Web Ginn House: A Zo�� Martinique Investigation, Short Story Read online

  WEB GINN HOUSE

  by

  Phaedra Weldon

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Caldwell Press on Smashwords

  Web Ginn House

  Copyright © 2010 by Phaedra Weldon

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  WEB GINN HOUSE

  by

  Phaedra Weldon

  A toaster spun across the room straight for my head.

  Luckily I was out of body (that's OOB for the uninitiated), so the blasted thing drove right through me and into the ceramic clown behind me.

  Crash!

  I hate clowns.

  But then again, how rude! I didn't feel the solid object, but I sure as hell was going to remember it later as a migraine on the physical plane. Oh I could choose to go through things, like doors and walls, but when I did that— I was prepared. Nothing like walking down Peachtree Street and having some very angry spirit bean you with a kitchen appliance.

  Though I'm not sure which is worse—the flying genzu knives or the hideous furniture flashback to 1964, complete with plastic couch cover.

  Whoa! Lookout—a juicer!

  Oh, speaking of rude, let me introduce myself. Name's Zoë Martinique. Long e sound. Not like toe. I'm not a ghost or anything—not even a distant relation to Danny Phantom (but it'd be cool to have his white hair)—but a living, breathing (and ever curious) Latino Irish American who just happens to travel out of body.

  Sounds weird huh?

  Yeah, most people hear Latino and Irish and before they see me and think "She either looks like Jennifer Lopez or Opie Griffith."

  Hell—you think if I looked like JLo I'd be incorporeal in north Georgia dodging toasters? Nope. I'd be making me some sexy music videos and racking up husband number two.

  I'm a stick with mounds of brown hair, brown eyes and freckles.

  Ack! This time a Betty Crocker cookbook spun at me, hard cover open, pages flapping in the wind. I moved to the side and did a nice duck behind the sofa. The book dented the wall behind me, just missing—I stopped and glared at the garish figurines on the shelf—what were those things? Gah—ceramic harlequins.

  Hideous.

  Mental note: I really hate clowns.

  If I could, I'd let loose with some rather colorful metaphors about now, but even incorporeal, the SPRITE equipment set up throughout the two story house would hear me on tape. And that just wouldn't do.

  Oh yeah, SPRITE stands for Southeast Paranormal Research Investigators for Tactical Extermination. Uh-huh. What kills me is their obnoxious little logo of a fairy holding a ghost around the neck.

  Sick, sick, sick.

  But with that kind of publicity, I'd rather not be noticed by them. I might be invisible to the naked eye, and I'm not that sure I won't show up on film, but for some strange reason I can be heard. Learned that the hard way once and nearly gave one of my targets a heart attack.

  Let me set the stage here so it doesn't seem like I'm babbling.

  I learned I could go out of body six years ago, and once I got past that whole adolescent need to spy on people (like boyfriends, hussies who stole my boyfriends, cheating boyfriends) I learned I could make money with this little talent and have for the last two years. I rent out my services for information gathering—well okay I snoop. The code word is Traveler—I'm a Traveler for their information needs.

  Don't try this at home, kiddies.

  I've also learned the more under-the-table it sounds, the more money customers are willing to pay. People prefer to dish out high dollar for something they think is illegal—and I have a mortgage which keeps a roof over my physical body—which is at present resting comfortably in my condo near Piedmont Park.

  I sell my services on Ebay. I know, odd modus operandi (I love using those words) I admit, but like I said before, I Travel for people and my friend and Magical MacGuyver of all things spooky, Rhonda Orly, handles that business end of things. Ebay was her idea.

  And as of two days ago, three days before Halloween—which is tomorrow—I received a request from a repeating client. I never know their names, or their locations, just their email addresses. This guy's handle was [email protected]. Did a good bit of odd traveling for him these past two years.

  Paid good too. His requests were pretty straight-forward. Snoop on this meeting, report back in detail. Watch this couple, report back. Watch this building, tell me what happened between yadda time and yadda time. My information wasn't admissible in court—I had no physical proof (as an incorporeal entity I couldn't lift anything solid so no takey evidence from the scene), I couldn’t even take pictures like a Private Investigator.

  But the clients didn't seem to care. They trusted me, and I enjoyed the work. I often thought they'd find my methods a bit—questionable. And if not the methods, then maybe my attire. I usually went out in black leggings, black turtleneck and black bunny slippers. They were so cute with their nylon whiskers and pink ears. I could honestly say I loved my job

  Except those that put me in front of hurling objects.

  My instructions on this little adventure sent me to Web Ginn House road in downtown Lawrenceville, Georgia. I was to examine a haunted house, though my client neglected to tell me I'd be sharing space with a spook team. Oh—I believed in ghosts. Trust me. My mom has a couple living at her house—and I don't mean one or two ghosts—I mean a couple as in they're together. Tim and Steve. Quite a pair. She lives in Little Five Points—the artsy part of Atlanta.

  But as for actually seeing ghosts other than those two—nope. This was a new experience for me. And it was just classic that I was doing it the night before Halloween.

  Yay. Go me.

  This time I wasn't paying attention when two of the members of SPRITE meandered into the room. The hurling of dangerous objects immediately ceased when they stepped in with their equipment held out in front of them, flashlights fixed to their foreheads.

  "Randall—look over there!" the thinner of the two men said in an excited whisper. He was pointing in my direction so I exited stage-right, out of the line of fire of whatever electronic ghost snooping gadgetry they had in their hands.

  "How the hell did these kitchen appliances get into the living room?" Randall, the wider of the two with less hair, stopped looking down at his display and looked at the ceramic mess to the right of the couch. He had a light strapped to his forehead, and shined the beam onto the floor.

  "I told you I heard something in here," the thinner one said. I thought his name was Herb—though I wasn't sure. "I hope the cameras caught this on tape.

  "Oh hell. Clowns," muttered Randall. "I hate clowns. Menacing alien creatures."

  I like him.

  "Well, you know what this proves don't you?"

  "What, Herb? That ghosts hate clowns?"

  I slapped my hand over my mouth. Nearly chuckled out loud on that one.

  "No, that poltergeists aren't always phenomenon attached to teenagers entering puberty. No kids live here."

  Poltergeist?

  Interesting. Maharba never mentioned anything about poltergeists.

  I felt a slight vibr
ation then, something racing up my back. It was the same feeling I'd had right before the first object sailed through me. Martinique Spidey-sense.

  Yep! And there it was! I didn't actually see what the flying object was at first because this one came from the living room and not the kitchen. I did feel it as it passed through my chest—a sort of odd pressure. Not a feeling I'd had before—but then again—this was the first time I had things thrown at me.

  There was a moment of dizziness as I moved back to see a clock smash against the wall beside the ceramic mess. Whatever this thing was—I got the impression it was targeting me.

  Oh joy.

  "You see that? The clock's still plugged in." Herb moved over the broken ceramic toward me.

  Still plugged in? Electricity. Was that why I felt like I'd been zapped? Might be—I'd always heard that electronic equipment went fritzy around electromagnetic entities (or so Rhonda had said on occasion). So why shouldn't they have the same effect on out of body girlies like me?

  "Herb…rewind the thermal imager…"

  That's when I saw the first of what looked like a whitish tentacle ooze its way around the feet of the couch. I stepped back and stared at it with crescendoing fear as it wound itself around the stubby couch leg on the front right. Another appeared from beneath, a soft white iridescent squid-like arm, and wrapped itself around the front left.

  "Oh geez…." Randall said. "Do you see that?"

  "Oh the fuck I do!" I blurted out and moved out of the way just before the entire couch launched itself into the air and came at me. I had just enough time to duck down the hall to my left as the yellow with pink flowered piece of furniture bounced into the wall and landed on top of the floor-model television.

  Sorry about the furniture, but what the hell was the squid shit? I ran down the hall and circled around to the den, avoiding the kitchen and its whirling appliances all-together. I was getting winded, which in Traveling speak for me meant I'd been out of body a good while. Four hours appeared to be my limit before all sorts of nasty afflictions screwed up my physical self.

  Headache (migraines), lethargy, upset stomach, dark circles under the eyes—not attractive to the opposite sex.

  I stopped in my astral tracks once I entered the den.

  Well—I'd found the owner of the white squid parts. It was there, standing in the center of the room, all glowy and horror-movie-of-the-week.

  A giant squid. And I mean a giant freak'n squid. The thing looked like it was made out of smoke and ash. A monochromatic nightmare of infinitesimal proportions.

  This thing made clowns seem normal.

  Well—maybe not.

  And the mother was staring right at me.

  Oh no way!

  The tentacles were stretched out all over the house, but here in the den is where the body was. I'd overheard the SPRITE team talking about the upstairs bedroom being the central area where most of the activity was centered, not the den.

  So, how come no one told this wacko sea-animal he was in the wrong room?

  Astral wind picked up and I actually felt my incorporeal hair stand on end. Two of the tentacles lashed out at me and I screamed as I watched them try and wind their way around my ankles.

  Try being the key word here.

  They melted right through me. Coiled and then oozed away.

  It never touched me.

  Well, not completely true. Something happened, because I was abruptly cold. While Traveling, I never experienced the elements. I could actually step out of my body naked (which had been my first one or two full experiences) and not feel a thing.

  But this time my teeth were chattering. My ankles were the coldest, and knocking together. Ah! Even my bunny slippers had frost on their nylon whiskers.

  Yikes!

  "There it is again!" Herb shouted from the end of the hall. The two SPRITE members had moved to the start of the hallway where I had backed into.

  Thunder vibrated within the house. Two more members of the team bounded down the stairs from the bedrooms, their little devices up and ready as they descended.

  "Oh Jesus, what happened here?" came a female voice. That would be the one called Boo. The one that looked most like Rhonda with black hair and pink eye-shadow.

  "Boo," Herb said in a whisper. "You and Ron circle back around to the den and get a shot of this thing."

  Yeah, I thought. Shoot it. The giant squid looked as if it were listening—it wasn't making any more attempts at snagging me, or at throwing anything. I stood rooted to the spot in the hall—not because I was scared stiff, but because my legs weren't working. I jerked at them a few times, but I was locked in place!

  What is up with this?!

  "What is it you see?" Boo said and I heard her moving in the house.

  "It looks like…"

  A giant freak'in squid. A huge, bulbous octopus with more than eight tentacles. A larger than life Cousteau nightmare. A—

  "It looks like a woman."

  Blink. No—it looks like a—wait, a woman?

  Oh no. I turned my upper body since my lower half wasn't budging. It felt like I had ice-shackles around my ankles. Herb and Randall were looking at the monitor, and then up at me.

  At me!

  "It is a woman," Randall said in voice full of excitement. "And she's wearing…bunny slippers?"

  Damnit.

  Boo and her partner appeared at the opposite end of the hall near the front door. The light from her monitor illuminated her face, exaggerating her features. "Where is this woman ghost?"

  "Right there," Randall pointed directly at me. "You can't see her?"

  Boo looked up from her monitor and squinted down the hall. "No. She's not showing up on the camera."

  Well thank goodness for small favors. I was already panicked enough to know I showed up on the thermal imager.

  I paused in my erratic thoughts as Randall and Herb started a rather hesitant walk down the hall in my direction. If I'm incorporeal, which means I'm without a warm body, how is it I show up on a thermal imager? Do I look all blue?

  "What is it doing?" Herb said. "It looks like it's…looking at us."

  "Nah," Randall said in a soft voice. "It doesn't even know we're here."

  A movement in the den caught my eye and I looked back at Squid-ward long enough to see several tentacles slither out down the hall in either direction toward the ghost hunters.

  I watched in morbid fascination (while trying to make my legs move) as the glowing, whitish limbs wound down the hall toward the unsuspecting, and evidently unseeing people. One tentacle reached out for Randall's monitor.

  "Look out!" I shouted.

  Well he heard me, but not fast enough to prevent the monitor from bashing up into his face. I heard a crunch and knew the force had done some damage to his nose. He fell back against the wall and was on the floor in seconds.

  I heard a yell to my left and turned in time to see Boo's camera fly out of her hands and bean her partner in the side of his head.

  "Ron! I'm so sorry, that wasn't me. It was that ghost woman." Boo yelled out.

  Me? I did not do that. And I could argue this out loud with both she and Randall. But at that moment I felt as well as heard a low growl. It seemed to come from the floor and up through my ankles.

  I looked back into the den door in front of me. The huge squid was gone and I got the distinct impression it was below me now.

  And coming up through the floor under my feet. Now I didn't know if this was a bad thing, but it couldn't be good. If the tentacles around my ankles had had such a nasty effect, I did not want to stick around and see what the entirety of the creature did if its body swallowed my incorporeal one.

  So I did the only thing any respectable astral presence would do.

  I got the hell out of there.

  In truth, I concentrated on my silver cord, the one that anchored my spirit to my body, and I followed it back, leaving the squid, and SPRITE, far behind.

  <><><>

  What I did
n't mention was what a really bad idea this little trick was.

  Traveling back into my body this way, instead of easing back in like I normally did, caused a great deal of stress on the physical. Meaning when I slammed back into my body (there's an interesting velocity that picks up along the silver cord) it hurts.

  Mom said it looked like I'd been shocked with a couple of those paddle things the doctors use to restart the heart. It actually felt a lot worse than it looked. The only way I can describe it from a physical standpoint is to imagine your blood replaced with liquid fire.

  Acid. Everything burns.

  The immediate reaction lasts maybe about two minutes, and then I'm usually a jelly lump on the floor catching my breath. The burning—that lasts a lot longer. Owch.

  I managed to stay on top of the little single bed I'd set up in my office for my traveling jaunts. Usually I fell off when I used my cord. I opened my eyes. I focused on my ceiling and concentrated on my breathing.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  Ow, ow, ow.

  I could imagine my blood as the sparkling, crackling fire and my veins were the fuse melting away as it grew closer to my heart.

  The pain subsided, and a dull ache in the back of my head surged forward. I groaned out loud and lay very still for a while. I caught the front LCD face of the clock beside my desktop computer. Three seventeen in the morning.

  Time for a nice glass of water, vitamins and —

  Wholly Mary Mother Of God!

  I'd sat up slowly, and my black leggings had pulled up to my knees as well. My ankles were black and blue. Literally, black and blue! It looked as if someone had hammered on them with a meat mallet. I touched them tenderly (owch!) and sucked air in between my teeth.

  So—could I stand on them?

  I tried, and promptly landed on the Pergo floor, knees and elbows first. It wasn't that I couldn't put weight on them—well okay I couldn't put weight on them. It hurt too much and tears instantly sprang to my eyes. I am not afraid of crying. At least not by myself.