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GHOST’S NIGHT OUT

  by

  Jenny Harrison

  *******

  Published by:

  Copyright@2012 by Jennifer Ann Harrison

  Check out other titles by the author at:

  https://www.jennyharrison.co.nz

  *****

  Jaz is the weird one, not me. Well, I’ll qualify that by saying I must have been out of my tree to agree to Jaz’s proposal. I mean, would any sane person agree to put their inheritance into such a hare brained scheme?

  Ghost Hunters Ltd

  Jaz Mannering

  Clairvoyant.

  Predictions, clearing of haunted houses,

  Tarot cards and crystal gazing.

  That’s us. I bet you’ve passed our door. Maybe you’ve even paused, tried to peep through the glass window to see what a ghost hunter looks like and then hurried on. You might have seen me in the front office playing Solitaire while Jaz sits in the back doing phone-in predictions. We both do a bit of online erotica as well. That’s what keeps us solvent. Ugly but true.

  We get quite a few passers-by and tourists coming in. The cruise ships park at the quay in Auckland city just across the bay from us. They visit our little suburb because of its great restaurants and curio shops, its quaint ye-olde-worlde charm and it’s only an inexpensive ferry ride away.

  The cruise liners usually arrive on a Thursday, spend a full day in Auckland and then whisk their passengers on to further decadence. We could count on several pop-in clients, usually bored and well-booted and out for a laugh. ‘Ooh, look, Hazel. Let’s go in and have our palms read.’ I could lip-read but most voices were loud enough to shatter glass.

  Two large ladies came in and paid their $50 for a half hour of Jaz’s time. I took the money and provided the tissues when they came out, white-faced and trembling. They came in for a casual experience and went out having learned something about themselves or their loved ones in the spirit world. Usually both. You can’t go to a good clairvoyant without having to face your demons.

  I don’t think Jaz enjoyed it much, too exhausting and emotional. This was the fill-in part of the job, while we were waiting for the real work – ghost hunting – to begin.

  It was July before we had our first call-out.

  “I have a ghost and it’s bothering me,” the voice at the other end of the phone was a little breathless. “I know it’s asking a lot but can you come to my house tonight?”

  “No problem.” It was a Thursday and the day had been busy. Another cruise liner was in and filled with old ladies and gents out for a lark. We were both tired; it had been a long day.

  The address was a house in one of the fancier streets of our town. Lacy woodwork outlined the veranda and a narrow widow’s walk along the roof where you expected to see the captain’s wife patiently waiting for sight of her husband’s ship to come home. I looked at Jaz, checking to see whether she saw anything untoward but she just shrugged. The garden was decorative and formal, what you might call an English garden. We walked to the front door wading through the overwhelming perfume of roses and lavender.

  Mrs Smallman met us at the door, handkerchief pressed to her lips. In spite of her name, she was a large woman with a bust like the end of a sofa, round and firm.

  “Thank heavens you’re here,” she said then looked at me. “Are you supposed to be here as well?”

  “I’m her battery,” I explained. “Jaz uses my power as well as her own. That way, we get results quicker than if she worked on her own.”

  “So, you’re not a medium?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “That’s Jaz’s speciality. As I said, I’m only the battery.”

  Mrs Smallman didn’t look convinced. She stood there for a moment contemplating us, tall and fair on my side and short and dark on Jaz’s. “Well, you’d better come in then.”

  Mrs Smallman led us into her living room. In keeping with the age of the house she had furnished it in an array of antiques; dark and heavy. An earthquake measuring more than 7 on the Richter scale would be needed to move them aside for vacuuming.

  Pictures covered the walls, all with a nautical theme. Sea scenes; white-fringed waves dragging at the hull of some unfortunate ship, dhows in oriental ports against orange sunsets so real I could almost smell the spices. She noticed me looking around.

  “My husband was in the Navy. He’s retired now and taking it easy.”

  “Tell us about this ghost,” said Jaz, gently bringing Mrs Smallman back to the subject.

  She looked tearful for a moment and pressed her embroidered handkerchief to her uncompromising mouth.

  “Well, you see there’s this ... thing.” She hesitated. “It’s so embarrassing. At night it haunts me when I’m trying to go to sleep.”

  “In what way, Mrs Smallman?” asked Jaz.

  She hesitated again and pressed the ubiquitous handkerchief to her lips. No tissues for this lady, obviously. “I hardly like to say. It’s all too embarrassing.”

  “We need to know what form this haunting takes so that we can work with it.” Jaz was the epitome of patience. Me? I probably would have waded in boots and all. This woman was being far too edgy and I wondered why. People who are haunted by in-house ghosts are edgy but Mrs Smallman had taken it to an all-time high.

  “Well,” Mrs Smallman seemed to gather her courage into her spine for she sat up straight and the words tumbled out in an uncomfortable rush. “If you must know, it has sex with me.”

  I stifled a laugh. This ghost must have been pretty hard up.

  “An incubus,” said Jaz matter-of-factly.

  “A what?” Mrs Smallman looked startled.

  “An incubus. It’s a spirit that is supposed to have sex with women while they sleep. It’s more myth than real and not one that I’ve come across before. You might have seen the painting by John Henry Fuseli. It’s called The Nightmare.”

  “That’s just what this is,” Mrs Smallman said. “A nightmare.”

  I remembered seeing the painting on the Internet. It depicted a sleeping woman with a large evil goblin-type thing sitting on her chest. To me it looked more like a lady with a bad case of indigestion. Jaz was still talking to Mrs Smallman.

  “So, it’s either an incubus or a spirit from the other world who liked sex while he was alive and has found a way to go on enjoying it. Tell me, Mrs Smallman, how long has this been going on?”

  “About six months.”

  “Six months? Why have you only called us now?”

  “I only noticed your shop the other day. I seldom go into the village,” she gave a disparaging sniff. “If I want to shop I go into the city.”

  “And how has your health been since this started?”

  I wondered what Jaz was getting at. What had this woman’s health got to do with it? The legend is of the incubi, the supposed demons in male form that have sex with women while they sleep. It’s a popular myth and I always thought it was a good way to explain a pregnancy out of wedlock. Problem was it was reputed to cause deterioration in the health of the supposed victim. Mrs Smallman’s next words confirmed it.

  “To be honest, I haven’t been feeling all that well lately. The stress, you know. “

  “And your husband? What does he say about this?”

  “Oh my heavens!” Mrs Smallman was horrified. The handkerchief fluttered. “You don’t think I’d tell my husband, do you? Anyway, he isn’t aware of what is happening to me. He just sleeps there like a great big lump, snoring away.”

  Another clue. Incubi were supposed to be able to put anyone in the vicinity of their intended victim into a deep sleep. I wondered if Mrs Smallman had been reading a book on demon mythology.

  Jaz stood up. “We’d like to have a look round, if you
don’t mind.”

  I got up too. I thought Mrs Smallman could at least have offered us a cup of tea but it looked like we were going to go thirsty. Jaz picked up my thoughts. Damn. I hate it when she does that.

  “Could we have some water, please?”

  Mrs Smallman hurried away to her kitchen muttering an apology as she went. I could hear her little heels going tappy-tap on the kitchen tiles.

  “So, what do you make of this?” I asked.

  “Let’s walk around and see. We might find a spot of spirit activity. Then we’ll see if she’s really attracted a spirit or if it’s her imagination.”

  “Or if it’s really an incubus.”

  Jaz shrugged. “Not sure I believe in them, quite frankly. But, we’ll see.”

  Mrs Smallman came back with two glasses of water carefully balanced on a silver tray. We each took one and sipped slowly. I knew that was how Jaz tuned into a place. Then she would psychically probe to see if any spirit might have lingered after death rather than continuing on its spiritual journey. She gave me a small nod. She’d found something.

  We walked slowly around the