Chapter One, Part Two
John Watson feels that he is an odd man in anyone's estimation. He's a wounded, invalidated veteran who has seen far too much death and destruction for his thirty-three years on the planet. He was raised devout Anglican but after a four year tour of duty in the Afghan desert, he's pretty sure that there isn't a flavour of religion that is for him. Which is fine, he knows, all fine, considering what he does for a living and the fact that being open minded is a prerequisite for it. One certainly cannot take sides in this business, that's for sure.
Mike Stamford, John's boss and long-time friend, is the original founder of LOPNI: London Paranormal Investigation. When people ask him what that means exactly, and they do because John is the kind of bloke that everyone talks to whether he's in the mood for conversation or not, he does his best to explain that they visit alleged hauntings and do their best to retrieve any scientific proof that spirits exist.
They do pretty well at it, too, considering that since he signed up with Mike three months ago they've been on over fifteen jobs. They've collected EVPs, videos of moving objects, thermal photographs, heard lots of creepy knocks on walls and dozens of other pieces of data that prove that even if there aren't any spirits banging about in these places that at least something is there. John will swear without a doubt about that something because of the way the little hairs stand up on the back of his neck and his skin crawls with the feeling that he's being watched when he knows full well he's the only one in the room. Sometimes it reminds him of being on patrol in the desert, all too aware of where your enemies are and how much firepower they had at their fingertips.
So, yeah, John can attest that there is certainly something. And that finding that particular something or somethings is getting him a bigger paycheck than he could be making at the local surgery, that is if they would even hire him with the intermittent trembling in his hand and slight bit of what he's fairly certain is PTSD…but.
Even with all that proof, John isn't one hundred percent convinced that what they've been experiencing are human spirits. He's got his own thoughts about the whole thing, yet there's never been a good time to discuss them with anyone other than Mike. They've known each other for more than twenty years and on most subjects Mike doesn't say too much, but about the existence of the spirit world he is absolutely adamant.
At the moment, John is nursing his third cup of coffee at an old wooden table in Mrs. Norton's kitchen in Newham. It is well past midnight and he's heard not a sound all night except the squeaking of the chair he keeps tipping up onto its back legs so he has to concentrate on not falling. To say he's almost bored to tears would be an understatement. Beyond the dark windows, the city outside is quiet enough that it seems like someone has pushed some cosmic 'mute' button.
Idly, John picks at the edge of the table as an image forms in his mind of a small family gathering: children laughing as one of them makes silly faces at the other, the mom and dad beaming with pride at their little brood…
His meandering thoughts grind to a halt instantly as the sound of a slamming door echoes down the hall. He's immediately on alert, quickly going over his own movements since he's been in the house. John remembers locking that door, so that leaves two choices: there's been a break in or Mrs. Norton's claims that her deceased husband still resides in the house may have some truth to them beyond the ramblings of a lonely eighty year old woman.
John quietly gets out of his chair and pushes it back under the table. If this is an unwelcome intruder, he needs as much space as possible. He listens for a moment until he realizes that since the door slam, the only other sound in the place is someone talking. John cocks his head to one side and steps up to the doorway in order to hear better the deep voice of a man who seems to be talking to himself. He doesn't recognize the voice so he listens closer.
"Mister Norton, I'm not sure that I can help you," the man is saying. To John, there's only silence, but apparently the stranger can make out more.
Before he gets anything else, the device in John's pocket vibrates. He tugs it out and stares at the multitude of wild red, orange and yellow spikes all over the place. John steps back into the kitchen and presses the button on the blue tooth in his ear.
"Confirmed EVP," he tells Dale Drummond, LOPNI's tech expert.
"Let me pull you up on the map, John," Dale informs him. "Ten seconds."
"Acceptable." John agrees, hoping his voice hasn't carried to the stranger.
"Holy shit, John," Dale whistles lowly into John's ear. "There's so much EVP that I can't separate them right now. Any visuals?"
John shakes his head. "Not yet," he states as he reaches into his jacket for the specially crafted glasses Mike gave him. He slides them onto his face and the entire room changes. Ignoring Dale's questioning exclamation when John inhales sharply, John takes another look at the scene.
There are now three distinct entities sitting in the kitchen: in two of the chairs, a young boy and a girl, probably twins, seeming to be about ten years old, and another girl, much younger, seated cross-legged in the center of the table. She grins at John and waves at him as if greeting a long-lost favorite uncle. John blinks twice and wonders how long he's been this close to these emanations without realizing it.
John is speechless as another young woman saunters into the kitchen from the hallway with a cheery "hello" in his direction. Her form is more solid than the others, a fact made clearer when she joins them at the table. Where the other children seem to be the wispy fragments of a memory, everything about them indistinct except for their eyes, the newcomer is almost corporeal, her striped blouse and denim shorts as clear to John as the dark clothing he's wearing.
The sound gathering device in his hand is vibrating like a mobile phone being blown up via text messages by an angry ex. For the first time since taking this job, however, John finds himself rooted to the spot, intrigued by the level of detail he's not seen before. The small group at the table is laughing and seems almost to have forgotten his presence when he's finally able to make his lips, tongue and throat work again. Rule One: apparitions are still people and should be respected as such.
He clears his throat. "Good evening." Rule Two: be polite.
"Good evening," the older girl says. She reaches up to brush back a ginger curl that's fallen down over her face then lets her fingers trail backwards through a long ponytail.
Everything about her is inconsistent with what Mike has taught John about the spectral world. He is fascinated. "May I?" he asks, indicating the chair at the head of table.
"Sure," the girl says as the other kids nod, even the littlest one.
"So," John begins after a moment where they all regard each other warily. "My name is John Watson."
"Hi John!" The redheaded girl laughs as she points at the boy. "This is James and his sister Janey."
"We're twins." They inform him in unison. John nods.
"This is Mary Beth," Janey indicates the little girl on the table. The little girl beams up at all of them, a joyful little gap-toothed expression only marred by the fact John can see the table through her.
It suddenly occurs to John with startling clarity that all of these children are dead and he winces.
"I haven't told you my name yet, John," the redheaded girl says softly. She meets his eyes and he is taken aback to see tears there.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. You are the first that I've actually seen."
The girl quirks a neat auburn eyebrow at him, "Well, I guess you don't think that's blatantly obvious, then, do you?"
John chuckles, allowing the tense mood to be broken. "Who are you, then? This doesn't seem to be your regular…" he trails off, not wanting to use the word 'haunt' for fear of insulting her and making them all go away.
The girl holds her hand out towards John. He takes it, amazed at the solid, though cool, feel of her skin against his own.
"My name is Ophelia Holmes," she informs him with a smile, "And I am here to help you."