The Fenian Avenger - Chapter 4

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Chapter 4









October 25



Letter to the Shareholders of KOD, Inc.

From the Desk of Kieran O’Dowd

Chairman of the Board and CEO of KOD, Inc.



My Dear Shareholders,

I find myself in a dilemma. I worked hard to build and nurture KOD, Inc. from a foundling idea to the power we wield today. While KOD has flourished over the last seventeen years and taken our shareholders to great levels of wealth, I am saddened our Mother Ireland has not experienced the same level of success. Indeed, Ireland has suffered during the same parallel stretch. The depression in Ireland has lasted far longer than anyone ever expected. The skeletal hand of winter will not release grip on our once proud country and the snow clouds prevent the sun from shining on our emerald shores once again.

I am officially announcing our primary goal and priority at KOD will be the advancement and recovery of our once proud Ireland.

I pronounce that this depression will end within my tenure as CEO of KOD, and this company will lead in the effort to make this so. The people of Ireland will rise from the low state they find themselves in, and will no longer have to be the cute country with happy dancing people in green costumes who beg for the foreign dollars in our economic tin cups.

Ongoing projects at KOD have the potential to help the people of Ireland both now and in the future. These projects will make us stronger and bring us closer to being the great people we should be. Look to some of the top countries in the world, such as Britain, Australia, Canada, and the United States, let alone advancing countries in South America and Eastern Europe, and we will find people of Irish heritage who drive these advancements.

I do not believe this a coincidence, not for a moment.

Time is now to bring the power of our heritage home to Ireland.

I once read a book entitled How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill. This book discussed the concept in the written history, the world as ignored the contributions of the Irish people. Consider what Irish people and people of Irish heritage have offered the world. Look in the areas of artistic, spiritual, economic, scientific, historical, political, and spiritual influence and the Irish will are present. The world would not be as enlightened if not for the Irish people who have left these emerald shores to guide the accomplishments of other fledgling countries. We need to make the call of Ireland reach the ears of those people to come back and help their Mother.

Moreover, the Irish people who have remained true to Ireland and not left these green shores must begin the healing. Your country needs help in many ways: monetarily, spiritually, and emotionally. We need leadership. And we need soldiers.

With my leadership and monetary gifts, I choose to give back to our Mother.

To realize this dream, it may require the sacrifice of KOD profits. How could we not want to sacrifice to live in a country where our children can grow up with a better life?

Finally, I am reluctant to bring this topic up, but many are concerned about controversial rumors regarding KOD. A certain vigilante activist, who calls himself the Fenian Avenger, is the source of recent false accusations and bad publicity towards our company. Everything this alleged “hero” claims is a lie. We can only refer to this Fenian Avenger as a criminal, and not only by me, but by our respected Gardaí. This criminal cowardly broke into KOD headquarters in an attempt to steal information to implicate KOD as the scapegoat for all of Ireland’s problems. Do not allow this false Irish hero fool you. Leave the crime fighting to the real heroes of the Garda Síochána na hÉireann. This criminal assaults Gardaí officers, injuring them and worse. Would a real hero stoop to this level against Irish citizens whose sole purpose is to protect and serve the citizens of Dublin and Ireland? No, a hero would not act in this manner. No real hero would conceal his identify with a mask and run from authorities with questions about his activities. Only a person with something to hide handles himself in this way.

We at KOD will no longer stand for the actions of this criminal. KOD is donating money to the Gardaí for the sole purpose to destroy this false hero.

Eireann Go Brach,

Kieran O’Dowd


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The Franklin Castle - Chapter 8

Table of Contents
Floor Plan 

Chapter 8

The fire popped as it fired a spark that landed on the sofa. Keith dropped his Orson Scott Card book on the ottoman to extinguish the red ember to his right. Ashley turned off her Kindle and stood up. She walked to the fireplace and closed the gate.

Terry strode into the room and dropped his computer bag next to love seat. He walked towards Keith and Ashley and sat on the cushioned footrest next to their feet.

“I met Keith earlier, but I didn’t catch your name,” Terry said. He offered his hand to Ashley.

Ashley looked at him with a furrowed brow. “Me?”

“I noticed Dr. Fran failed to introduce you,” Terry said.

“My name is Ashley,” she said and shook his hand.
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

Terry stood up from the ottoman and backed into the love seat. He propped his feet up and crossed his hands behind his neck. “I guess I have one thing going for me this afternoon,” Terry said. “It appears the members of your parent’s team dislike the members of PRETA much more than they dislike me.”

Keith and Ashley giggled.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Ashley smiled. “You tripped them up with their own theories. PRETA isn’t capable of doing that. No, I think Dr. Fran and his team dislike you much more right now because they are afraid of you. So, don’t feel so bad.”

“I think they are planning to get even,” Keith said.
“Well, thank you,” Terry said. “I appreciate that. You know, I don’t feel like I’ve been successful unless I manage to tick off everyone I possibly can in the process.”

“Then you’re off to a good start,” Keith laughed.

The laughing ceased abruptly as Ashley’s father, Dr. Dunbar, strolled into the room. Dunbar read from his journal while he walked and did not acknowledge the others in the room. Dr. Dunbar knelt down and removed a book from his leather satchel on the coffee table.

“How’s it going, Dad?” Ashley asked.

Her father continued to read.

“Dad,” Ashley said louder. She shifted to the edge of the sofa and stiffened.

His head jerked up from his text. He looked at Ashley with little expression on his face.

“What?” He asked.

“I asked how it was going,” she said.

“Oh, fine,” he said, He returned his gaze to his book as he finished the response.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked.

He held up a finger and continued to read. When he turned the page, his eyes raised to look at Ashley. He looked at his daughter, his face revealed that he had not listened to his daughter. “No, nothing. Just have a good time,” he said and left the room without a look back at her.

Ashley sighed. She turned her gaze back to Terry. He looked at her and rubbed his chin.

“Are you all right,” he asked.
“Yeah, fine,” she said.

“Is he always like this?”

Ashley leaned back in the sofa. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “You might as well know,” she said. “When he’s working he acts this way towards me. This is pretty much how he acts all the time.”

“He made nice before in the driveway,” Terry said.

“Yeah, he wasn’t working yet,” she said. “Soon as he starts, I don’t exist.”

“Most unfortunate,” Terry said. “Are you involved in all this? Or are you just along for the ride?”

“We don’t have anything to do except sit around,” Keith said.

“Everyone else gets to participate,” Ashley said. “They take notes every fifteen minutes, whether anything happens or not. I tried to do one last time on my own, and gave them my notebook at the end. Dr. Fran didn’t care and left the notebook on the table when they left.”

“I haven’t spent much time with Dr. Rogers, so I’m not certain what I’m supposed to write down if nothing happens,” Terry said. “Good thing he gave me permission to do my own investigation.”

“First, don’t call him Dr. Rogers. You have to call him Dr. Fran. He gets really irritated if you don’t.”

“We’ve pretty much established I’m going to irritate him no matter what,” Terry said. “So, I think I’ll stick with Dr. Rogers.”

Keith and Ashley laughed.

“As for the notes, if nothing happens, you’re supposed to write down nothing happened,” Ashley said. She leaned forward in her seat. “But, Dr. Fran wants you to write down any sounds you hear. For example, you may write down that during a fifteen-minute period you heard a pounding on the floor above you. Now, if one of the other people wrote they stomped on the second floor during the same period, Dr. Fran can put two and two together and rule out the sound.”

“Pretty clever. However, it’s not going to work or produce anything. It seems the whole concept behind how they investigate slants to discount instead of discovering,” Terry said. “The PRETA people have a better chance than Dr. Fran. They’re at least excited about what they’re doing. However, in a way they are just as bad as Dr. Fran, just the other extreme. Will Dr. Fran ever relay the story behind this house to everyone?”

“Usually, the group doesn’t know anything about the place until after the experiment,” she said. “He says they won’t be expecting to see something.”

“It’s kind of like investigating a murder when you’re not sure if there’s been a murder,” Terry said. “And what about you? Do you subscribe to this theory?”

“Keith and I are not really a part of this,” Ashley said. “We just come with our parents. As long as we don’t make any problem and keep our thoughts to ourselves, we can do anything we want. We’re not good enough to help.”

“Too bad,” Terry said.

“Why?” Keith asked.

Terry leaned forward. “I’ve found younger people to be the best detectives. They are observant, but not egotistical enough to let what they think they know get in the way of what they really see.”

“What do you mean?” Ashley asked.

“I’m not saying you don’t know anything. I am saying your mindset assumes you have to learn everything. You don’t have degrees on your wall to give you an excuse to think you know everything. You observe and take things in because you want to learn more, and you don't have the preconceived notion you know everything. Even though you’ll argue you do, deep inside, you know you don’t. That is why your outlook is objective.”

Norma strolled into the room, her large flowered dress swayed back and forth. She walked with her hands behind her back, as if on a walk in the park. She wandered the perimeter of the parlor and sniffed the air.

“Norma, this is going to sound like a stupid question,” Terry said. “But, what exactly are you doing?”

She turned to Terry and walked to him. She knelt beside his chair, held his hand in hers, and studied him in silence.

“You are sincere,” she said. A broad smile developed on her face. “Too many people view my kind as a joke. You actually seem to respect me.” Terry nodded his head. Norma continued. “I’m walking through each of the rooms in the house and taking a perception.”

“A perception?” Terry asked.

She stroked his hand with affectionate. “I’m sorry, I’m talking in lingo. I’m allowing my senses to take in each of the rooms. I gain a good deal of information by my sense of smell and I feel air and particles touch my skin. By smelling the room, I can feel emotions. I can feel movement in the air against my skin.”

“You can smell emotions?” Terry asked.

“Yes, anyone can.”

“Another stupid question coming, what do they smell like?”

“Difficult to say, since we do not have common experiences,” Norma said. She hummed as she thought of her next words. “Hatred and anger have a bitter smell to me, though you might not even notice a difference.”

“Okay,” Terry said.

“It’s hard to explain,” Norma said. She stood up. “I would love to talk to you more about this, young man. But, I need to get back to work. Maybe Ashley can explain better. She’s psychic, as well. She just hasn’t broken through yet.”

Norma sashayed down the hall and walked through the kitchen door.

Terry smiled at Ashley. “Did you know you’re psychic?”

“That’s what she tells me,” Ashley said. Her cheeks colored red. “Don’t hold it against me. I don’t know how you feel about psychics, and I don’t want to set myself up to be grilled by you like you did to them.”

Terry laughed. “I would never do that to you. Does any of what she says make sense to you?” Terry asked.

“A little bit,” Ashley said. “What you said before to the group makes a lot of sense to me. I picture thoughts as if they float in the air and I seem to be able to understand them and hear them. It seems to be different for a lot of us. For John, it’s easy for him to read thoughts. He says things just pop into his head as if he is listening to someone in the room. With Norma, she has to feel the spirit. She doesn’t hear thoughts as easily, she feels the emotion in the air and really has to try.”

“So, it’s kind of like one person is good at basketball and another is good at baseball,” Terry said. “They’re both athletes, but gifted in different ways.”

“That’s a good way of explaining it,” Keith said.

“It is,” Ashley said. She raised her finger in the air. “Okay, John specializes in active thought. I mean he can listen to thoughts in the air.”

“While it’s still fresh and hasn’t lost any form,” Terry said. “After it gets stale, he can no longer sense it? He doesn’t receive historical thoughts, right?”

“Right,” Ashley said. “Norma perceives something different. She can sense a presence better than John can, but has to make an effort, but can sense old thoughts.”

“Which is why she has to operate in a different manner,” Terry said.

“What do you mean?” Keith asked.

“Let’s just say she can sense the presence of a ghost,” Terry said. “A ghost’s energy would not be active and fresh, so John does not see ghosts well. A ghost is partially dissipated and old. Norma receives older information better, and that is why she has to feel them. She uses her skin and nose, which are two of the most powerful senses, although we don’t realize it and depend on sight and sound.”

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Ashley said. “Once she feels the spirit, she starts to hear the thoughts. She says it’s patchy, she can’t often get complete thoughts.”

“If they are old thoughts, there may be gaps in them,” Terry said. “Imagine an old video tape that’s been played too many times, or stretched and damaged. The result is the playback is not as good. Could be the same thing here.”

“And Yvette is completely different from everyone,” Ashley said. “That’s why all three of them worked well together because they received different information.”

“Yvette was the one who could not come in, right?” Terry asked.

“Yes,” Ashley said. She shuddered as she remembered the incident in front of the house. “Yvette was probably the most powerful of them. However, she was afraid of what she could do, so she held back. I think she takes Prozac to deaden the senses.”

“What is her power?”

“She’s a Talker,” Ashley said. “She not only can sense their presences and read active and stale thoughts, but she can communicate with spirits. She used to tell me ghosts came to seek her out, and scared her, because she was one of the few who could talk to them.”

“Really? That’s spooky,” Terry said.

“Norma said Talkers are powerful. They usually don’t develop their skills because the experience scares them too much,” Ashley said. “She said if Yvette would sharpen her skills, she could become a Walker.”

“And what’s a Walker,” Terry said.

“The strongest psychic. That’s someone who not only can talk to the dead, but also go into their world and interact,” Ashley said. She ran her hand over goose bumps on her arm.

“So, which are you?” Terry asked.

Ashley shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never been able make anything happen. I just get images and thoughts on occasion.”

“You don’t try to do more, because you’re scared to, right?” Terry stated.

“Yeah, that’s about right,” I said.

“So, you’re not like Norma, she has to try,” he said.

“I guess that’s right.”

“Do you see things current or past?”

Ashley averted her eyes to her hands. She twisted the ring on her finger. “I think I’ve heard current thoughts, but I know I’ve heard older ones as well,” she said.

“Interesting,” he said. “So you can see the past and the present, and you don’t make an effort to do so. So, you can do what both John and Norma do, and you may not have their limitations. You are much more than they are.”

“I don’t know,” she said in a throaty low voice.

The crackling of the fire punctuated the silence.

“Well then, let’s go,” Terry said.

“Where?” Keith asked.

“Since you two don’t have anything to do with either of the other two investigations,” Terry said. “How would you like to join my misfit investigation?”

“Really?” Ashley said. “You want us to help you?”

“Sure, I’d love some help,” Terry said.

“Cool,” Keith said.

“I’ll do it,” Ashley said. “You’re not going to make me do all the dirty work, are you?”

“Depends on what your definition of dirty work is,” Terry said. “But, like anything worth while, once you’ve proven yourself, the amount of dirty work goes down.”

“So, I have to prove myself,” Ashley said.

“Of course you do,” Terry said. “But, I promise I’ll pay more attention to what you do than your father does and your efforts will be valued.”

“Then, I guess, we have a deal,” Ashley said. Keith nodded his head.

“Now, what I will need you to do the first day here is to familiarize yourself with the house,” Terry said. “I don’t care how you do it, whether you walk through the house or sniff the air. Just pay close attention to details. Make a map of the house. Measure the rooms. Look for holes and areas that don’t add up, nulls in the house.”

“What are you going to do?” Keith asked.

“I have some additional research I will need to do,” Terry said. “But it’s important we have this preliminary information before we start.”

“Okay, you got it,” Ashley said.

“So, would you like me to violate Dr. Fran’s rules and tell you about this house?” Terry asked.

“You know about this house?” Ashley asked him. Her eyes widened in excitement.

“Sure, I do,” Terry said. “I did a little research before coming here.”

“How did you know where we were going?” Ashley asked. “None of us knew anything about this.”

“When Dr. Rogers asked me to come along this weekend, he told me I couldn’t know where we going or what we were doing. So, naturally I couldn’t accept that. I took it upon myself to find out all I could.”

“How?”

“I did a little hacking on Dr. Fran’s phone bills, and found the numbers he called often. Since he was flying out of Atlanta, I assumed it was on Delta Air Lines. I mean, what else flies from Atlanta? I hacked into Delta’s reservation system and found the travel arrangements he made, tracked the addresses of the calls, and I took the next step. How many haunted houses can there be in Cleveland? The answer surprised me, as there are more than I thought. I did a little research on the Internet, checking folklore and ghost websites. I looked at websites such as Ghosts of the Prairie, Obi-Wan’s UFO-free Paranormal Page, and Haunted Ohio.”

“I found the Franklin Castle and one Archer Ryan; founder of SearchNet.com and one of the few dot-com entrepreneurs smart enough to get out while they were still a millionaire. And he recently purchased said Franklin Castle,” Terry said. “What did you think of him? You think someone would have pulled him aside in school and taught him how to dress?”

Ashley and Keith laughed aloud.

“So, what’s the story?” Keith asked.

Terry leaned back in the chair, and brushed away some of the dust on the arms of the chair. His voice steady, he began to tell the story.

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The Fenian Avenger - Chapter 3

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Chapter 3

Excerpts from James Beardsley’s interview segment with Wendy Shade from his upcoming book The Profile of the Fenian Avenger

My children and I lived in an apartment above a pub named Mary Mac’s in Ballsbridge. The apartment could not have been more convenient to my job, but hardly the best environment to raise children. When I was a little girl, I dreamed I lived in a beautiful flat in Ballsbridge. That was before the Drop. By the time I had a family and the opportunity to move them into this old neighborhood, the village no longer held the same magic. On the wrong night, my kids were not safe here.

Years ago in my twenties, this location over a pub would have been a prime flat. Today, I can only find fault. The walls and floors, made from thin boards, offer no insulation. Throughout winter months, the wind blows between the gaps in the windows and the cold seeps through the walls and make the apartment bloody cold. On weekends, the noise from below keeps my children awake. Someone stole our air conditioner unit last year, so in the summer we have to open the windows and experience the smell of patrons as they urinate on the back wall of the tavern. Nevertheless, the place was clean, dry, and reasonably cheap, with plenty of floor space for all of our clutter. Quite sad, but we were happy to have this nice of a home. We are just a rednecks new to Dublin, and I heeded my father’s advice to “get up to Dublin and get a job” after my husband died in a Limerick mill accident.

On that October night, we ignored the first indication of trouble. An earsplitting din of noise penetrated our paper-thin walls from the street. Loud noises from Merrion Boulevard happened on a nightly basis and a fight usually spilled into the streets from the bar and gathered a crowd. So, as usual, I ignored the noises.

The first waves of heat through the walls caused us little concern. While this October night was not particularly cold, the blokes next door tended to crank the heat early in the fall. However, when I went to the nursery to feed my son, the heat in the room scorched my skin, coming from both the floor and walls. I grabbed my son and ran for the door. Before I reached the hall, the hot wall exploded in flame. Had I hesitated a second, the fire would have killed my son in an instant. My other children ran into the hall, each of them screamed my name. I drew them close in my arms. Before I took a step, the fire spread to the hall and walls of flame surrounded us, it blocked our way to the stairs and sealed off all other exits.

My five-year-old daughter saw him first. She said she could see a person as he moved through the fire. I held them tighter. I thought the terror made her see things.

After a few seconds, I also saw something move.

A dark figure walked stepped into the hallway in front of us, the flame seemed to part for him. My head swam, my thoughts confused, and my senses scrambled. This had to be a hallucination. My mind wanted safety for my children and created this vision of a hero. This figment knelt in front of us, cloaked in a hooded coat, but his face glowed green. I was convinced the Grim Reaper stood in front of me.

My oldest child spoke his name first. “It’s the Fenian Avenger,” he said.

I saw the Fenian Avenger’s mouth move, but the sound of the fire drowned out his voice.

He took my hand and helped me to my feet. He removed his long leather coat and wrapped it around my oldest children and I. He leaned his head close to my ear. His hoarse voice yelled into my ear.

“My coat is flame resistant,” he said. “Keep it wrapped around you and it will protect you through the fire. Hold on to my belt with both of your hands, I can see through the flames, but you may not be able to. Trust me.”

The Fenian Avenger took my two youngest children from my arms and smiled as if to reassure me. He hunched over to shield the children from the flames. I looked at him, and studied the uncovered shiny metal suit. The suit appeared fire resistant as well. I almost asked if they were safe in his arms, but I realized the stupidity of the question, because the Fenian Avenger would keep them safe, I knew he would. I hooked my fingers from both hands into his belt. He walked us through fire down the stairs. I closed my eyes tight. My children’s fingernails dug into my hand as they gripped me harder.

As the flames grew louder, I also heard the structure of the building creak and snap around us. My hands shook, slipping in and out of his belt. A large wood beam fell behind us. I screamed, but continued to follow the Avenger as he moved through the house.

I felt the Avenger kick something in front of him. After the sound of wood breaking, a cool breeze hit my face. I opened my eyes and saw my children and I perched on the landing outside my front door. I followed the Avenger down the metal stairs. Once on the sidewalk, I let the leather trench coat fall to the ground. The paramedics surrounded me in a moment and checked my children.

In front of me, the Fenian Avenger bent and picked up his leather jacket. My emotions overflowed with relief, happiness, and gratitude. I looked at my children and tears came to my eyes as I saw them alive next to me.

I turned back to thank The Fenian Avenger, but he was gone.

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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

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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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