The House On Gable Street (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Page 5

  ‘The old house was pretty big as I understand. Was it just a family home?’

  ‘Well, again it would pretty much mean plowing through every back issue for years to see if there was any mention of it. Could take months. You’d be better off talking to some of the people who are old enough to remember it back then. Though I’m not sure there’s much to find out.’

  ‘Could you recommend anyone?’

  She thought for a while.

  ‘I guess the person who’d know most about local stuff would be Margaret Shaw, who used to be the town librarian. She retired a few years ago.’

  ‘Yes, thanks. The lady in the library recommended her too, I’m hoping to speak to her soon. Tell me, do you know Mrs Wharton?’

  ‘Chief Wharton’s mother? Well, I don’t really know her, but I see her sometimes when I visit my grandmother up at the Lincoln Retirement Facility.’

  ‘She’s still alive then?’

  She thought about that. ‘Well, I guess, but it’s not much of a life, if you ask me. I think she’s pretty far gone with Alzheimer’s now, she just sits around, rarely talks. Not sure she recognizes family when they visit.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘Yeah. I really hope I go before I end up like that.’

  Nightingale nodded. He’d been known to express the same views after visiting old peoples’ homes. Short of persuading the owners of the Tribune to let him spend a few fruitless months thumbing through old newspapers, there was nothing more to be done here. He thanked the woman and left. As he walked out, it occurred to him that she’d never given her name. It didn’t seem to matter, the answers he was looking for weren’t going to be found here.

  * * *

  Nightingale sat outside a café and ordered coffee and a Danish. He lit a cigarette, savoring the first mouthful of smoke of the day. He needed to finish with this case quickly, Mary was pretty much at her limit with it, Jimmy was clearly stressed, torn between his love of the house and his need to protect his family, and Nightingale was almost beginning to respond to Mary’s healthy living ideas. But where to find answers? He looked at his phone and willed it to ring. Surely Hilary Baines would have had time to ring her predecessor by now. He really needed to talk to someone who remembered the house decades ago.

  ‘You need another one of those?’

  Nightingale looked up at the red-headed waitress who was pointing at his empty cup. She must have been forty, but still in good shape and Nightingale nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said, lighting another cigarette.

  ‘I’m guessing you’re not from around these parts,’ she said. ‘You Australian?’

  ‘English. I’m staying a few days with the Deadmans.’

  She frowned, clearly not recognizing the name.

  ‘The big new house on Gable Street. It’s called Peacehaven now.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ she said. ‘Millionaire’s Row. They’ve dropped by for coffee a few times. Nice couple, cute twins. They built their place on the site of the old Wharton house.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m trying to find out something about the history of the Wharton place.’

  ‘Why?’

  He grinned. ‘Just interested,’ he lied. ‘I’m a bit of a history buff. Trouble is, there’s not too much information around.’

  ‘Guess not, it was a ruin for a long time. You could ask Chief Wharton, or his brother Cal.’

  ‘It may come to that,’ said Nightingale, though talking to a police officer about a haunting would be a last resort.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘Friend of my mother used to work there way back in the day, maybe she could help.’

  ‘Work there? What as?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but she mentioned it a couple of times when I used to go round to Amy’s when we were teenagers. Stay here, I’ll give Amy a call now.’

  ‘Great,’ said Nightingale. ‘Oh, and that other coffee?’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ She took his cup and went back inside. Nightingale smoked patiently and she was back within three minutes. ‘Here you go,’ she said, putting the fresh cup down. ‘I was right, Amy’s mom did work there, but it’s a long time ago. She’s over seventy now, but still sharp as a whip. Amy says if you care to drop by around mid-day tomorrow, she’d be happy to chat to you. Her name’s Janet Carpenter, but Amy’s Mrs Quinn now.’

  ‘Just like that, she’d have a stranger in her house?’

  ‘Well, Amy’ll be there, and her husband’s pretty big. But besides, this is a small town, we tend to trust people. The Deadmans seem decent folks, so probably you are too.’

  ‘Probably. Looks like I dropped in to the right place to ask, lucky me.’

  ‘Hah, Probably not much luck to it, small town as I said, everyone knows everyone. Amy has a lot of friends.’

  Nightingale smiled.

  ‘Well, anyway, thanks...’

  ‘June, June Wren’

  ‘Jack Nightingale.’

  She grinned. ‘Imagine that...birds of a feather, eh?’

  * * *

  Nightingale had finished his second coffee, left a generous tip for June Wren and crossed the road back towards the local gym, hoping to meet Sarah as she came out, when his phone finally rang. A number he didn’t recognize. A woman’s voice. Precise, formal, not young.

  ‘Could I speak to Mr Nightingale please?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Nightingale, my name is Margaret Shaw, I was given your name by Hilary Baines, I understand you’re interested in local history?’

  ‘That’s right, I’m staying at Peacehaven on Gable Street, and I’d like to find out something about the history of the old house that used to be there.’

  ‘Indeed. Perhaps it might be easier to talk face to face. I dislike telephones. I am playing bridge this afternoon, and I have a dinner engagement tonight. I could meet you tomorrow, say at ten?’

  ‘That would be fine, where?’

  ‘I generally take a cup of coffee in the White Horse Cafe, why don’t you join me?’

  ‘Great, I was just there. Thanks, look forward to it.’

  She hung up.

  ‘Hey, you lost, stranger?’

  Nightingale turned round to see Sarah smiling at him, her cheeks glowing after her workout, her hair still damp from the shower. ‘Just waiting here for a ride back.’

  ‘Find out anything?’

  ‘Nothing useful, but I’m seeing some people tomorrow, so maybe I’ll get somewhere then. If there’s anywhere to get.’

  ‘You really believe the place is haunted?’

  Nightingale shrugged. ‘Not sure what I believe. These days I try to keep an open mind for as long as possible.’

  She nodded. ‘I just can’t get my head around a ghost in a brand-new house.’ She lowered her voice, and looked round theatrically. ‘Hey, you want to do something really evil?’

  Nightingale said nothing. He wasn’t sure where this was going.

  ‘You want to, we can head back home for some goop and gloop again. Or you can let me lead you astray at Pizza Hut.’

  Nightingale grinned. ‘Good call. Get thee in front of me Satan.’

  * * *

  The pizza and a couple of beers restored Nightingale to full form, and as they headed out of the restaurant he remembered another place in town he might try. ‘Can you spare another twenty minutes, Sarah?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, where to now?’

  ‘Mary mentioned an Occult-type store in town, you know where it is?’

  ‘She probably meant the astrology place on Commanche. The Other Side, I think it’s called. I’ll show you.’

  They strolled along a few blocks, then turned left. Three years before, Nightingale would have had no idea how prevalent stores specializing in witchcraft, astrology and the occult were, even in small towns. But now he knew that pretty much every town had at least one such store. Some were run by amateur hobbyists, but in others he’d been able to get useful advice and information. This one was a double-fronte
d store, the windows full of astrological charts, t-shirts, candles, brass bowls and ornaments, jars of herbs and also sheets of tattoo photos. Seemed the owner ran a diverse business.

  They walked inside, to the sound of wind-chimes announcing their presence. The shop was full of New Age paraphernalia, plus a selection of jewellery, gemstones and minerals, stuffed animals, dried plants and grasses. It seemed Sarah had never been inside, from her surprised expression as she looked round. A huge man looked up from a book he was reading on the counter. He walked round to greet them.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said softly. ‘And welcome to The Other Side.’ He must have stood six foot four in his motorcycle boots. He was wearing leather trousers and a denim vest which showed off his heavily-tattooed arms and upper chest. His dark-brown hair was tied back in a long ponytail, but probably reached his shoulders when he loosened it. His wrists were adorned with leather bracelets, and he wore silver rings on several of his fingers. ‘People call me Wookie,’ he said. ‘How can I help you folks?’

  His voice was at odds with his appearance, soft and gentle, almost a whisper. Nightingale reminded himself about not judging by appearances. ‘Name’s Jack,’ he said. ‘I was wanting to ask you about a couple of lockets a friend of mine sold you. Mrs Deadman. The lockets were silver.’

  Wookie smiled. ‘Sure, I remember. Mrs Deadman. But she didn’t sell them, she donated them, said they made her feel uncomfortable. It was good of her, but probably better, selling protective charms lessens their power.’

  ‘That’s what they were?’

  ‘Sure, I still have one of them.’

  ‘Could we talk about it?’

  Sarah coughed. ‘Look, Jack, if you’re good here for a few minutes, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be in the lingerie store across the street, I need a couple things.’ She left as Wookie, placed a silver locket and matching chain on the counter.

  Nightingale examined the locket. It looked as if it had been specially made and was round with a swastika engraved on the front. It was high-quality work. He opened it, but it was empty and unmarked inside.

  ‘You said it was for protection?’

  ‘That’s right, the idea is the recipient puts a lock of their hair inside to personalize it, and complete the protection.’

  ‘Protection against what?’

  ‘Demons, evil spirits, bad luck. To be honest it’s pretty low-level stuff, like some people wear a crucifix or a St Christopher medal.’

  ‘But why the swastika, wouldn’t that put people off?’

  ‘Some. But the swastika is an ancient symbol of good luck and happiness. Goes back long before the Nazis, all over the world. You can find it in the Hindu and Jain religions, even in old Native American designs. This one is the traditional type, or the most common one. The Nazis reversed it but most people see a swastika as a swastika. I guess Mrs Deadman didn’t really appreciate them. Shame because somebody went to a lot of trouble to make them.’

  ‘You sold the other one?’

  ‘Nope. I gave it away. Like I said, taking money for them would weaken them.’

  ‘So you believe it has power?’

  The big man smiled. ‘No idea really, but I hear it works for unbelievers too.’

  ‘So what’s your specialty? Astrology?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s my main area of interest, but I’m also a Wiccan. Old girlfriend of mine got me interested years back. Most of my money comes from tattooing, the shop’s kind of a hobby. What’s your area of interest?’

  ‘Just interested in general, I suppose, I’m no expert. The Deadmans are having a little trouble at their house, the kids are seeing things.’

  The big man’s smile disappeared. ‘No kidding? Can’t say I’m all that surprised.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I never much liked that old house, used to get a funny feeling if I ever stopped to look at it. Sounds stupid, but I get vibes from places sometimes.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound stupid to me,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know of any reason?’

  ‘Nah, no local legends of students being found butchered up there, just a feeling.’

  Nightingale picked up the locket again. ‘Is there any way this could be used to harm someone?’ he asked.

  Wookie shrugged. ‘You could try strangling them with the chain, I guess. There are lots of better weapons.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Could someone put, I don’t know, some kind of a curse on it, so that it brought bad luck to whoever wore it?’

  ‘Not that I know of, but then that’s more of the Black Magic idea, isn’t it? Not my scene.’

  Nightingale nodded, walked over to a display of books and selected a work on the healing properties of plants. He doubted he’d ever read it, but the man had been helpful, and he wasn’t in business to dispense free advice.

  ‘I’ll take this,’ he said, handing over a fifty.

  * * *

  Nightingale walked out of the shop, looked across the street and saw Undercover Agent written above a lingerie store. He looked to his left and decided not to risk crossing until a black SUV had passed. ‘Buying yourself a new magic wand, Nightingale?’

  He spun round at the sound of the voice, and, despite himself, his jaw dropped open at the sight of her. As ever, she looked ridiculously young, not even twenty. The jet-black spiked fringe hung down over her eyes. This time she was wearing a long black leather coat over a short black skirt and a black T-shirt, bearing the legend The Ungodly, Fallen Angels Tour 1998 and a picture of the goat-man. Fishnet tights with long studded black boots completed her outfit, which looked ridiculously out of place on a sunny Kansas morning. Inverted crucifixes hung from her ears and a black ribbon encircled her throat. Always the same dark eyes, the irises as black as the pupils. Next to her stood a black and white collie sheepdog, which bared its teeth at Nightingale and growled softly.

  Proserpine, Hell’s most evil demon, despite her little girl lost appearance.

  ‘Hush, boy,’ she said, ‘Not today. So, what brings you here. Nightingale?’

  Nightingale took out a cigarette and lit it while he thought of a good answer. He tossed her one, she caught it and it lit as she looked at it.

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ he said, gesturing at her T-shirt.

  ‘I always know with you, you’re so easy to read. Playing the Lone Ranger again, or so you think. Just a puppet really, these days. Who’s pulling the strings this time? Wainwright? Alice Steadman?’

  ‘First rule of interrogation,’ he said. ‘Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. So what brings you here?’

  ‘Checking on my investment.’

  ‘I’m not your investment. I’m free of you.’

  She laughed. ‘And a lot of good it does you. Look at you Nightingale. You’ve got nothing but the clothes you stand up in, and they could use updating. Why do you bother getting out of bed in the morning? What’s your life for?’

  ‘I’ve still got my soul,’ he said.

  Again the mocking laugh. ‘And what use is it to you? You’ve lost everyone you ever cared for. They’re either dead or think you’re dead. Here you are wandering round small towns, looking for ghosts and you’ve no idea why. Nothing to make you happy, nothing to give your pitiful life any meaning. You’re a waste of a good soul, Nightingale.’

  He shrugged. ‘I get by.’

  ‘Do a deal with me, Nightingale. You could be rich, happy, maybe even find a woman. Surely you must still have some interest in women at least? Or is it power that would do it for you? Money? Cars? Anything you want, all you need do is ask.’

  ‘And pay the price. No thanks. There’s always a catch when you deal with the devil.’

  The dark eyes flashed at him. ‘Some day Nightingale, you’ll be on your knees before me, begging me to take your soul.’

  Nightingale shuddered. He’d been taken in by her appearance again. That could be fatal - he’d seen what she could do when provoked. He decided to change the su
bject. ‘So, Eva-Lynn Garnett, did she do a deal with you?’

  The tactic worked, she laughed again, though this time she seemed genuinely amused. ‘Oh Nightingale, you’re one in a million. Always thinking in straight lines. Why, because we share a taste in clothes and hairstyles, she’s meant to have sold me her soul, or is it the children’s souls? Doesn’t work like that, Nightingale. You can’t make a deal for someone else’s child. Just your own, remember?’

  Nightingale remembered, but it wasn’t something he wanted to think about.

  ‘Her band managed world domination very quickly,’ he said

  ‘True enough, but these things happen.’

  ‘So she isn’t one of yours?’

  ‘I didn’t say that either, what difference does it make what I say? I’m not a sweet little girl, Nightingale, you’ve seen plenty of proof of that, why would you believe me anyway?’

  ‘You’ve never lied to me.’

  This time the laugh was cruel and mocking. ‘No? You think not? Anyway, maybe you’ve got it the wrong way round, as usual.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe I took my style from her. You don’t really think I use this look all over the planet, in every age and in every reality. Perhaps I liked her music. Or maybe I don’t look like this at all and you just see what you want to see. You like young goth girls, Nightingale?’

  ‘Not that young.’

  ‘What about Sarah, then,’ she said, her voice sly and teasing now. ‘She’s more your age. Nice body too. Maybe she likes you. Why not give it a try, Nightingale, it’s been quite a while since you were with a woman, don’t you miss it?’

  ‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘Leave her out of this.’

  ‘I’ll include anyone I want to,’ she said. ‘But you’re probably right not to get interested in her. People who get close to you have a nasty habit of dying, don’t they? There she is now, shall I tell her to walk under that truck, just because I can?’

  Nightingale looked across the road, where Sarah was waving at him. There was a huge truck in the distance, barreling down the road.