Credit to Akilah for the kernel of this story idea tonight. I’ll take inspiration from anywhere, but she’s been such a great fount of ideas for all these ten years!

I tried to avoid doing any paranormal investigations by myself – it just isn’t safe. Leaving aside the whole ghost part, there’s the purely practical problem that you’re often in a space that’s falling apart or difficult to access. Another reason to go with a group is to split the sometimes-heavy amount of gear we carry. Finally, it’s always helpful to have someone manning the monitors with headphones, listening to anything the other people who are just experiencing the phenomena might miss.

But in the run-up to heading out tonight, one by one my group dropped out. Alex had the flu. Mary had to watch her niece at the last minute. And Elliot had to work overtime installing emergency updates at the tech company he worked at. After I got Elliot’s message I just about threw in the towel myself, but I knew I was going out of town next week, and then there’s the ever-present rumors that they’re going to bulldoze the old Bellweather mansion. Already, they’d added chain-link fencing around the perimeter of the property a few months ago – fortunately, Lucy, a sometimes member of our merry band of ghost hunters had found us a gap in the fence to get in and out. But would they find and block that too?

No, I was going even if it was just by myself.

On the approach, I spotted a glint off one of the windows in the south turret of the mansion and quickly took a picture. In the viewfinder I was ecstatic to see a glowing orb in the upper window. “Looks like the Bellweather Woman is in the tower tonight,” I smiled to myself. Most of the activity we’d recorded over our many visits to the Bellweather Mansion came from the central hallways and the bedrooms. Other than getting some very unusual EVPs in the south turret, this picture was the first image of activity.

Once inside the mansion, I hurriedly set up my usual battery of devices in locations that had worked out well for us before – the motion-capture camera in the master bedroom; the thermal sensors throughout the banquet hall; audio recorders in the kitchen and maids’ quarters. Once everything was up and running I made my way to the south turret.

Another reason we generally didn’t spend much time in the south turret was because the stairs were in terrible shape. Alex had put his foot right through a rotten board ten steps up the circular staircase and we retreated pretty quickly, leaving remote cameras that rarely picked anything up.

I stared at the hole in the stair that Alex had broken through and wondered whether doing this alone – or at all, for that matter – was a really bad idea. I heard a door shut at the top of the turret and I shook off the nerves, doing my best to keep my steps light and try to keep near the wall where I hoped the wood would be the least rotten.

When the stairs reached the landing at the top of the turret I caught movement immediately. Just by the window was a full-bodied apparition! I raised the battered full-spectrum Canon Rebel and checked the display. I fired the shutter as I moved towards the railing of the stairs, to get the apparition better in frame. I couldn’t believe how spectacular the shot was when I heard a crack.

I hadn’t realized I’d been putting weight on the railing, so it took a moment for me to realize it had broken and that I was falling down the central shaft of the turret. I don’t know how many steps or what the elevation is of the south turret, but I’ll say that the fall seemed to go on and on while I flailed and the floor raced up to meet me.

I’m grateful I don’t remember the actual impact, just darkness.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing at the bottom of the turret stairs – not laying, standing. That in itself was confusing because I remember falling, but what really caught my attention was my body six feet away, legs and arms at odd, painful angles. I was grateful my body was facing away from, well, from me.

“Well,” a female voice spoke behind me. “That was stupid.”

I turned around to see a middle-aged woman walking casually down the stairs. I immediately realized it was her! It was the Bellweather Woman!

“You’re…” I started.

“Please don’t…” she said as she stepped past me.

“You’re…”

“Yes.”

“The Bellweather Woman!”

“My name is Mary,” she said over her shoulder as she moved towards my body.

“You were the first ghost I captured on film…”

“I thought you looked familiar…”

“And the gauzy apparition in American Hauntings when they came here… that was…”

“Yes.” She knelt down by my body. At first I thought she was inspecting my… corpse. But, no, she was looking at my poor shattered Canon Rebel. She gestured to the cracked viewscreen and it flickered to life. “Oh,” she said with a pout. “You got my bad side.”

Mary started walking through the hallway towards the main hall.

“Wait,” I called, hurrying after her. I stepped around my body awkwardly, wondering if I could just leave my body here. “Do you know how famous you are?”

“Unfortunately,” she said nonchalantly.

“But… you, this place is legendary among ghost hunters!”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Your EVPs are some of the best quality anywhere!” I said breathlessly – well, I guess everything I said now was technically breathlessly.

Mary stopped, cleared her throat and affected a high falsetto, “It’s… so… cold…”

“Yes!” I got chills. “That’s it, exactly!”

“Thank you, thank you. Some of my finer work.”

At that moment I realized it wasn’t actually cold… or warm… I just… was. “But… it’s not cold…”

“It’s not, no. But that plays so well!” she smiled broadly before starting towards the main staircase.

“People think you were murdered here.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “I died of pneumonia in 1941.”

“But the story about your husband…”

“Never married.”

“The bloodstain in the east bedroom?”

“Red wine.”

I stared at her.

“You’re ruining this for me.”

“Imagine how I feel,” she said as we came up on the landing.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m going to rest for a bit,” she said. “Manifesting for you took a lot of energy. I’m done for the night.”

That’s when I heard voices coming from downstairs. I moved to the railing and saw flashlights sweep through the great hall.

“Friends of yours?”

I shook my head. The lead investigator looked familiar, but they weren’t folks I’d worked with. I started towards the stairs but stopped and turned to Mary, “Can they see me?”

“Sometimes.”

“Can they hear me?” I said in an involuntary whisper.

“Sometimes,” she said without matching my whisper.

“Can they photograph me?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “You’ll find out.”

Down below I heard one of the investigators say to one of his teammates, “Did you hear that upstairs? I’ll take the thermal camera…” Mary grinned at me, “Smile!”

“Welcome in! I’m Marian Vale,” she smiled brightly and held her arms wide. “We’ve been expecting you?”

This morning, everything except her name was a lie – well, she was born Mary Valencia, so really everything was a lie. Marian wasn’t particularly welcoming, and the ‘we’ she referred to—her spirit guide, Thomas—hadn’t given her any indication he was around today. While not unprecedented, Marian wasn’t about to turn away a paying customer – it just meant she was going to have to wing it (her euphemism for “completely making it up”). Oh, and she wasn’t expecting anyone – she was actually hoping it would be a quiet day until Thomas returned.

But, alas, the bell over the door dinged indicating a customer, err, client, so the show must go on!

The woman looked nervous – though Marian thought they almost always looked nervous. Still, she came in anyway. She could tell immediately from the bloodshot eyes and puffy cheeks the woman had been crying a lot. And, while it was cool outside, it wasn’t cold, so the men’s field coat around her shoulders seemed somewhat out of place. The elbows were worn smooth and the shoulder seams faded in a way that suggested years of reaching, lifting, and carrying. The pockets sagged slightly from use. This hadn’t been a coat saved for special occasions; someone had lived in it. “You’re mourning your husband…” Marian said consolingly. When the woman’s head snapped up and the bloodshot eyes met her own, she knew she was on the mark.

“How… how did you know?” The woman shook her head, “You’re a psychic… of course…”

“Oh, my dear…” Marian patted the woman’s arm. “You’re looking to contact your beloved?”

“I… I am… Oh, this is stupid…”

“No, no – umm, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Michelle,” the woman offered.

“Of course, Michelle. Would you like to step into the parlor?”

Michelle’s eyes darted nervously around the front room and then settled on the beaded curtain Marian had gestured towards. Her eyes found Marian’s again and she nodded tentatively.

They moved into the room and both women moved tentatively as their eyes took a moment to adjust to the more diffuse, gentle lighting.

“Please, take a seat,” Marian gestured towards a seat at the dark wood table. Michelle sat while Marian went to the cabinet against one wall. When she came back she set an ornate wooden Ouija board and darker polished walnut planchette on the table.  If Thomas were around, Marian wouldn’t use this prop, but she knew cold reading could only get her so far, and the Ouija board would help her sell it. You’re still not here, Thomas? She sent the thoughts mentally in the way she would normally contact the spirit world. Silence.

Marian looked up and saw Michelle looking at the board dubiously. Marian smiled warmly, “Ah, you’re familiar with the Spirit Board.”

Michelle nodded.

“They have a poor reputation, it’s true. That’s mostly due to the cheap cardboard and plastic versions being marketed to hapless children who have no idea how to handle the unseen forces they unwittingly tap into. But with myself acting as a conduit, you’re in good hands.” She finished with a warm smile. What Marian didn’t say was when Thomas wasn’t here, the spooky aura of the Ouija board helped her sell whatever message she was trying to pass off as spiritual guidance.

“Here, place the fingertips on the board just next to the planchette and I’ll do the same. Let’s close our eyes and take ten seconds and clear our minds and silently entreat spirits from the other side to join us. Take a deep breath in and think about who you want to contact. Now breathe it out slowly. Once again, in… and out…” Seriously, Thomas, now would be a great time to show up… Nothing.

“Alright, rest just the tips of your fingers on the planchette. Just like that, yes. Oh! Look at that, it’s moving on its own already!”

It wasn’t. Marian was guiding it gently in little circles.

“You’re not moving it, are you?” Marian asked Michelle, knowing full well it was she moving the planchette herself.

The movements of the planchette picked up and it started to slide gently towards the “I” and then “L” and then “O”, “V”, “E”, “Y”, “O”, “U”, “M” and then it stilled.

“I love you, M,” Marian repeated.

Michelle gasped as Marian smiled at the woman. “We’ve made contact! Do you have any direct questions for your love?”

“Are… are you at peace?” Michelle spoke the words looking around the room.

Marian guided the planchette up to the “Yes” word, before moving to “B”, “U”, “T”, “I”, “M”, “I”, “S”, “S”, “U”.

“He’s at peace but he misses you,” she met Michelle’s gaze which was hopeful for the first time since she walked in.

Michelle’s lower lip trembled. “I miss you too.”

Marian relaxed slightly. Maybe she could get through this after all.

The planchette moved.

Marian frowned – She hadn’t moved it.

It slid slowly away from the final letter and back toward the top of the board, to the “No.”

“No?” Michelle’s face fell with the word.

Marian tried to exert control over the planchette, but she could only push so much without it being obvious she was influencing the movement, and the planchette was moving with more force than she could counter.

Michelle read the letters as they revealed themselves: “N-O-T-A-T-P-E-A-C-E – Not at peace?”

Before Marian could say anything, Michelle hurriedly asked, “Why are you not at peace?!”

“T-H-E-C-O-A-T – the coat?” Michelle repeated, then nearly jumped as she realized it must be the coat she was wearing. “This coat?”

Y-E-S.

“What about this coat?”

R-I-G-H-T-P-O-C-K-E-T-H-O-L-E

“That’s weird…” Michelle said.

“Why?” Marian asked.

“There is a hole in the right pocket, but… so what?”

The planchette moved again: K-E-Y-F-A-L-L

“Key fall? OH!” Michelle stabbed her right hand into the right jacket pocket of the field coat. Marian could hear the ripping of fabric as the outline of Michelle’s fingers pushing down past where the pocket would have ended. Michelle’s eyes lit up. “A Key! It fell through the hole in the pocket!” She stared at the key before asking, “Where does this go?”

With both women’s left hands still resting on the planchette, it moved to the numbers row: 3-5-2-1. Then up to the letters: S-A-F-E-D-E-P-O-S-I-T.

“A safe deposit box? What’s in it?”

N-E-S-T-E-G-G

Michelle’s eyes went wide. “You kept our money in the safe deposit box?” Tears began to roll down her face. “You idiot,” she sniffled. “When I saw our savings account was zeroed out I called you every name I could think of…”

The planchette moved: I-H-E-A-R-D-S-O-R-R-Y.

Michelle laughed. “I miss you, dummy.”

I-M-I-S-S-Y-O-U.

Michelle leaned back in her seat, drawing her hand back from the planchette, her body racked with silent sobs as she clutched the key in her fist.

Marian regarded her silently, giving the woman her space. Movement caught her eye and she saw the planchette move on its own – with no one touching it.

T-H-O-M-A-S-S-A-Y-S-H-I.

I’ve been fortunate not to have to frequent doctors’ offices regularly. Though for whatever reason, today was the third time I found myself in a medical waiting room of one kind or another – with another, different appointment Monday. You never know who you’ll find at any given time waiting along with you…

As I pulled into the strip mall, I checked the address again — 357 MLK, Suite 5. I’d been here once already for my initial evaluation, but between the crutches, paperwork, and trying not to put weight on my ankle, I hadn’t paid much attention to the neighborhood.

I passed a Vietnamese Banh Mi place, a tropical fish store, and I spotted it between a nail salon and a UPS Store – MotionWorks Physical Therapy. As I parked and awkwardly got my crutches out I thought it was a weird location for a PT place, but they take my insurance and now I want a Banh Mi afterwards…

I checked in with the chipper receptionist. “You’re about ten minutes early – we prefer early to late.” She smiled too brightly for this early, I thought. She took a page off the printer, affixed it to a clipboard and handed it to me. “Fill this out and give it to your therapist when they call you back.” She pointed to an adjacent room with one of her brightly painted fingernails and another high-wattage smile. “The waiting area is right over there.”

“Thanks,” I managed and walked around the corner to the waiting area. I took a seat in one of the linked vinyl chairs along the wall, leaning my crutches against the empty seat next to me.

A young woman sat a few chairs away, scrolling through her phone. She wore leggings and running shoes and had one knee wrapped in a black brace. The walls around us were adorned with generic sports-related pictures, and the small tables between sets of chairs held years-old issues of Sports Illustrated and Time.

After taking everything in, I noticed the man on the opposite wall.

The man from my first visit.

He looked exactly the same — off. His black trousers seemed too big on him, and the cuffs of his flannel shirt were frayed. His stringy hair hung limply around his face, and he clearly hadn’t shaved in a few days. He tapped one worn, scuffed sneaker nervously against the floor as he trained his wide eyes on me.

His stare was unnerving enough that I immediately looked back down at my clipboard.

The man had been here when I arrived for my initial evaluation and was still sitting in the waiting area when I left. And now, three days later, here he was again, looking exactly the same.

I tried to focus on the paperwork.

A few minutes later, the door to the treatment area opened and a young man stepped out wearing khaki pants and a navy-blue polo embroidered with the MotionWorks logo. An ID badge hung from a lanyard around his neck.

“Jessica?”

The young woman looked up from her phone. “That’s me,” she stood, tucked her phone into her pocket, and handed him the clipboard she’d been holding.

“Great. Come on back.”

The door swung closed behind them.

Across the room, the strange man continued tapping his sneaker.

And watching me.

A couple of minutes passed, the only sound the receptionist’s tinny radio playing “Drops of Jupiter” on the local adult contemporary station.

The door to the treatment area opened again and a middle-aged woman in pale blue scrubs stood framed in the doorway. She took a moment to survey the waiting area before intoning, “Daniel August Taylor?”

My full, legal name? And what’s with the scrubs? Still, I reached for my crutches. As I did so, my eyes met the persistent gaze of the man across from me. His eyes widened just slightly, and I saw him shake his head almost imperceptibly. My brain stuttered at the unexpected message and I stopped.

“Daniel August Taylor?” the woman called again, her eyes moving slowly across the waiting area without seeming to recognize either of us.

Again, that same slight shake of his head.

Once more, “Daniel August Taylor?”

I didn’t move or break eye contact with the man across from me.

The woman stepped back and the door swung closed. And as it did, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and looked away from the man.

A minute later, the door to the treatment area opened again and a young woman stepped out wearing khaki pants and the familiar navy-blue MotionWorks polo.

“Dan?” she called, smiling directly at me.

I reached for my crutches again. Across the room, the man gave me a small nod.

I levered myself onto my good foot and awkwardly crossed to the therapist, handing her my clipboard.

“One sec.”

I turned and made my way toward the man in the chair.

Quietly, I asked, “What would have happened if I’d gone with that other woman?”

He stared up at me, and for the first time I saw something other than unease in his eyes.

Sadness.

“You wouldn’t have come back.”