The Virginia rain was pouring down in sheets, as I looked out the window of the car. Adrian lay sleeping comfortably next to me, and Patrick was dozing in shotgun but I was far too excited to sleep.
Adrian, Patrick and I were a team of paranormal investigators from the Institute of Occult Research in Salem. We were often called on by various churches to investigate and confirm cases before they sent an exorcist. This particular case, held much intrigue and interest for me, which my colleagues knew nothing about. I hoped to keep it that way for it is a twisted story. It seems prudent now to begin this story with that story.
Growing up in the swamps of Louisiana you see and hear many strange and eerie things. Tales of vampires, voodoo curses, and plain old murder are some of them. My grandmother was herself a bit spooky, the way her dark eyes seemed to see right through your flesh into your soul, the way she would stare out at the pouring rain like she had lived through all the ages of the world and this was the billionth rain she saw, and the slow methodic way she laid the brick dust down to ward off those who meant us harm. I was often afraid of her though she loved me well, and the reason for that I still couldn't tell you. Her hard face looming above me when I did something I shouldn't have still haunts me. She radiated the power, the strength, and the pain that the black women of her generation harbored, and I suppose I felt intimidated by it.
She had many habits and methods and rituals for everything in her life, but the one thing that intrigued me more than anything else was her apparent obsession with the society sections of every newspaper she laid her hands on. To be specific, it was the infamous Foxworths who seemed to hold her so enraptured. She sat in the humid heat clipping the articles about them with a long pair of sowing scissors and pasting them into her makeshift scrapbook, that she still has to this day. My mother asked about it only once, she said, and firmly told me to never mention it to her, but to leave her be when she was a-clipping. I heeded her warning (which I seldom did when I was young) and just stared at the TV when my Grandmother sat in her rocking chair with the newspaper. I stole glimpses at her from time to time when I dared, and the look on her face is one burned into the walls of my memory. She was concentrated deeply, that much was obvious, but there was also a sad, faraway look in her eyes that mesmerized me. But that wasn't the only thing that made this particular case interesting to me.
One blistering summer day when I was only four I wandered into the sitting room where my grandmother had her sleeves rolled up and was shelling peas for dinner. My mother was in the kitchen overseeing the boiling pot on the stove. I looked at my mother; slender, light skinned and with eyes as blue as the sky. Just like mine. I looked at my grandmother with her dark, and gnarled hands, and her eyes so brown, they were almost black.
"Grammy Cecile?" I asked.
"What is it child?" she responded in her usual slow and soulful tone without looking up,
"Why does mamma and me have blue eyes when you gots brown ones?"
Slowly she lifted her head, the knife in her hands was quite still. She looked at me with that deep, penetrating stare I mentioned.
For a long time, she said nothing. The pot in the kitchen was beginning to boil over, because my mother was staring in at us. Finally,
" Because your mommas father was a white man. And your father was a white man too."
"You was married to a white man Grammy?! Even back when white folks used to kill black folks?!" I exclaimed, for the idea was so strange to me.
She looked at me for a moment as though she quite wanted to slap me, and I grew afraid. But she merely turned toward my mother shouting,
"Why aint you watchin' that pot gal?!" and she laid down the knife and went into the kitchen.
Many nights since I wondered if the two things were connected, for my grandmother made a point of avoiding the subject of white people as much as she could help. Except to study the Foxworths and my mysterious white paternal lineage.
In time, I discovered part of the mystery. My mother informed me when I was fourteen that my father left her while she was still pregnant with me for a younger white woman. My mother was forty one years old when she had me, no spring chicken, but she maintained that my father left her because she was a black woman. That was all she said about it, and I still have no reason to disbelieve her.
Riding along in the sleek black Cadillac that had been sent for us, I let my excitement build. The answers to my questions seemed to loom ever closer.
I will never forget how Foxworth Hall looked to me when we came up the long drive. The mammoth house was blackened and charred on the east wing but otherwise seemed to be in an ordinary state. I could tell it was over a hundred years old at least, and built to cater to the whims of the filthy rich. It was majestic, and even in its slightly ruined state it radiated a regal sense of purpose. However I couldn't help but feel a slight chill creep over my flesh as I looked into its large and empty windows. It was a strange and unsettling feeling. Just as the famous house in Amityville, there was an underlying malice about the place. Like the building was a great and terrible beast that lived to devour all who entered.
I shook Adrian awake and pointed to the house. He was irritable and drowsy, but when he caught sight of the house, he stiffened immediately.
Adrian was a tall, slender youth with elegant, dark chestnut hair and hazel eyes. His face was long and lean with cheekbones jutting out. Many girls swooned at the sight of him, batting eyelashes and twirling strands of hair, but he was not the sort to date. He was born with a Venetian veil (and for those of you who don't know what that is, it is a transparent layer of skin that some babies are born with over their face, and must be removed at birth. It is believed that such people have telepathic or psychic tendencies.) and he was a quiet, introverted sort of person.
"I don't like it." he finally said, turning to me.
I nodded in assent.
"You feel it too?" he asked.
"Feel what?" I queried.
"The sickness." he replied, looking back at the house. He referred to houses with malignant auras as being "sick".
As the car pulled to a stop in front of the grand front steps, I reached into the front seat and poked Patrick in the shoulder repeatedly until he started awake.
"That hurts, you know." he said, turning in his seat to look back at me.
"Yes, and?" I replied nonchalantly.
Patrick was an Englishman, taller and lankier than Adrian, with long, curly red hair and warm brown eyes. He wore a pair of horn rimmed glasses that he constantly had to keep pushing up his nose, and he always kept his back length hair swept into a messy ponytail. He was like an older brother to me and I found his little quirks endearing. Though he looked rather like a slob, he was very meticulous and calculating. He became a paranormal investigator because of an encounter he had as a boy in England, which he claimed "scared him out of his effing pants." And he was determined to provide scientific proof of life after death.
Patrick was our technological link. He was the one who played back all the tape recordings searching for EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomena) and watched all the videos looking for orbs and other ghostly images. He was also in charge of our other equipment, such as the temperature readers (to seek out cold spots) and the electromagnetic sensors. He didn't really believe in the things and presences that Adrian sensed, but maintained the "If I can see it and I can touch it, then it's real." belief.
Patrick rubbed his eyes and stared up at the house.
"Ooh she's a big one, all right." he said. "Who's that?"
It was then that I noticed a stooped and withered old man standing underneath the porch surveying us through the downpour. His hands were clasped together neatly in front of him and he wore a look of utter seriousness, but if your house was so haunted that you were contacting churches for an exorcism, you wouldn't be too happy either.
Adrian still looked apprehensive. Quite suddenly, Patrick launched himself out into the pouring rain and headed to the back of the car to help the driver pull out our trunks. Adrian and I watched the two of them drag the cargo up the steps and onto the grand porch.
"Shall we?" I said to him.
"Into the belly of the beast." he replied gloomily.
We experienced a moment of chaos as we dashed through the rain with our jackets held high above our heads. Then we were under the roof of the porch, shaking ourselves semi dry. It got uncomfortably quiet for a moment, then the old man said,
"Follow me." He turned surprisingly swiftly for a man as old as he was, and led the way to the opaque double front doors. We each grabbed our perspective trunks and lugged them along with the driver heaving the trunk with our equipment in it.
With a gasp and a shove we made it inside the entrance hall. Breathing heavily, we all did a circle looking around the room. We all sighed, for the room truly was amazing. It was large and at one time must have looked splendid and immaculate. As it was, the walls on one side were charred and blackened by a fire. There seemed to be white sheets draped over all the furniture that was not destroyed, and the marble staircase leading to the upper floors looked untouched. There were many old and dubious portraits on the walls, the inhabitants of which looked most miserable. The old man cleared his throat and gestured us through a door where we found a very luxurious little parlor. Even knowing almost nothing about the history of this house, we all felt, as we sat down that we were about to hear a great and terrible story.
"Hello, and welcome to my childhood home," The old man began. "I am Joel Foxworth, the appointed caretaker of Foxworth Hall."
Patrick was quick on the uptake.
"Patrick Sparrow. Ah, Mr. Foxworth, who appointed you caretaker?"
"Bartholomew Foxworth, my great nephew, is the one to whom the house legally belongs. My dear sister Corrine Foxworth Winslow left it to him."
Patrick scribbled in his notebook. I was amazed at how fast he was, I hadn't even seen him take it out.
"These are my colleagues, Adrian Ashford, and Victoria Deboreau. Now when---?"
"---Deboreau…is it French?" Foxworth cut Patrick off, and stared directly at me.
"Yes it is."
"I detect a slight accent…you're from Louisiana?"
"I am, yes, though I haven't been down in the bayou for many years now."
"Beautiful country down there." he said, staring off Into space.
"Ahem, yes, well…Mr. Foxworth, when did these paranormal activities begin?" Patrick had an impatient edge to his voice now.
"Paranormal? I'm sorry. I'm an old man, I don't understand this modern language, son."
"Ghosts, my good man, when did you start seeing the ghosts?"
"I haven't seen any ghosts. The workers were the ones who complained of ghosts."
"The workers…?"
"The workers my great nephew hired to do extensive remodeling. He's tried several companies, all of whom worked but a day here, and no matter how much money he offered them, they would not come back."
"And they were the ones who complained of seeing these apparitions here?"
"What apparitions?"
"Well my notes say there is a middle aged man, an old woman, two old men, a beautiful young woman, and a little boy."
"It must be so, though I haven't seen or heard of them."
"Where in the house do you reside, Mr. Foxworth?"
"Above the garage, in the servants quarters."
"May I ask why a family member of such seniority resides in servants quarters?"
"I've been a monk for the better part of my life, I don't indulge in grandeur and luxury. I am comfortable there."
"And ah, where is the owner of the house?"
"He is living in Richmond."
"Okay, and where are the apparitions appearing in the house, according to the workers?"
"Well they are saying most of them come from the east wing, one in the south, and another in the north."
"All right, thank you very much, Sir. You've been most helpful, and we'll get to the bottom of this as soon as possible."
"I have no doubts." Foxworth smiled.
He seemed harmless enough but there was something about him that, like the rest of the house bordered on the wicked side.
"You must be tired. I will escort you to your lodgings now, right this way."
We followed him wearily to the south wing where we'd be staying. He showed Adrian to his room first, then Patrick, and finally, I found myself wandering the long, dim halls with the old man. He said nothing but glanced back at me peculiarly from time to time. Eventually, we came to a fine set of double doors raised high on three marble steps. Once again, I couldn't help but let a sigh of wonder escape my throat as I looked at this amazing room---this Swan Room. It was perfectly catered to a woman's tastes. With it's thick mauve carpet and violet, pink, and white draperies. It reeked of femininity and decadent splendor. This was far grander than what he'd chosen for the boys. I wondered the reason for the special treatment.
"It's incredible, Mr. Foxworth." I said turning to him.
He seemed to study me for a moment before replying,
"I thought it might please your tastes."
He had his faint smile back on and it unsettled me slightly.
"You may sleep now. Your luggage should be here by the time you get up. Dinner will be served at six thirty."
"Thank you Mr. Foxworth."
He shuffled out the door, closing it softly behind him.
Even through my excitement, I fell drowsily onto the oval mattress with it's satin sheets. Without pulling the covers over myself, I was asleep almost immediately.
* * *
"Corrrine…..Corrrrine…."
My eyes snapped open, and I wondered where I was. I sat up quickly, and slowly came back to reality. I was in what must have been the bedroom for the lady of the house. Who had been whispering just then? It was definitely a masculine voice, I decided. Who was Corrine? Something pulled on my memory…Oh yes….Corrine was the name of Joel Foxworths' sister. She must be dead, to have left her grandson a house. That was all the information I had at the moment, I must remember to ask Patrick for a tape recorder to see if it would pick up any EVPs in the room.
I rose slowly from the mattress that must have required custom sheets and stretched my arms wide. The light outside hadn't changed a bit, it still rained on. I looked at the pearly clock by the bed and saw that it was ten after six. I heaved my trunk onto the bed, and opened it, looking for a change of clothes. I pulled out a tight black sweater and a pair of snug skinny jeans. After putting them on, I looked for a mirror. There was one in the roomy closet, it had three panels that folded out, it was exquisite of course, like everything else in the room. I studied my reflection in the mirror.
The long years of mixing with Caucasians had bred out the crinkly black fuzz, and my hair was a mass of shining ebony waves that reached to the middle of my back. My twenty-two year old skin was the color of coffee with far too much milk added. I had a full build like my mother and grandmother, five foot five, with wide hips and a large bosom. And of course, the deep cerulean eyes of my mother. I don't know why my reflection intrigued me so. Ordinarily I wasn't concerned with my appearance, though many people had called me beautiful. Suddenly I wanted to know if I looked good. I looked around the closet. The closet was its' own dressing room, and there were many rich old petticoats and corsets, draped inside of it. I suppose I felt I needed to conform to the splendor and beauty of the room. There was no time to mull this new feeling over further, because I had to go down for dinner.
I had little difficulty finding may way back down to the entrance hall, for I'd always had a good sense of direction. I met Adrian in one of the long, meandering corridors. He was standing quite still, staring in the direction of the north wing.
"Hey!" I said. He jumped comically and I giggled at him. He looked round at me and rolled his eyes.
"I should have known it was you." he said. "Nobody else is ever so bored with life that they need to play silly pranks on people."
"You call that a prank?" I said, throwing my arm around his shoulder and steering him down the stairs. "Boy, I haven't even begun…"
He groaned.
"What were you looking at anyway?" I asked him.
"There's definitely something in that wing."
"Man, you two won't ever let up with the ghost stuff. It's all business to you."
"Well that's why we're here isn't it?"
"Yeah but come on, look at this place, nicer than any hotel, even if half of it's burned. I'm glad we decided to live in this time."
He stopped on the stairs and looked at me, shocked.
"You're not serious."
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"This place…is awful. Even without my gifts I could have felt it. The enmity that resides in this house is palpable. Don't pretend like you don't feel it, I know you do."
As he spoke, the light that streamed into the entrance hall seemed to grow a shade darker, and the temperature dropped a degree or two. He stared at me hard, and I put my arms around my shoulders. Something in my expression must have touched him for he suddenly put his hand on mine.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be that way. But face it, something's wrong here."
"I know. I felt it too. I guess I'm avoiding acknowledging it."
He smiled in a sweet way, and we looked at each other for a long moment.
"Ah sorry to interrupt, boys and girls…" said a voice from the top of the stairs. Patrick was looking down at us with interest.
Adrian snatched his hand away and I let my arms drop. Patrick came down the stairs, grinning at Adrian a little too understandingly. Adrian looked away defiantly. And I was already at the bottom, with my head bowed to hide the flush that had crept up my cheeks.
Foxworth emerged suddenly from a door and gestured us wordlessly through it. We were led down yet another gaping corridor to the dining room. Before we entered, however Joel turned to us and said,
"The master of the house has come to oversee your doings, and that you don't steal anything. He expected an exorcist, not you, so do not expect kindness from him."
At these words, I wondered what rich tyrant would be waiting for us. I pictured a hard faced, middle aged business tycoon. I was in for a bit of a rude shock as you may know.
Bartholomew Foxworth was almost unfairly handsome, with strong muscular shoulders and a perfect amount of tan. However, he had a cold expression that inhibited his nice features. He looked about twenty four, around the same age as the rest of us, but he seemed to be carrying a heavy burden on his broad shoulders. The type of burden usually reserved for a much older person. He looked at each of us; scrutinizing. Patrick looked haughtily and directly back at him, so he quickly moved his gaze to Adrian, who looked back with a perfectly inscrutable expression. Bartholomew narrowed his eyes at this and flicked his gaze back and fourth between each of Adrian's, as if hoping to catch one of them lying. Finally satisfied, he turned to me. His blue eyes lingered on mine for a long moment, and then slowly they traveled down to the rest of me. His expression seemed to soften, and he began to look at me as a cat looks at a mouse. I crossed my arms over my chest, barring myself against him.
"Please, sit." he said in a frosty voice.
We sat three in a row, on one side of the table.
"So…" he began. "I send for an exorcist, so that the superstitious workers will do the job I'm paying them to do, and I get investigated…How infuriating."
"Well we're not investigating you, Mr. Foxworth, we're investigating the claims of activity to determine if an exorcist is needed."
Patrick refuses to be intimidated, I thought. It endeared him even more to me. But Bartholomew was not amused.
"Nonetheless, you are uninvited guests! How long are you going to be poking around?" his words bit into us like knives and his eyes flared angrily.
Patrick was ever cool under the Master's blazing stare, his voice rose only slightly.
"As long as It takes to confirm or deny these claims, Mr. Foxworth."
Bartholomew seemed to be taken aback by his firmness. He was quiet for a moment, then opened his mouth to say something more when Joel returned with the dinner tray. He closed his mouth and said nothing else for the rest of the meal.
When everyone was finished, Patrick pulled his notebook out and looked pointedly at Bartholomew. When he said nothing, Patrick queried,
"Have you personally seen or heard anything to support these claims Mr. Foxworth?"
"Certainly not. What is it you plan to do, Mr. Sparrow? Oh, yes---" He added at the look on Patrick's face. "---My uncle told me all about you."
"Ah well, the first thing we do is obtain the history of the house and family, as far back as we can trace. That lets us know what to look for, and then we go round to the trouble spots and see what we're dealing with."
"Well you're dealing with ghosts for Christ's sake!" Bartholomew exclaimed impatiently.
At "Christ's sake" Joel Foxworth frowned. I guess he really was a monk, I thought.
"There are many kinds of spirits, Mr. Foxworth." Adrian spoke up. "There are earthbound souls, unable to rest for whatever reason. There are impressions of people that are left behind in times of great emotion or distress, and there are older and more evil things that hide in the deep places of old houses. This third one is what the exorcist would be needed to remove. That's what the church wants to confirm."
Bartholomew said nothing, only nodded and excused himself. The old Foxworth rose and began to take the dishes away.
"I'm off," said Patrick. He stood up and left abruptly. Adrian looked at me, smiled, and he too, left.
The old Foxworth was shuffling out again when I called to him,
"Ah Mr. Foxworth, sir. One moment."
He turned, smiling that queer smile again.
"What can I do for you, Ms. Deboreau?"
"Victoria, please."
He looked embarrassed at being asked to call me by my first name.
"Very well…Victoria?"
"As the team archivist, I'll be the one who needs whatever family history you can provide, I understand there was a fire and some documents were probably destroyed, but whatever you can give me will be fine I'm sure."
"I'll have the necessary documents to you in the morning."
"Thank you sir."
He left.
I returned upstairs. As I passed Patrick's room I could hear his raised voice faintly ranting about something. I opened the door quietly and peered inside. I saw Patrick pulling things out of his equipment trunk, and shouting to Adrian, who was sitting on a slightly moth-eaten sofa, looking tired.
"Of all the pompous, flea bitten, pieces of yank trash I have ever come across, THAT is the one I may just kick the shit out of."
Adrian caught sight of me and rolled his eyes. Patrick let a string of mixed swearwords and idle threats escape his mouth.
"I'm glad to see you've become acquainted with the 'master of the house'." I said, laughing and entering the room.
Patrick sighed.
"The sooner we get to the bottom of this the better. I cannot stand it here already. They're both rich, arrogant bastards, even if the old cotter does live above the garage."
"Well your wish may come true yet. Let me get a tape recorder for my room."
"Really?" Patrick forgot his anger for a moment and looked interestedly at me.
"Yep. I heard someone whispering a name when I woke up today."
He reached into the trunk and found a small silver tape recorder for me, handing it to me enthusiastically.
"I hope something comes up. It'd be a great start."
"I know. All right, g'night boys."
"Night Vicky."
"Night."
As I made my way back to my room, I felt the bold and tangible excitement that comes with this profession. A lot of people today think we're wasting our time, and that the proof that we come up with can be explained away by convenient theories. Even though it'd be wonderful to find undeniable proof of existence after death, we don't enjoy what we do for that simple reason. We seek it out, because when you go to a horror movie, to one of those Halloween fun houses, or on haunted hayrides you go simply because it's fun to be scared. It's enlightening and electrifying to explore the dark side. We in this profession live for that rush of adrenaline…
But what I was soon about to unearth from under the foundations of Foxworth Hall, would change the way I looked at the Other Side forever. For I would soon find out that some things never die.