroom, we have a tremendous array of tools. In the case of this example, we have motion detectors and sensitive digital sound capturing devices. We will be able to pick up any sound made in this entire house.”

“And if the machine does not pick up the sound?” Terry asked.

“Then nothing happened,” Dr. Baer said in a terse manner.

“I see,” Terry said.

“It’s as simple as that,” Dr. Fran said.

“Let me pose this question, Dr. Baer,” Terry said. “Can your equipment see or hear what I’m thinking?”

Dr. Baer wrinkled his forehead. “Well, no,” he said.

“Then according to your theorem, since the machines did not detect my thoughts, we can conclude I’m not thinking, correct?”

“Terry, I believe you’re oversimplifying this,” Dr. Fran said.

“No, I believe you are oversimplifying,” Terry retorted.

Terry held eye contact. After several moments, Dr. Fran lowered his eyes.

“How long have you owned the house, Mr. Ryan?” Terry asked.

“Two months,” he said. “After what happened on the first day, I don’t even sleep in the main house. I know the legends. I heard them for years growing up here. Something terrible happened the first day I lived here, I don’t even like to talk about the incident. Now that I’ve bought this house, I’d like to know what is going on.”

 “Let’s not go into too much detail about the legends, as we agreed Mr. Ryan,” Dr. Fran said. “We do not want to bias our research.”

“A good investigator should be able to be objective enough to hear all the evidence without worrying about being compromised by it,” Terry said.

“This is a scientific investigation, Terry, not a criminal investigation,” Dr. Fran said. “I don’t expect you to fully understand.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t truly a scientific study, is it? You’re not studying particle acceleration in a vacuum or molecular nanotechnology in a lab where the readings are everything,” Terry said. “I know you think you’re studying a phenomenon here, but in reality this investigation is about the study of people. It’s like investigating a murder and not interviewing a single person because their perspective on the matter may not be objective.”

“But, this is not a murder case,” Dr. Fran said. “Besides, I can think of many cases in which science alone convicted someone of murder, without interviewing a single person.”

“I won’t disagree science can be very powerful and an important aspect to an investigation. But, it is only a single aspect of a good investigation. Prosecutors presented overwhelming scientific evidence against OJ Simpson, but still not sufficient to convict him,” Terry said. “A popular conception of police investigation and a public trial is to identify and punish the criminal. To an extent that is true. However, a deeper necessity of the system is to gain a clearer understanding of events. Why did Person A kill Person B? What was going through Person A’s mind at the time? How can we predict this behavior? How can the crime be prevented? How can we learn and grow as a society about these events. An investigation is about knowledge and understanding. Is this investigation about finding ghosts?”

“Hmmph,” Dr. Lyman mumbled. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

“Is that the attitude of the whole team?” Terry asked. “With this preconception about the existence of ghosts, I would think the focus would be even more on the victim. If the preconceived notion were ghosts do not exist, then I would surmise this investigation is entirely about the human aspects of the incident. Why else would are psychology professionals here? And well respected at that.”

The room was silent.

“Okay. Then just what is the goal for this weekend?” Terry asked.

“We’ve found our cultural wastes so much time on the topic of the supernatural,” Dr. Fran raised his voice. “I want to show unequivocally there is not any proof of the validity of the supernatural. I want people to stop believing the charade.”

“Why does that upset you so?” Terry asked.

“What?” Dr. Fran stammered.

“We’ve just seen you get upset and raise your voice to me,” Terry said. “This is very out of character. Why are you upset? It is not because of my questions. You and I have engaged wonderful discussions about our opposing viewpoints, and you never raised your voice to me. Are you bothered by how the media treats paranormal experts with more respect than scientists?”

Dr. Fran looked down.

Terry nodded. “You don’t have to answer. I can understand, Dr. Fran. And I can say, for the most part, I agree with you,” Terry said. “I understand why it’s upsetting to see Yuri Geller on the Today show, and how they treat him like a celebrity. I’m just worried you’re becoming the opposite extreme of him.”

Terry walked around the table.

“I find it interesting there are psychics on the team,” Terry said. “But, you don’t believe their powers exist.”

“I do believe they are more perceptive than most people,” Dr. Fran said. “And that is important to me on this team.”

“But, you don’t really believe Mr. Silver can see the future or Ms. Maeder can read my mind, do you?” Terry said.

Dr. Fran exhaled. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, help me understand here,” Terry said. “In a simplistic statement, we can agree the human brain transfers thoughts and feeling by way of electrical impulses. Is that correct?”

“Agreed,” Dr. Fran answered.

“Many materials have the potential to contain electrical currents,” Terry said. ”And electric passes through some material as if they are not substantial. For example, a piece of metal does not stop electric. If I touched a golf club without a rubber handle, and you attached an electrical charge to the other end of the club, I would get electrocuted, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” Dr. Fran said, knitting his eyebrows together.

“Can we agree the human skull, skin, and muscle will not stop electrical currents from escaping from the human brain?”

“I don’t understand?” Dr. Fran said.

“Does bone, muscle, and skin stop electrical impulses or will they pass through?” Terry asked.

“They pass through,” Dr. Fran said in slow terse words.

“So, I’m sitting next to you at the table. Some of the electrical impulses created in my head, which hold my feelings and thoughts, are floating in air around us both…potentially,” Terry stated.

“Sure, I suppose they are,” Dr. Fran said.

“So, if we can receive these electrical impulses in the air, and if I learn to interpret them, I may be able to understand them.”

“Hmmm,” Dr. Fran stammered. “Perhaps my brain views your impulses as a foreign object and does not see them as thoughts at all. Therefore, they would be gibberish to my brain.”

“Excellent,” Terry said as he slapped his palm on the table.

“What?” Dr. Fran said. “I’m not certain what point I just proved.”

“You have just explained why everyone can’t do it,” Terry said. “Another person’s thoughts in the air would either be undecipherable or simply ignored. But, is it possible a very perceptive brain, like Ms. Maeder’s or Mr. Silver’s, could receive those impulses and understand them?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Fran said. “Wait, no, it is impossible.”

“That flicker of doubt tells me otherwise,” Terry said.

“Ah, someone who believes in what we do,” John Silver said. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

Terry turned to John. “Your ability has quite a reputation, Mr. Silver. You are legendary.”

“Thank you, sir,” John said.

“Your run in predicting the stock market is unparalleled. Truly amazing.”

“And you’re theory hit the nail on the head,” John said. “I’ve never heard a better explanation.”

“Is that right?” Terry asked. “However, my theory doesn’t explain your success.”

“What?” John asked.

“Your success doesn’t fit the mold of traditional reading of minds. Tell me, whose mind do you read to predict the stock market? The experts barely understand the market enough to predict it, so you are not reading their minds. And I know quite a bit about your success in Vegas. In viewing the surveillance tapes, casino security had fewer problems with your success and more issues with your obvious use of accomplices warming the tables and signaling you.”

“You know about that?” John said.

“It’s my line of work to know about things,” Terry said. “You made your winnings at Black Jack. If we believe your ability, you did not read the dealer’s mind, because the dealer doesn’t look at his cards until after you’ve played. You had accomplices, so you could have been counting cards, but your background and profile does not show enough proficiency in math to do this. You may have used a different ability I don’t know about, so I can’t refute your claims.”

“Thank you,” John said.

“But, your stock market picks are something else amazing. Naturally, the SEC investigated you. They don’t believe in ESP,” Terry said. “Their job is to be suspicious. Your last huge gain was with Invesco Corporation, right?”

“That’s right,” John said. He swallowed hard.

“You had the foresight to sell their stock for a massive profit the day before their earnings conference call,” Terry said. “At that meeting, Invesco announced huge losses for the quarter and the potential fraud indictment of several key sales reps.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Two days before you exercised the stock, you had dinner with Steve Trammel, the President of Invesco.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s my job to know things,” Terry said. “You got close to him, because he was fascinated by what you can do.”

“He didn’t tell me anything about his company,” John said with a defiant tone.

“No, I don’t suspect he did,” Terry said. “I know Steve fairly well. He’s an honest man. He would not reveal inside information to you or anyone. The charges of fraud upset him considerably, he decided to do the honorable thing and take responsibility. You see, in the months prior to the allegations, Steve received weekly chemotherapy that made him sick as a dog. He found himself unable to run the company during that time. Things quickly got out of hand. He did a very honorable thing, even if that meant a drop in the stock price and diminished credibility of the company.”

“You see, even you agree with me,” John said.

Terry paused. “But you did read his mind, didn’t you?”

John fingers stroked his goatee beard. “I told the SEC I used my psychic ability to pick the stock. And technically, I did. Yes, I did read his mind. I was on the up and up.”

Terry winced for a moment. “Except--“

All eyes looked up at him.

“You used your ability to find out information you were not allowed to see. That’s the same as if you broke into Invesco’s headquarters and rummaged through their files and stole the information.”

“But--" John stammered.

“In using your ability to read his mind, you committed a crime,” Terry said. “Plain and simple.”

“I didn’t hurt anybody,” John said as he bowed his head.

“Only the investor’s who bought the stock from you,” Terry said.

“Are you going to turn me in?” John said.

“No,” Terry said. “Like I said, the SEC doesn’t believe in ESP and they would never accept that as an explanation. In many ways, they are very much like this investigation team. They have one way of investigating something, and they aren’t open to alternate avenues.”

Terry sat down next to John. “It’s funny,” Terry said.

“What is?” John asked.

“You have an amazing ability, you can read a CEO’s mind and invest or divest in his company,” Terry said. “However, I surprised you. That means you couldn’t read my mind or know what I was going to say, could you?”

John shook his head. “No, you felt foggy to me.”

“Interesting term,” Terry said. “Twenty-five years ago the CIA funded Project Yuri. This was a project to explore using psychics in espionage. The results on the espionage front turned out to be very sketchy. The psychics had to be too close in proximity to the subject in order to work. When the subject was the head of state, they found getting close surprisingly difficult. The project produced some interesting side results. We learned how to protect ourselves from psychic attacks and espionage. I just had a little time to research the results in preparation of coming here, so I’m just scratching the surface. I would love to spend time with you all later to test this further. A defensive strategy against psychic intrusion is to lower the waking brain activity to a beta state. The studies found psychics experienced a lower rate of success reading the minds of people in lowered state of consciousness. I’ve spent the last few weeks reading and practicing their research. And apparently it works.”

“Interesting, something I never thought of,” Dr. Fran said.

“Back to the topic of investigation tools,” Terry said. “How do you feel after your interrogation, Dr. Fran and Mr. Silver?”

“What interrogation?” Dr. Fran said.

“I’ve been interrogating you for the last ten minutes,” Terry said.

“You’ve just been talking with us, and being something of an argumentative pest, I must add. But not interrogation,” Dr. Fran said.

“But it was,” Terry said. “And I learned a great deal about both of you. I know what buttons to push on both of you. After I found your anger buttons, I found the keys to take you back down and engage you into cooperation. You didn’t even know I was doing it. That just shows an investigation doesn’t have to look and feel like a standard investigation to produce results.”

“I’ll give you points, Terry,” Dr. Fran said. “You sure know how to be convincing. I propose we do something a little different. I would like Terry to conduct his own investigation, using whatever means he wants to, while we proceed with ours. At the end, we’ll compare the results. Does that sound fair?”

“That works for me,” Terry said.

“I honestly don’t think you’ll succeed,” Dr. Fran said. “But, good luck anyway.”

“Well then, I had better pick my team and get cracking,” Terry said.

 “Okay, everyone,” Dr. Fran said. “Let’s get setup, and you know the drill.”

“I have a last question,” Terry said. “This has bothering me for the last few minutes.”

“What is it now?” Dr. Fran asked.

“If I were Mr. Ryan here, I would be a little upset regarding the course our conversation has taken over the last half hour,” Terry said. “Dr. Fran, you and Dr. Lyman have all but said that anyone who sees a ghost or believes in them is deluded. I would take offense to that if I was you, but you seem to be taking your opinions in stride. Why is that? Did Dr. Fran tell you about his hidden agenda on this matter ahead of time? I would be surprised if he did.”

Archer cleared his throat. “No, he didn’t tell me about ahead of time.”

“So, the turn of events of this conversation is not a surprise to you?” Terry said.

Archer smiled. “No, it’s not. Like you, I like to know a little bit about people before I invite them into my home. I did some research of my own, and discovered this is how they do business.”

“Then why invite them?” Terry asked. “I doubt they are going to return a ghost to you. And they aren’t the least bit interested in why you have a ghost here.”

Archer looked up at Dr. Fran and smiled.

“I’m curious as well,” Dr. Fran said.

“Mr. Ryan, I think you let us all know the bad news,” Terry said.

Archer stood up, before he spoke, a knock came to the door into the dining room. Archer opened the door.

A man walked into the door with a flourish. His long silver hair flowed with his motion. With gloved hands, he removed his long black cape revealing a black suit.

“Welcome to my home, Sir Nolan,” Archer said.

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The Fenian Avenger - Chapter 2-a

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Dublin, Ireland

October Present

Dublin: a city of contrast.

For over twenty years, Dublin existed as such and not about to change any time soon.

The city was the heritage Mecca gateway for the many Americans, Canadians, and Australians who traced their ancestral roots to Ireland. The mystical tie lived in the hearts of the descendant Irish, a song called from abroad, and even drove them to hyphenate their nationality secondary to their Irish roots, such as in Irish-American.

This Dublin appealed and attracted millions of tourists, and reaped the benefit of this industry. The commercial pubs boasted authentic Irish drink and song, the trendy shopping districts around St. Stephen’s Green in which tourists paid top dollar for Irish depression-wear, and the festivals and shows with the happy dancing and singing Irish people everywhere. Certain citizens made money hand over fist in such ventures. A jumble of different architecture styles, Dublin lacked a distinct visual identity of its own. Due to the charm and personality of its people, Dublin remained a travel destination.

The west knew this Dublin. The western world loved this Dublin.

Another Dublin existed.

The other Dublin revolved around a country where no self-supporting industry other than being Irish existed. A full thirty percent of the people in this Dublin found themselves out of work. Add another forty percent of the population under-employed. These statistics revealed despair, hopelessness, shame, pain, and depression as the chief industry in Dublin. Irish media referred to the economic disaster as The Drop, meaning everything dropped including the stock market, the housing industry, job market, and the mood of the country. Depression led to drinking. Drinking led to anger. Anger led to fighting. Every night, the local precinct jails filled with alcoholic fighting Irish. A drunken tank full of unconscious Irish people did not present a prime tourism poster. The situation in the rural countryside even exceeded Dublin, where poverty affected nearly everyone without the urban diversity to sustain industry when the prime way of life dried up.

Even the long-standing hatred of the British and the struggle between the Green and the Orange motivated Ireland out of this misery. Cultural pride and aggression inspired few parades since the commencement of the depression. Neither malevolent nor benign causes mustered enough organizational emotion to boast or taunt on the streets.

The masses showed their despair in their carriage and demeanor. Any pedestrian street in Dublin consisted of people too desolate to look at another. The people resembled a shambled and ragged lot, who searched for work, and waited in line at the parish soup kitchens. They existed from one waking moment to another before the end of the day to drown their sorrows in ale.

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The Franklin Castle - Chapter 5

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Floor Plan 

The group walked into the large octagon-shaped dining room dominated by a long Chippendale table.

“I’ve seen this kind of table in old movies,” Ashley said.

“Yeah, it’s called a Chippendale. Rich couples sit at each end for fancy romantic dinners,” the stranger said.

“How is that romantic?” Ashley asked. “It seems like kind of a sad date to me.”

“It’s not romantic to me, either, but what do I know? I eat at a small table in the kitchen, even when I have a date at home,” the stranger said.

Two large chandeliers hung above the table, set apart even to the proportion of the table. Each ornamental light contained twenty bulbs and more than a hundred crystals. Each crystal projected a unique prism of light on the wall in geometric designs as the light shone through.

Wainscoting of dark wood reached chair level on all sides. Dark green wallpaper adorned the walls and peeled in spots. To the left of the door a gas-powered log blazed in a large fireplace.

“Does every room in this house contain a fireplace?” Ashley joked.

On the east walls of the octagon, three large windows shed the light across the table. Ashley walked to the windows and peered outside. She scanned the small overgrown side yard that led to the carriage house. The courtyard contained scrub plants, dying grass, and waist level weeds.

The chairs around the long table filled up as people rustled for seats. Ashley turned to see no empty chairs. Ashley and Keith sat in two chairs in the corner against the windows.

Dr. Fran stood at the end of the table with his back to Ashley and the windows. “Welcome, my friends,” he said. Ashley knew he loved to act like chairman of the board. Every investigation started with introductions, even though nearly everyone knew each another. He walked over to the redheaded man that let them in the house.

“I’d like to introduce and thank our gracious host Archer Ryan. Archer recently bought the Franklin Castle after it sat empty for several years. Archer founded SearchNet.Com out in Silicon Valley ten years ago. A month ago, he finalized the sale of the company for a huge profit. In this retirement, he has returned to his hometown of Cleveland,” Dr. Fran said.

He shook Archer’s hand. Dr. Fran pointed to the corner of the room at the ceiling. “Please notice we have setup cameras in every room. We are going to record this investigation with intent to produce it as a television show. Let’s be on our best behavior and make the Ghost Hunters look bad.”

“Archer, I’d first like to introduce my scientific team from Georgia Tech,” Dr. Fran said as he stood behind a bearded man. “This is Dr. Bronson Baer. I won’t try to list or explain all the degrees Dr. Baer has earned. He’s been a part of this team since the beginning ten years ago.”

“So, you two must have seen a lot of ghosts together?” Archer asked.

Dr. Baer shook his head, furrowed his brow, and looked intellectually pompous. He stroked his grey beard and squinted his eyes beneath thick glasses. “We’ve never seen a ghost,” Dr. Baer spoke in a controlled steady stream of words. “There are no such things as ghosts, as we prove over and over again.”

Archer stepped back at Dr. Baer’s response, his eyes widened. He looked to Dr. Fran with his hands raised.

“I don’t understand,” Archer said. “I thought you were here to find the ghosts?”

“Not everyone on my team is convinced in the existence of ghosts,” Dr. Fran said. “And sometimes we need to be willing to accept natural explanations for events.”

Archer pursed his lips before he spoke. “Isn’t that like asking someone who doesn’t believe in God or religion to prove the validity of the gospel? If you don’t believe in ghosts, how can you find them?”

“Dr. Baer heads up my technical team, and since our investigations are scientific in nature, his role is perhaps the most important,” Dr. Fran said. “But, we’ll get into the process in a bit.”

“Next, my graduate assistant at Georgia Tech, Dylan Edens. Dylan has one of the finest minds in abstract physics I’ve ever taught,” Dr. Fran said.

Dylan waved his frail hand to the group, only he did not raise his eyes to meet the people at the table. At twenty-five years old, Dylan entered the final year of graduate work still acting like a puppy dog that followed Dr. Fran everywhere to perform chores. The whiskers on his face already showed a five o’clock shadow.

“Thank you, Dr. Fran,” Dylan said. “Coming from you, that really is a—umm,” Dylan spoke in choppy manner and trailed off before he finished his thought. He looked at Dr. Fran, lowered his eyes, and tugged at his yellow t-shirt that advertised a concert held at the Tabernacle.

“We include scientists on our investigations, and that makes us a unique team,” Dr. Fran said. “We not only bring in valid scientific equipment, but our personnel understand the operation of the equipment and the output. Too often on television, unskilled personnel mishandle even the most basic equipment. Our equipment analyzes everything that happens in the house. We detect changes in temperature, detect motion, analyze analog and digital sound, we detect radiation and gases, and other analysis. This weekend we’re excited to have a prototype device that is supposed to detect ectoplasm residue. Paranormal supporters claim ghosts leave ectoplasm behind as a fingerprint. I don’t really know if this machine works or if that concept is true, but we are willing to try anything. A great deal of unfounded equipment hits the market everyday and consumed by the public due to legitimization by phony television ghost hunters.”

“Another aspect of our investigations includes extra-sensitive people,” Dr. Fran said. “I don’t like to use the term psychic, as anyone I’ve ever tested who claims to be a professional psychic is a fraud. The people I bring choose not to advertise and I believe are more sensitive and observant. I suppose certain people can learn to use more of their brain to perceive the environment, just as only certain people can learn to dunk a basketball. I don’t subscribe to mind reads or fortune tellers and that lot.”

“At Georgia Tech, I test psychics or people who declare this ability. I want to see if they can reproduce under lab conditions what they claim to do as professionals,” Dr. Fran said. “I started a long time ago by looking in the yellow pages to contact fortunetellers, mediums, and psychics who advertised their abilities as a business. We invited them in and setup up controlled experiments, which differed depending on the ability they claimed. I wanted to weed out the typical tricks charlatans used to fool people to believe they are psychics.”

“I’ll provide some examples of these experiments,” Dr. Fran said. “One woman claimed the gift of sight. If that were true, it meant she could see things beyond the range of her eyes. I setup a test where my assistant held up a playing card. She would identify the card, and I also guessed at the card. Pretty simple, eh? However, she didn’t get a single card right. I, on the other hand, actually answered a few correctly. So, according to her credentials, I am a psychic.”

Laughter rolled through the room.

“Another woman advertised herself as a fortuneteller. She claimed to see the future just by holding someone’s hand,” Dr Fran said. “I brought in ten people. We told her to hold each person’s hand and write down observations and predictions for each subject, pertaining only to events that would happen that day. Other than obvious guesses, she couldn’t tell me anything about the subjects.”

“We interviewed another man who claimed to read auras around people. He said each person has an aura and the color indicates what kind of an individual they are,” Dr. Fran said. He wiped his glasses with his tie and perched them back on the bridge of his nose. “He said he could determine the astrological sign of a person based on their aura. When the experiment completed, he didn’t guess a single one correct.”

“We tested a man who taught classes on psychic relaxation to create a beta state of mind. That means the person would have the state of mind of someone asleep, but actually is awake,” he said. “An easy claim to test, we can monitor the brain state with a simple test. In the end, the man could not lower his brain waves into a beta state, so therefore, how could he teach someone how to do it?”

“My conclusion is simple following our tests: People who claim psychic abilities and market that service, never have the ability.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Archer said.

“You could even say that no one is capable of these abilities,” Dr. Lyman snorted in disgust.

“Think about it, if you could see the future, would you sell that ability at ten dollars an hour and live in a dumpy house in the bad part of town?” Dr. Fran said. “Or would you use that ability to play the stock market and live in a mansion? If you could read minds, would you play parlor tricks for small change? I don’t think so. Would you use the information gained to further yourself or humanity and keep quiet so that you could continue to operate under the radar? That seems logical to me.”

“With this I changed the target of my tests,” Dr. Fran said. “I searched to find people by reputation and through referrals. A most difficult task, as they did not want to anyone to find them. Their goal did not appear to make a buck or a name for themselves. Many of them were reluctant to participate. Not all of them considered themselves psychic. Many of them are just observant sensitive people able to come to conclusions about people and events.”

Dr. Fran waved his arm towards the left side of the table. “The people here are the few that stood out above the others,” he said. “I’d like to introduce our sensitive team members.”

“John Silver is an amazing man who tested off the charts in our laboratory. We call him Long John Silver, but as you can see, he’s more a corporate pirate than a swashbuckler.”

John sat with his arms across his chest and a leg perched over top the other. He stood out in contrast to the dusty surroundings in a pressed black suit with a red tie and handkerchief. His dark hair and a goatee beard reminded Ashley of the devil.

“John appears to predict the future, as his amazing run on Wall Street displays,” Dr. Fran said. “His specialties also include cold reads.”

“I read minds,” John corrected.

Dr. Lyman shuffled in her seat and made a disapproving cluck under her breath.

“As evident, we are a team divided on what we believe,” Dr. Fran said. “I will hedge this by saying some individuals have a gift above normal perception. That does not mean they are psychic, telekinetic, or precognitive.”

“John made his fortune in the stock market. Legend in the community says he used his ability to see the future to pick stocks and has never been wrong,” Dr. Fran said. “The Securities and Exchange Commission, who polices the stock market, investigated his success rate. No one has the track record in the stock market John has, and the SEC doesn’t believe in psychic ability, so they think he has friends on the inside of companies feeding him information about what a company does before the public knows. When someone uses that information to profit, they call it insider trading. I think John is honest.”

“John did not openly advertise his ability. No one in this group has a doubt about how special is John,” Dr. Fran said.

“John used to play cards with us, and he told us what cards we held without looking at them,” Ashley said. “We used to play hide-and-seek and he could find us with his eyes closed.”

“I can no longer go to Las Vegas and gamble,” John said. “They barred me from the casinos for winning too much money. They thought I was counting cards. If they only knew how I really did it, they never would have let me inside in the first place.”

“Next, Norma Maeder,” Dr. Fran said. “Norma seems to have the ability to communicate with beings we can’t see, feel, touch, or sometimes believe.”

Norma Maeder stood up and waved, her flowered dress swirled around her as her large figure moved. She removed her large church hat from her gray hair and set the floppy bonnet on the table.

Norma and John appeared as polar opposites seated next to one another. Where John appeared stiff and formal, Norma was at ease and relaxed. She fished through her purse and, after several moments, removed a bright colored pack of chewing gum, which she offered to the people at the table with a wide generous smile. She wadded up several pieces and plopped them in her mouth. As she chewed, she sipped on a glass of iced tea she managed to obtain from the kitchen.

“In her tests, Norma identified an abnormal high number of cards. What surprised me was she when she talked to our staff about departed members of their families,” Dr. Fran said. “I found that to be spooky at first, because she knew so much about them. I can’t fully explain this. Referring to her as extremely perceptive doesn’t fully cover the anomaly her ability creates. Maybe she has the capacity to understand people. Perhaps she can interpret the slightest signal, a flutter of the eyes, the tensing of a finger. Even if the extent of her gifts is a comprehension of the human psyche, she still presents a valuable addition to this team. I discovered psychics are simply people knowledgeable about human nature. And I don’t like to call them psychics.”

“Does it bother you to hear someone say you aren’t really psychic, just perceptive?” Archer asked Norma.

“I don’t care if they believe me or not,” Norma said. “I’m not trying to impress them. I love helping, especially the police. I am sometimes able to follow a trail associated with a crime by listening to the emotions left behind. I’ve solved three crimes in conjunction with the Savannah Police Department.”

“We are proud of the work Norma does, not only for us, but all around,” Dr. Fran said and patted Norma on the shoulder.

“Yvette Richter was the third psychic on our team. As we all saw, she left a bit ago,” Norma said. “She’s different from John and me. In fact, we all have very different styles and abilities. Whereas I can listen to emotions and events left behind, and John is pre-cognitive and can see into the future, Yvette is quite singular. She wasn’t able to turn her abilities on and off like we can.”

Norma shifted in her seat. “Yvette called herself a receiver. It was as if someone was sending messages to her, and she couldn’t control when they came. Similar to what we witnessed on the front doorstep, the messages often come as an assault. The experiences frightened her and left her shaken physically. She was in a constant state of torture. It was easy to label her a hypochondriac. She once said she was the kind of person spirits and supernatural liked to contact.”

“Next, I’d like to introduce the clinical psychological portion of our team,” Dr. Fran said. “Dr. Darrin Dunbar is a professor of Psychology at Georgia Tech and he’s been hunting with me from the beginning. Dr. Joyce Lyman is a clinical psychiatrist in private practice with an incredible reputation.”

“What do they offer?” Archer asked.

“Many hauntings are only psychological in nature,” Dr. Fran said. “Having psychiatric professionals is of utmost importance.”

“Are you suggesting this is all in my head?” Archer asked. His eyebrows raised in concern.

Dr. Fran looked down at the surface of the table. “Yes, that is a possibility.”

Not a person spoke for several moments.

Dr. Fran cleared his throat. “The stranger at the end of the table is the newest member of our team. His name is Terry,” Dr. Fran said as he pointed towards a tall man with sandy brown hair. Terry stood up and waved to everyone. “My assistant said he looks like Russell Crowe in Gladiator. I think he looks more like Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Some of you have already talked to him.” Dr. Fran looked at Ashley. “He likes to argue points with me. He looks rather rascally and his personality is consistent with that. Terry will observe and offer observations, perhaps outside our normal scope of familiarity. Terry is an agent with the federal government, and has seen and experienced a great many things in his career.”

“What interest does the government have in all this?” Dr. Dunbar asked.

Terry smiled and shook his head, making eye contact. “To my knowledge, none. I’m just on holiday.”

“It was my pleasure to work with Terry during one of his investigations. Without going into much detail, the odd case required my expertise in science,” Dr. Fran said. “He impressed me with his deductive skills. In addition, he is not easily frightened. Terry seemed interested in our research, though skeptical of our results. He and I immersed ourselves into several spirited debates about how we proceeded here, and he has some serious opinions about how we should operate. When this project came up, I asked him to join us and offer insight. He’s been through some hair-raising experiences in his fieldwork, and I thought he could be helpful.”

“In what ways do you disapprove?” Dr. Lyman asked, not masking her displeasure with the stranger. “I think we do things exactly they way they should be done here.”

“If this were a lab experiment or a controlled clinical study, I would agree with you,” Terry said. “But, from what I’ve already observed, we are far from a clinical environment. And I think you’re missing the biggest factor in any type of investigation.”

“And what is that?” Dr. Lyman snorted, not appreciating the lecture.

“The human factor,” Terry said.

“What branch of the government are you a part of?” Dunbar asked. “The FBI?”

“No.”

“CIA?”

“No.”

“Secret Service?”

“Not even close.”

“The Treasury?”

“No,” Terry said. “Who do you think I am, Elliott Ness?”

“All right, I give up.”

“I’m in a very obscure organization. I doubt you’ve ever heard of us.”

“What do you do?”

Terry smiled. “We investigate.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re in a covert group?”

“That’s right, I would love to tell stories, but I’m allowed to share few of them.”

“Are you carrying a gun?” Keith asked.

Dr. Lyman shot Keith a daggered look. “Keith, don’t ask questions like that. It’s not nice. It’s none of our business.”

“It’s all right, Dr. Lyman, I don’t mind,” Terry said. “No, Keith, I’m not carrying a gun.”

“Why not?” Keith asked, disappointed.

“Well, Keith, from what I understand about our work this weekend, anything we meet is not liable to be human, at least not anymore. And if a ghost is dangerous, a gun won’t help me, will it?” Terry said.

“The only thing dangerous about ghosts is the people who believe in them,” Dr. Dunbar said.

“That could be, Doctor, or it could be the people that doubt them,” Terry said. “And Keith, I’m far more dangerous than anything you’ll ever likely meet. So, don’t worry about it. I’ll watch your back.” Terry smiled at Keith and winked.

A wide toothy grin spread across Keith’s face.

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