Ghost Killer Collection E-Book

Margaret Millmore

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

All three books in 'Ghost Killer', a series by Margaret Millmore, now in one volume!

What Haunts Me: George is plagued by strange dreams — nighttime visions of ghosts who wander among the living and infect their victims with deformity and disease. A deeply buried instinct emerges: he can kill these monsters and heal their victims. Haunted by suppressed memories, George’s sanity begins to slip away as he becomes consumed with his new responsibility. This dark and dangerous path will lead to new friends and allies, and enemies George never could have imagined.

The Edge of the Cemetery: George works alongside his new friends and assists the Watchers: an international group of ghost killers and supernatural experts who monitor the world for ghostly sightings and demon infestations to maintain the balance between the living and the dead. When San Francisco and the surrounding area are suddenly plagued by rogue groups of ghosts and demons, the Watchers know it isn’t a random occurrence. As George and the Watchers investigate, they discover that a demonic presence is behind the attacks. With the clock ticking against them, they must find the source of the evil and destroy it, or risk extinction of all humankind.

What Hunts Me: In the attic of the large Edwardian house in San Francisco owned by the Watchers, a box is discovered. In the box are various documents of ghost killers and a diary that chronicles an epic journey from Pennsylvania to San Francisco, along the route of the newly opened Lincoln Highway. Strange drawings and nonsensical writings in the diary tell of something sinister. The final entry is loud and clear: the writer of the diary is a ghost killer, and he is being hunted. George soon travels to San Francisco to investigate, and the more he learns, the clearer it becomes that something horrible happened in 1915. A monstrous creature has reanimated, and it is searching for something. As supernatural forces come into play, George and his friends are propelled into a fight for their lives.

Leseprobe

GHOST KILLER COLLECTION

THE COMPLETE SERIES

MARGARET MILLMORE

Copyright (C) 2022 Margaret Millmore

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

CONTENTS

What Haunts Me

The Edge of the Cemetery

What Hunts Me

About the Author

WHAT HAUNTS ME

GHOST KILLER BOOK 1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge and thank the following people for their invaluable knowledge and assistance: Jim Fassbinder at San Francisco Ghost Hunt; and Tom Stanley and Eric Dooley for their invaluable input.

The author would also like to thank Bryan Millmore for that crazy little dream he had…not to mention his never-ending support.

1

Have you ever had one of those dreams that haunted you in your waking hours? Those surreal movies of the subconscious, playing out in your head while you sleep, so detailed and vivid that when you woke, you couldn't be sure if it was just a dream or a long lost memory, or a combination of both?

I had one of those recently, but instead of one night, it lasted for several days. Let me explain. I had come down with the flu, an occurrence so rare to me that I could count how many times I'd had it on my opposable digits. This flu came with all the usual insults; runny nose, sore throat, aching head, stomach issues, and of course, a high fever. I was walloped, knocked down, dragged out, and left for dead by this unwelcome siege on my body. All right, perhaps that was an exaggeration on my part, but who could blame me for that? Aside from a few mild colds, I hadn't been this sick since I was child, so I had no real reference point to judge by. Regardless, the illness and fever came with the additional side-effect of very vibrant dreams, making it one of the strangest three days and nights of my life.

When I fully awoke, having been in and out of consciousness for three days, I still had remnants of those dreams lingering in my head, but they wouldn't fully form. They were just bits and pieces. I had impressions of people, some that I'd known throughout my life, and some that I couldn't place, but were somehow familiar. It was these “familiars” that bothered me the most. They shared common traits that made absolutely no sense. They all wore vintage clothing ranging from the late 19th century to the 1980's, and they all wore round-rimmed glasses (think Harry Potter or John Lennon). The feeling that I had been pursuing them was there too, but also that they had been chasing me. All of it left a lingering sensation of fear and anxiety that I couldn't shake.

With the worst of it in the not-so-distant past, I was finally able to get out of bed. I took a much needed shower that helped to clear the cobwebs and set me on the path to complete wellness. After wolfing down two pieces of toast, I slowly began to feel as if all would soon be right in my world. However, the strange images from my dreams wouldn't leave me. They continued to haunt me throughout the day, and I couldn't help but feel that they weren't just dreams, they were real memories, which should have been an indication that all was clearly not going to be right.

Before we go on, I should tell you a little about me so you know who and what I am…or was, to be more precise. My name is George, I'm thirty-three, and I live in the lovely City by the Bay. Like most people that live here, I'm not from San Francisco…I grew up in the eastern part of Los Angeles County and migrated north after college. My mother, an emergency room nurse at the local hospital, died when I was a young lad, God rest her soul. My dad, who was a librarian at the public library, is a great man, who did the best he could with his young, motherless son. When I was accepted into UC San Diego, Dad decided it was time to retire and take his modest public servant pension to Idaho, where the buck would go further and he could hunt buck depending on the season. So I went to college, majored in business, and come graduation time, had no career direction to speak of.

My college roommate was the son of a rather successful San Francisco real estate broker. His father owned a lucrative firm and expected his spoiled progeny to join the ranks after graduation. Mike wasn't inclined to follow in his father's footsteps, but like myself, had no other pending offers. He convinced me that I should come to San Francisco and learn the boring world of residential real estate sales. So I did.

I didn't last long. It was cut-throat, and my co-workers were cruel and greedy and would do anything to undermine you if they could snag your sale. About a year later, along came another opportunity, a real estate development firm that offered a steady paycheck as opposed to a commission based salary. It also offered advancement if I should choose to work hard enough, which I did, and I did well.

I'd learned from my dad that saving money was the key to long term success. We'd never been wealthy, but by the time he retired he had owned our house outright for many years, and he had saved a bundle of cash to cushion his retirement and put me through college. When I came to San Francisco I lived modestly, renting a room in a three bedroom apartment in a not-so-great neighborhood, but the rent was low and allowed me to save most of my disposable income. By the time I was thirty I had enough to make a sizeable down payment on a comfortable one-plus bedroom apartment in a great neighborhood. The price would make anyone but a New Yorker cringe; however, it was a good investment by San Francisco real estate standards, and it had parking and laundry, which was the equivalent of winning the lottery around this town.

I admit that I worked too much, generally nine or ten hours a day, six days a week. I did, however, manage to carve out time for my few friends, played a little tennis at the nearby courts, and played softball once a week, weather permitting, at the Presidio. So life was good. It would have been better if I'd had a girlfriend, but all good things in good time. So now you know who I was; I was nothing special, just your normal run-of-the-mill hard working guy.

Let's get back to why things were not right. Feeling better and slightly adventurous, I decided to go down to the building lobby for my mail. I hadn't picked it up in a few days and thought perhaps I should before the mail carrier left me a nasty message about a full box. My building was old, built in the mid-1920s, and loaded with art deco charm and design, and an elevator that was sometimes temperamental. Today it was working, a fact for which I was grateful. I was still a bit weak and not in the mood to hoof it up and down six flights of stairs.

When the doors opened into our ornate lobby, the first thing I saw was a man standing by the Edgar Brandt inspired wrought-iron console table that stood near the mailboxes. He was tall and lean, wearing Harry Potter glasses and looking around in a suspicious manner, as if he knew he shouldn't be there. His neatly tailored brown suit, white shirt, and matching brown tie were impeccable, and old-fashioned. Not that I was an expert on vintage apparel, but I knew a bit about men's fashion, and this was definitely not of recent design. He also had a fedora on, which I thought was odd too. Who wore those these days? The combination hit me hard; he looked like one of the people from my recent dreams.

As I approached the mailboxes I kept my eye on him…he seemed suspicious. He never looked at me or in my general direction, but as I got closer, he appeared to shrink away just a bit, almost as if he was afraid of me. I felt like I needed to say something—we were the only two people in the lobby—but I couldn't think of what.

When we were just a few feet apart, he nervously nudged his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and scurried down the corridor toward the garage entrance. I waited for the squeaky sound of the door opening and closing, but it never came. With my curiosity peaking, I abandoned my quest for junk mailers and bills and headed down the hallway to see where he'd gone. The corridor only went one place, and that was to the garage, so I was surprised to find it empty.

I decided the building maintenance man must have finally oiled those old hinges and now they were squeak free. To test my theory, I grabbed the door handle and pulled, and the result set my teeth on edge. The hinges screamed loud enough to wake the dead. A little perplexed, but sure there was a rational explanation, I shook my head and headed back to my mail and then up to my apartment.

Now this was where the “not right” part came in. You see, as I was making my way back upstairs, I realized why he'd looked familiar. I had seen him—or someone very much like him—before, not just in my dreams, but in real life. It was the glasses and the demeanor and the not quite right clothes. These things hit me like a ton of bricks. (I didn't actually get that saying; I think if you were hit with a ton of bricks you'd be dead and wouldn't care anymore, but I digress.) In addition to this revelation, the snap-shots from my flu-induced dreams came to me in rapid-fire, and suddenly my mind began to fill up with memories, but they came to me like a movie…a home movie, to be exact.

The city I grew up in started out in the mid-1800s as a farming community. Agriculture and very slow growth sustained the area until the middle of the 20th century, when it exploded. Several colleges and manufacturing businesses came to call it home. Later, it became a nice little suburb for the LA working crowd. To accommodate this growth, neighborhoods were built, many of which sported Craftsman style bungalows with three and four bedrooms. We lived in one of those. Most of our neighbors were working-class families like mine, and others were old-timers who could still remember the farms and the history of the town's humble beginnings.

There was one particular old fella who'd emigrated from Ireland as a young man. He lived across the street and two doors down. My childhood best friend, Curt, lived next door to him and often mowed his lawn for extra pocket change. I'd help when I could, and as a reward Old Joe's wife, Mae, would give us lemonade on the porch and Joe would tell a story, usually from his homeland, but sometimes from somewhere else. Joe's accent was so mysterious, mostly because our area wasn't a popular destination for immigrants—aside from our neighbors to the south, of course—especially from someplace so far off as Ireland. His accent was still thick all those years later, and it lent a sort of mystique to his stories.

One of his favorite stories was about the ghosts that lingered from days past. According to Joe, an accident had occurred at one of the orchards—a fire. The workers couldn't get out in time and several people were killed. You see, they used smudge pots in the winter to keep the citrus trees from freezing. It didn't get that cold in Southern California, but you'd be surprised how many frost filled nights did and still do occur in the depths of the winter months. According to Joe, the perpetrator was a known drunkard and often could be seen taking nips off his flask during the work day. Since it was winter the staff was limited, but there were still several people working the orchards, making sure the trees were properly prepared to fare the chilliest season. The drunkard had been really laying into his flask on this particular day, and as they began lighting the smudge pots, he somehow managed to tip one over and it caught a wooden cart on fire, which then spread, killing several people before being extinguished. Joe was adamant that the ghosts of the orchard fire still haunted our neighborhood—the orchard in question was now the site of an elementary school a few blocks over, and many of the smaller houses in our neighborhood were initially built for those long ago farm workers.

Not long after Old Joe told that story, I started seeing them, the ghosts of the orchard fire. These people—some men, some women, even a few children—all wore vintage farm clothing, the women in long skirts, while the men wore laced up boots, long pants with braces, and long sleeved shirts, some in denim overalls. Most importantly though, were the glasses. All of them wore the Harry Potter round eyeglasses. I didn't see them all the time or everywhere, but often enough I suppose.

Sometime after that story and the subsequent sightings of the “ghosts,” Curt and I had gone to Bobby Wright's house. He lived on the next block over, and had just received a Nintendo game for his birthday and was anxious to show it off. When we entered the family room of Bobby's house, a bad 1970s addition to the traditional bungalow, complete with shag carpet and faux wood paneling, Camille, Bobby's little sister, was seated on a blanket in the middle of the floor. She was a sweet little girl of two or three, with more than moderate mental retardation. I never knew what specifically plagued her, but I once overheard my mother say that it was some sort of accident when she was an infant. She was surrounded by toys, but instead of playing with them, she simply sat and stared off into nothing, a thin line of drool running down her pink little chin.

While Curt and Bobby were playing a two-player game—I can't remember which one— I wandered over and talked to Camille. I didn't have any siblings, and at the ripe old age of nine, I still thought little babies and toddlers were cute and cuddly. I knew she wouldn't respond, but I tried anyway. At first, like always, she just sat there, but suddenly she reached out to me, and in my shock I reached back, picking her up and putting her in my lap. That's when I noticed the man standing in the corner. He wore dusty pants that weren't quite long enough to conceal his lace-up work boots, and a worn cotton shirt and braces. He was staring at little Camille with a sinister scowl on his face. Don't ask me why, but I knew the clothing was circa 1900; more importantly, he was wearing the round Harry Potter glasses (I thought John Lennon back then…after all, there was no Harry Potter when I was that age, but you get my drift).

Camille was looking in his direction, but I didn't think she actually saw him. I thought she felt him though, and for some reason, I knew that I was the only one that could see him. I wasn't scared. I don't know what I was, but I gently put her down and walked toward him, grabbing a plastic toy golf club that was leaning against the couch as I went. When I was close enough, I jabbed him and he disappeared in a swirling grey mist. Turning around again, I saw that Camille was sitting contently on her blanket, and Bobby was waving me over to play my turn.

A few minutes later we were interrupted by Camille, who'd crawled over to us, demanding the attention of her older brother. She was a perfectly normal toddler; whatever had plagued her had disappeared along with the apparition. At that moment, I knew that I had saved her, but from what? And where had that memory been all those years? More importantly, why was I so positive that they were memories and not part of the previous days'/nights' dreams?

That memory faded and another one hit me just as hard. I was in college and a bunch of my buddies and I had gone to Coronado for the weekend. Coronado was on a peninsula located approximately five miles from downtown San Diego, connected to the mainland by a ten mile isthmus, and was considered an affluent resort city. It also happened to house a large and active naval base, and the famously haunted Hotel del Coronado.

We'd been drinking at one of the local bars and were walking back to our motel. It was a misty-rainy night and the visibility was hardly fifteen feet. I was walking with a friend named John, but the others had gotten quite a bit ahead of us. We could hear them, but they were just shadows in the dark drizzly rain. John had grown up on Coronado and it had been his idea to come over. He was a tall lanky guy with an obvious lisp that most of us didn't even notice anymore. I had an umbrella with me, one of those long jobs with a pointy brass tip on the end. It wasn't raining hard enough to justify using it for its intended purpose, so instead I held it downward, allowing the brass tip to tap the sidewalk as I went.

We were in a residential neighborhood. Well-manicured homes of all sizes could be seen on either side of the street, and as we passed one of the smaller ones, John pointed it out and said he had been born in that house. Looking toward it, I noticed a woman of about thirty standing just off the sidewalk on the grass. Her appearance was right out of the 1940s; her dress hung below her knees, and had padded shoulders and a semi-tailored waste line. She wore Mary Jane shoes, and her hair was neatly done up in side rolls. Yet, it wasn't the vintage apparel that stood out so much; it was that she was untouched by the light rain that was coating everything and everyone around her. Of course, it was also the Harry Potter glasses that she wore, and the fact that she seemed to be intently focused on John.

For no other reason but instinct, I raised the umbrella and gently jabbed it at her as we walked past. A look of horror filled her face, and then she swirled away into a grey mist, just like the ghost, or whatever he was, had done when I was a kid at Bobby's house. Now that I remembered it all, it occurred to me that John didn't have a lisp…anymore.

These weren't the only memories that resurfaced, but they were the most vivid, and I couldn't explain why I was suddenly remembering these things; perhaps the fever had brought it all on. More importantly, why would I, without provocation, go around poking at people…ghosts…visions? I was feeling pretty confused, so I decided to call my dad.

2

My dad was a spry and active sixty-eight year old, but I still worried about him. The best way to assuage my concerns was to talk to him via video chat every week or so. As was our routine, I sent a text message to his cell phone, asking him to log into Skype. In ten minutes, I was seeing my dad through the monitor on my laptop. He looked good…the quiet life agreed with him. His thick grey hair was neatly combed, his face clean-shaven, and he was wearing a crisply pressed button down shirt. I thought perhaps that I had caught him as he was going out for the evening.

“Hey, Dad, is this a bad time?” I asked

He smiled. “Nah, always a good time to talk to you. I am expected at the Moose Lodge for potluck tonight, but I have a few minutes before I need to leave. How are you, George? You look a bit…pale?”

Dad didn't usually mince words and I was pretty sure I looked worse than “a bit pale.” I smiled and said, “Yeah, been sick with the flu or something, but I'm on the mend now. How are you?”

He arched an eyebrow, an expression that meant he didn't completely believe me, and said, “I'm great. Did I tell you about the fish I caught at the lake last week? Damn big one—twenty pounds at least; had some of the neighbors over for a barbeque on Sunday to help me eat it. Probably the last barbeque of the year since it's starting to get chilly out. So what's wrong, George?”

I smiled again and sighed. “Dad, remember our old neighbors, the Wrights? Their son Bobby was a pal of mine.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “I think so. Didn't they live down the block? Two kids…the dad was a teacher, I believe.”

“Yeah, that's them. Do you remember their little girl? She was sick or something. I remember Mom saying something about an accident when she was a baby.”

I wasn't completely sure that I saw it, but I thought he stiffened at the mention of the little girl: or was it the mention of her illness? He seemed to shake it off and then shook his head and said, “Can't say I do remember her, but then I don't recall the family much, except for the boy that you played with. Why do you ask?”

I was almost positive that he was lying, which was something he never did, at least not to me. I decided not to ask about it, and instead I said, “No real reason. Just had these weird dreams while I was sick, and Bobby and his sister were in them. I remembered there was something wrong with her…and then there wasn't. You don't remember that, Dad?”

This time his brows furrowed suspiciously. “Nope, I remember them living in the neighborhood, then they moved. Mr. Wright was transferred to a different school or something. Probably just something your mind made up while you were ill, boy; nothing to worry about.”

I wasn't sure what I had expected from him. Was I hoping that he'd confirm that little Camille had been ill and then she wasn't? Because let's face it, that theory was insane. I didn't see a point in asking about my college buddy…Dad had only visited me in San Diego once, so I was sure he wouldn't remember him.

He was still looking at me suspiciously and I realized this call had been a bad idea, so I said, “Guess you're right, it was the fever—brought on a bunch of strange dreams about stuff from years ago.” I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant.

Dad peered through the digital miles at me, then said, “Well, I should go…don't want to keep the ladies at the lodge waiting.” He winked. “Besides, it's poker night, so I want to be sure I'm at a good table. Some of those folks cheat, and I seem to always get stuck with that crowd when I'm late.” We said our goodbyes and disconnected.

My thoughts drifted back to my youth. Were there other incidents of the vintage-clothed Harry Potter people? None came to mind specifically, just that feeling that I had been seeing these people everywhere, all my life. Of course, I hadn't remembered any of it until today, which didn't mean a whole lot, since logic dictated that these were most likely old memories that appeared in my dreams, became warped by my fever, and then resurfaced in my waking hours.

The whole thing was making me tired, and because I was feeling better, I knew I would want to get into the office tomorrow to get caught up. I made something to eat and retired to my bed in the hope that sleep, sans the strange dreams, would be the only thing plaguing me for the next eight hours.

3

The following morning I was up before the sun and sitting at my desk by seven, an extra-large coffee at my side, plowing through the gazillion emails that had come through in my absence, all of which purported the utmost urgency, most of which were not urgent at all. By the time I'd finished with the emails, my assistants had arrived and were more than happy to dump the work load back in my lap. The day was busy and I didn't get out of the office until six-thirty that evening. It was Friday and I was glad. I didn't intend to work the weekend…after all, I was still recuperating and needed to rest. I also didn't have any weekend plans, which was fine too.

I stopped at the market and deli a block from my house and picked up a variety of sandwich fixings, pasta and potato salad, and a six-pack of beer. The busy day had kept me from thinking about my “memories” or whatever they were, but as I left the market I was instantly reminded of them. A woman in her mid-thirties stood across the street, decked out in the high-fashion of the 1970s, complete with bell bottoms, a floppy hat, and round-rimmed glasses. She was glaring at me as if she knew me. A truck roared past and then she was no longer there. I walked home in a bit of a daze. Of course an outfit like that wouldn't be abnormal in San Francisco—neither would the glasses—but the truck had only been between us for a second or two, surely not enough time for her to simply vanish. That's when I decided I hadn't really seen her at all; it was a nasty side-effect of my flu and nothing more.

The quiet evening did me a world of good, and when I woke up on Saturday I felt like a new man. I decided to put on some shorts and a sweatshirt, grab my tennis racket, and head over to Lafayette Park, an eleven and a half acre park in Pacific Heights located on a hill between the streets of Washington, Sacramento, Gough, and Laguna. The views were spectacular on a clear day. It had both treed and open spaces, and if the weather was nice and sunny, the hillside facing Sacramento Street was loaded with sunbathers, mostly women; that view could be pretty spectacular too. It also had two tennis courts set up as first come, first serve. I played there as often as I could, usually catching the winner of the last set as my competition.

That's where I'd met Greg. He was a fiftyish man with a lean athletic body and darkly tanned skin, lined with more wrinkles than he should have had for his age. He was also a darn good tennis player, and usually gave me a run for my money. He was there that day, just finishing up a set with a nice looking young lady. I moved into the court and took my seat on one of the benches along the chain link fence, which was proper etiquette in alerting the players that you wanted the next game.

Greg and I played two sets before someone else arrived at the courts, and since he had efficiently destroyed me, I was the one out. I shook his hand, said my goodbyes, and headed back home for a shower. Before leaving the park, I stopped at the top of the hill and took a look around; it was a beautiful day and I could see for miles. There were a few dog walkers in the park and an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench nearby, his short sleeved shirt exposing his clearly disfigured left arm, which he held close to his side.

As I began my descent toward Washington Street I saw a woman pushing a baby carriage. She was wearing a black calf length dress with a white pinafore, a black beret or bonnet of some sort, and a black cape of all things. Although the carriage looked new, its style was old-fashioned…not the current popular stroller style, but an actual carriage that a child could lay down in. The bassinet and rounded hood were black, white rubber tires surrounded wire-spoked oversized wheels, and the polished chrome framework sparkled. The woman pushing the carriage reminded me of the ugly baby-snatcher in Ghost Busters II, when young Oscar was stolen from Venkman's loft. When she turned her head, she looked right at me through her round Harry Potter glasses. She appeared frightened at the sight of me, and she immediately glanced at the carriage and then past me to the bench where the old man sat.

Some sort of strange instinct kicked in, and I suddenly knew I needed to catch up with her. I began to jog down the short hill, and when she saw me coming she sped up a bit and headed toward Gough Street. I was faster and the carriage was slowing her down. As I caught up with her I reached out with my tennis racket in an attempt to get her attention. It went right through her, and like my memory/dreams, she, along with the carriage, began to disappear into a swirling grey mist.

I stood transfixed for a minute, not sure what had just happened. Finally I shook myself. Perhaps I was still sick and the exertion of the tennis games was causing a relapse. I turned back toward Laguna Street and began to walk home. Halfway through the block I saw the old man walking down the hill. I glanced at him and at first didn't see it, but when I turned back to look again, I realized that both of his arms were perfectly normal and swinging aimlessly at his sides.

4

By the time I got home, I had almost convinced myself that I was imagining these things. After a shower and some food, I began to pace around my apartment, trying to figure out what was happening to me and why. There were definite commonalities with the fever induced memories or dreams and the woman I'd seen in the park that morning. First, the eye glasses and vintage clothing; I had no idea what they meant, but there it was. Second, a person with some sort of ailment or deformity was always in the vicinity. Third, if the apparition was around a sick person and I poked it, it disappeared, along with the nearby person's affliction. Of course there was the man in the lobby and the woman across from the deli to consider as well…neither of them seemed to be related to a sick person, but that didn't mean there wasn't a sick person nearby that I hadn't noticed. These apparitions looked real, but what were they? Ghosts? Poltergeists? Demons? They seemed to be hurting people, but I didn't know much about the paranormal; perhaps they were a combination of all three. More importantly, why was all of this suddenly surfacing? Why did I subconsciously know that I needed to poke the demon or poltergeist to be rid of it…or was I killing it? Why did it feel so real? What was all this pacing and thinking doing for me? Not a damn thing! Because there were no such things as ghosts or poltergeists, or whatever label my brain was trying to pin on them.

I walked over to the liquor cabinet in the corner of my living room and pulled out a bottle of Bushmills. I realized it was still morning, but I needed a swig of some good old fashioned Irish fire water to help calm my confusing thoughts. I didn't bother with ice, just poured two fingers worth and gulped it down, which nearly caused me to throw-up. After a minute the burning stopped and I could feel the warming effects of the liquid gold as it mellowed me out. I felt better, and maybe a little buzzed.

If this was really happening—and I was beginning to believe it was at that point—was there a way to test it? I thought about going around the city finding people with problems, and if a bespectacled, vintage-clothed person was in the vicinity, I could give them a good jab and see if the afflicted one was suddenly healed. I didn't actually think that was a reasonable idea, but it did seem like the only way to test my insane theory. So, I decided to take a walk and head down to a busy area of town where I could observe large crowds. Fisherman's Wharf seemed like a good start. I didn't actually have to wait that long, though.

5

As I was locking the door to my apartment, my neighbor, Justine Wilkinson, was leaving her apartment too. She was a wonderful lady who had lived in the building since her twenty-first birthday, which happened to be sometime in the 1950s. Her father was a wealthy business man and had bought the apartment as a gift to his only child. She said he really bought it for her so that he could get her out of his home at the request of his new bride, who was a mere six months Justine's senior. Either way, Justine had lived there most of her life, and knew just about everything that had ever happened in our building and all the people in it.

She smiled brightly when she saw me. She and I had become great friends over the past few years I'd lived in the building; she was like a surrogate grandmother to me, and I loved her dearly. As usual she was dressed to the nines, wearing a chocolate brown silk dress with a matching light-weight wool overcoat, accessorized with tan shoes and matching handbag. Justine had grown up in San Francisco society and still played her hand in all things of the rich and famous. She wasn't a snob by any means, but she was rather wealthy, and her companionship (and money) was always welcome at the finest of charity events. Based on her apparel and the time of day, I guessed she was off to some sort of luncheon, probably having to do with the ballet—one of her favorite causes.

I pecked her well powdered cheek in greeting and held the elevator door for her. As we were descending she said, “George, my dear, you don't look very well; is everything all right?”

“I'm getting over the flu, nothing to worry about though. I'm feeling better every day. I'm going out now to get some fresh air.” Justine believed that fresh air was the cure to all that ailed you. She took a twenty minute walk up and down the hills of our neighborhood every day, and swore it was what kept her young and spry.

She gave me an affectionate pat on the arm and smiled. Before she could speak again, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor to let on another passenger. I didn't know our newest addition by name, but I had seen her around. She was in her mid-sixties and lived in the building with her husband. She smiled at us when she entered and greeted Justine by name.

“Good morning to you as well, Annette; how are the grandchildren getting along?” Justine asked.

Annette smiled. “Very well for the most part, Justine…well, little Michael is….” She stopped and Justine squeezed her arm gently and gave her a knowing smile. I, however, had no clue what Annette was talking about. Annette smiled wanly in return and then said, “In fact, my daughter is bringing him over now for a bit of a visit. She has errands to run and my husband Fred is suffering from his arthritis today, so I asked her to bring the boy here to be watched.”

“That will be lovely dear. A change of scenery will be good for him, and Fred will enjoy visiting with him,” Justine said kindly as the elevator came to a stop on the ground floor.

Annette waved goodbye and headed for the front door. Justine slowed her pace, leaned towards me in a conspiratorial manner, and quietly said, “Annette's grandson has leukemia…it's such a tragedy. I remember when the boy was born, right here in this building to be exact. Annette's son-in-law was overseas on business and Jeannette, her daughter, was staying with them because she was so close to delivery. The poor dear went into early labor, and by the time the ambulance arrived, the baby was on his way. They delivered him right there in Annette's living room.” Justine smiled as if it was a fond memory.

I could see Annette through the glass in the front doors. She was at the curb, helping a younger woman get a small and fragile looking boy out of the car. The child could walk, but he was clearly in a weakened state. The younger woman handed Annette a backpack and leaned over to kiss the child. She then said something to her mother and got in her car and drove away. Annette began to walk slowly with the boy to the building entrance, so I scooted to the front door to open it for her. She smiled and thanked me, and when I turned around, I saw the man from a few days ago. He was standing near the elevator this time and staring at the boy. I couldn't say for sure if he had a mean or malicious look on his face, but this time I could feel him, his presence and something else, like a bad energy.

I decided to test my theory right then and there. Justine was still standing by the elevator, very close to the apparition. I moved past her, gently nudging her to the side while simultaneously poking the thing with my finger. He snarled at me as he swirled away. To cover my strange movements, I called the elevator and held the door for my neighbor and her grandson. When I turned around to see if the boy had changed, he was just the same. Well, I thought, I guess that wasn't his demon. Maybe the boy just didn't have a demon.

When I looked over at Justine, she was looking at the boy too. When she turned toward me, I could swear she'd seen what I had done, but then her expression changed to a smile. I would ask Justine later on if anyone else in the building had a sudden and unexplained recovery. Maybe the apparition belonged to Annette's husband Fred; after all, she had mentioned that his arthritis was acting up, and that was certainly an ailment. I said my goodbyes and headed to tourist central to find more demons to poke.

I decided to walk to Fisherman's Wharf. It was all downhill and I needed the exercise. I headed east toward Van Ness Avenue and then north from there to the Wharf.

Why I was taking this business seriously, and why did I think these vintage-clothed apparitions were even ghosts? In no way did I feel like I was on the fast-track to lunacy…quite the opposite. In the last few hours I had encountered not one, but two of these things—apparitions or poltergeists or whatever they were—and somewhere deep down inside, something had clicked, like an ingrained knowledge or instinct. I knew what these things were and I knew they were real: and more importantly, I knew I had to kill them. And suddenly I firmly believed that the dreams brought on by the fever were actual memories, and that I or someone else had locked them up in my head. Now, after years of pounding on the door of my subconscious, they'd finally gotten out.

The Wharf was crowded with tourists, street performers, beggars holding signs, and people hocking their wares. Normally I wouldn't go there if my life depended on it; the city had much more to offer than this place. But I wanted the crowds and there certainly were plenty of them there. I kept my eyes peeled for people wearing round-rimmed glasses and out-of-date clothing. However, I quickly realized that I couldn't go around poking everyone I saw sporting Harry Potter specs or unfashionable clothes. After all, the glasses were still a popular style for the living, and the city was full of eclectically dressed people. After an hour or so, I decided to give up. I'd reached Pier 39 by then, and I turned on my heel and headed back toward Ghirardelli Square and the Van Ness Avenue bus stop.

I was approaching the old Maritime Museum building when I found myself stuck behind a large crowd watching a man covered in silver paint. He was performing as if he was a robot—highly amusing if one was into that sort of thing. I edged my way around them onto the grassy area nearest the museum, and as I stepped back onto the sidewalk, I noticed a man sitting on the curb. He was about my age; his hair was long but pulled back neatly into a ponytail. He had an army jacket on, baggy shorts, and one dirty, worn out athletic shoe. The second shoe wasn't needed, because his right leg didn't exist beyond his knee. In his lap was a cardboard sign with black writing that said, “Wounded in Iraq and homeless.” A pair of crutches lay next to him on the curb, and a plastic cup sat on the sidewalk where his right foot should have been resting.

This wasn't an uncommon sight in the city. We had a large homeless population, but it was still heartbreaking. Sadly, I wouldn't normally have given him a second glance, but the girl standing behind him made me look twice. She was in her late teens and her clothes were definitely vintage, but in a not-so-charming 1980s style. Her blonde hair was highly teased and she wore large pink looped earrings, a denim jacket with matching skirt, and pink leggings. To top the outfit off, she was wearing camouflage high top sneakers. Her glasses were more John Lennon than Harry Potter, a bit smaller, but she had a distinctive look that I was beginning to get used to. These ghosts look solid, but there was something in their expressions that gave them away.

I stared for a minute, and then I pulled my phone out and took their picture. The vet had his head hung in what I assumed was despair, but the girl was looking right at me. I pulled a five dollar bill out of my pocket and walked over to him, dropping it in his cup while simultaneously poking the ghost that stood just six inches behind him. She grimaced, and then began to swirl away in a grey mist. As she disappeared for good, I stepped back and was caught up by a large rowdy gaggle of teenagers that had come barreling down the sidewalk, forcing anyone in their path to move forward quickly or get run over by their rude behavior. As soon as I was free of them, I walked back to where the young vet had been sitting, but he wasn't there. I made a full circle of the area looking for him, and finally spotted him just outside the crowd of robot-man people. He was standing on two legs and two feet. I took his picture again and hailed a cab to take me home.

6

During the cab ride home, I emailed the pictures from my phone so I could view them on a larger screen. When I arrived at the apartment I went straight to my laptop. As the pictures were downloading, I grabbed a beer and walked over to my bay window and gazed out, unseeing, for a few minutes. I was putting off the viewing for three reasons. First, what if the pictures showed two different men, wearing similar clothing, one disabled, one not? What if the pictures showed the same man, one disabled and one not? Lastly, what if they showed the ghost? I didn't know much about ghosts; in fact, my knowledge was limited to what I'd seen in movies, and I didn't put much credence into Hollywood's knowledge of the paranormal beyond making money off it. Could ghosts be photographed?

If there were two separate men in the pictures, then I needed to reconsider my previous declaration regarding insanity. After all, I'd convinced myself that I had some sort of ghost or demon killing power, to the extent that I went out and tried to test it. However, if there was only one man in two different conditions, what did that actually mean? That I had the ability to find and extinguish evil spirits that plagued the living? That I could heal and save the living from these spirits? I wasn't actually sure which was more problematic at this point.

As I turned to go to the computer, I heard voices in the hallway. It sounded like Justine talking to someone. I ran to the door and looked out the peep hole. She was there, speaking loudly to another elderly neighbor, one who was very hard of hearing. I opened the door and she saw me and smiled. The elderly neighbor had turned to go back to her apartment and was shuffling in the opposite direction.

“Hey Justine, how was your luncheon?” I asked.

“George, my dear! Those people are such snobs,” she snickered. “However, I do enjoy the ballet and must put up with the committee.” She shook her head in mock disgust.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course dear, anything you like,” she replied kindly.

“The little boy from this morning, is he going to be okay?”

She frowned, a look of confusion crossing her face. “Why do you ask, dear? He seemed just fine to me. I saw him not ten minutes ago in the lobby. He was laughing and jumping around just like all boys do. They're so full of energy at that age.”

Of course he was, and why shouldn't he be? After all, a demon was plaguing him just a few short hours ago, and now it wasn't. I was good and scared now, because that little boy was sick and I'd helped to cure him. It was real, and even though I hadn't viewed the pictures yet, I knew what they were going to show me.

Justine's brow furrowed. “Dear, are you sure you're feeling all right?”

I nodded. “Maybe not as well as I thought. I think I'll lay down for a bit; thanks Justine. Have a good afternoon,” I said as I walked back into my apartment. I leaned against the door and sighed heavily. It was time to look at those pictures.

They had loaded onto the screen and I clicked a few buttons so that I could view them side by side. The images were clear and crisp. The vet was sitting, head hung, crutches to one side, his only leg jutting out onto the sidewalk. Behind him, the bay, sailboats, tourist ferries, and other maritime craft were clearly visible, but no ghost girl in sight. There was one thing though; a slight fuzziness could be seen on the screen where the ghost teenager had been standing. I enlarged the photo and zoomed in on the spot, but only saw just a tiny bit of blurriness. It was almost as if a fly or something had flown past just as the photo was taken.

I went to the second picture and compared them side by side. The men were identical in every way, except for the missing leg in the first picture and two legs and two athletic shoes in the next. I was seeing ghosts and I was killing them. More importantly, I was saving people that these demons were haunting.

7

Over the next several weeks I killed ghosts, lots of them, so many that I stopped keeping track after a while. I also saved lives…I just didn't know how many. Not all of the ghosts were accompanied by someone with an obvious affliction, so I couldn't be sure if I was saving someone directly or just ridding the world of a potential hazard. This had become my obsession and was affecting every aspect of my being. I had no fear of repercussions either; the only thing that concerned me was that I had begun to notice a numbness in my finger when I poked them with it. Whether this had occurred those first few times I didn't recall, but it was happening more frequently now. To combat this problem, I began carrying an unsharpened yellow number two pencil, long enough that I could stay at arms-length, plus six inches from each apparition, and short enough to keep it in my pocket.

I should mention that during all of this, there were two additional concerns, one minor, one not-so minor. On more than one occasion I had the curious sense of being watched. It was more of a sensation than anything else and it didn't frighten me in the least, so for the most part I dismissed it. I probably shouldn't have though. The second not so minor concern had to do with the ghosts…more specifically, the fact that I was encountering two different types—the demons that plagued people, and the “lost souls,” as I'd begun to think of them. These poor souls appeared benign, uninterested in the living, but attracted to yours truly. They seemed to beg with their eyes, like they wanted me to kill them.

Whether you believe it or not, there was something after death; I knew that for sure now, because I was killing the bad something on a daily basis. But I didn't think the lost souls were bad, and I didn't think this was what they had in mind…to wander through the plane of existence they used to occupy in life, without being able to participate in that life. The concern was, should I be killing them too? Who was I that I could be the executioner of their fate? What if I was sending them somewhere worse? But still, I couldn't help myself; the pleading and gestures were often too much, and without consciously realizing what I was doing, my trusty yellow friend was at it again and they would swirl away into nothingness.

All of this was leading up to the inevitable. People had begun to notice my odd behavior. I was coming into the office late and taking long lunches, and it was obvious that my mind wasn't focused on the job. Justine had been eyeballing me with concern for at least a few weeks. During my last softball game, I'd rounded home-base for a run, but instead made a wide arc at the last minute and stabbed a ghost standing close to the backstop. The catcher tagged me before I could hit the plate and I was out, but the umpire no longer needed that eye patch, so I thought I was justified.

That's why I wasn't surprised when my boss called me into his office. He went straight to the point…what was wrong with me? Knowing that the real answer wasn't appropriate, I told him that I had some personal issues that I needed to address and asked for a leave of absence. That wasn't exactly a financially stable move, but it was the only one I could think of on such short notice. He wanted to know why, which I declined to answer, and he didn't like that, but he considered me a valued employee and the leave was granted. I had six weeks to get myself sorted out.

8

Please don't think that while I was out stabbing ghosts with unsharpened pencils I was ignoring the larger problem; I assure you, I wasn't. But you have to understand, this newly discovered talent was addicting, like a drug. I lived and breathed it. For several weeks it was all I thought about; everywhere I went I looked for them. I wanted to find them, but like any addict, I wasn't ready to face the root of my problem, I just wanted to enjoy the high. However, now that my livelihood was in jeopardy, it was time to find out why this was happening to me. So, with my uninvited but welcomed free time, I started to hunt for that reason.

The amount of information online about ghosts was overwhelming, but I was having a hard time finding information on ghost killers, because that's what I had begun to think of myself as: a ghost killer. I found quite a bit about exorcisms and several ghost killing video games, not to mention books, articles, and stories, but none of those addressed my specific problem. Several sites did point out a conundrum that had been scratching at the edges of my mind: you could not kill a ghost because they were already dead. Of course, that made a lot of sense, and I had no idea where these things went after my pencil met them, but acknowledging that something that was already dead couldn't be killed didn't help much either, because I was killing them, wasn't I?

One thing did catch my eye: a ghost tour of Pacific Heights, held four days a week for tourists and paranormal aficionados alike. Now, I know what you're thinking—ghost tours had always been on the same level as Halloween haunted houses, purely for entertainment of the frightening kind. However, I knew the city was rife with ghosts…I saw them all the time, so it stood to reason that maybe there was something to this, and just maybe the tour guide knew some things that could help me out. According to his website, his name was Phil James, a self-proclaimed local authority on ghosts with an impressive resume in the literary and “real” world of the paranormal.

9

The majority of people seemed to believe that ghosts were mostly visible at night. I, of course, knew that wasn't true. I saw them day or night, rain or shine. But Mr. James was capitalizing on the theme of darkness, and his tour ran from seven to ten in the evening. I arrived at the designated meeting place at 6:45 in the hopes of getting a few moments with him before the tour started. Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one with this idea and many of the tour's patrons were lingering about, waiting for a chance to ask questions of the colorful character.

Phil James was a tall man with large, expressive eyes that appeared to protrude from their sockets when he spoke passionately, which was often. His hair hung in frizzy curls almost to his shoulders, his beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, and he wore a worn top hat, long wool coat, and black biker boots. I guessed he was somewhere in his mid-to-late forties. He also had on a black leather vest that was adorned by a silver pocket watch, the chain neatly attached to a button with the watch itself tucked into the vest pocket. He was constantly pulling it out and glancing at it, which I assumed was his subtle way of letting the patrons know it was time to get started.

Most of the questions from the tourists revolved around the building we were standing in front of. It was a large Victorian that had been used for a variety of businesses since its completion in the late 1800s, and was now a boutique hotel, having been fully refurbished in the period style of its origin; in all honesty, it was quite beautiful. As Phil gathered everyone around him, he again looked at his pocket watch, and then announced in a deep but whimsical tone (which caused his eyes to bug out to the point of escape) that the “ghost tour” would begin. He explained the origins of the building, the ghosts that haunted it, and then invited us all to wander about the public areas inside, keeping our eyes peeled for the ghosts that he assured us were in residence. I never saw a single one, but perhaps they were just tired of being sought after four nights a week.

After the brief tour of the hotel, Phil gathered us in the lobby and directed us out the door and up the mild hill toward California Street, all the while pointing out several stunning Victorian houses and stopping occasionally to explain a ghost sighting and give us a particular building's history to boot. It was all very interesting, but for the first hour or so, I didn't see a single ghost—I was beginning to doubt Phil's connections to the paranormal.

When we reached California Street, Phil stopped in front of a spectacular Victorian mansion perched above the street on a slight hill that was surrounded by a granite retaining wall. The lower portion of the building was obscured by bushes and trees, but you could clearly see the upper story, which was dark and a bit ominous. Phil explained that the original owner, an eccentric and wealthy woman in her mid-thirties, had died by throwing herself from the uppermost parapet. Her life had been riddled with familial strife and betrayal, adulterous relationships, and shady business deals, all of which led to her suspicious suicide, which Phil explained was more likely a murder committed by her nemesis and much disdained sister. Phil gathered us in closer, all the while describing a spooky occurrence with a key that he attributed to her ghostly visits.

He selected a young lady out of the crowd and placed an old skeleton key in her hand. The key was laid flat, with the bow hanging off and the blade in the center of her palm, facing due west. I divided my attention between Phil's parlor trick and the sidewalk directly in front of the building. Standing in all her glory was a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a white, lace adorned floor-length dress with a high collar, wide puffed sleeves that tapered as they descended to the wrist, and a tiny wasp like waist-line. Her hair was swept up in an elegant but slightly loose bun atop her head, and of course, she was wearing round eyeglasses.

Phil explained that when the spirit of the woman was present, she would announce herself by moving the key, which he believed was the original key that opened the door to the very parapet she fell to her death from. As I watched, the key began to slowly but surely turn in an eastward direction, and all the while our ghostly visitor was raising her hand in sync with the key's movement. Mesmerized by the ghost's ability, I hadn't noticed that a man had moved next to me until I actually felt his shoulder against mine.