The Ghost Chronicles (22 page)

Ron, sounding a bit nervous, said, “Okay, but don’t channel.” He reached into the duffel bag lying between his feet and pulled out the familiar blue bottle of “special blend.”

Instantaneously the meter stopped, as if the spirits feared the mixture.

We looked at each other, wide-eyed, our voices resonating as one. “Oh—my—God.”

“Oh, my…do you believe that?” I said.

“That’s freaky,” Ron said.

Suddenly remembering that we were recording the event for a podcast, I said, “Okay, we have to say what just happened here. I’m still feeling energy, by the way. I think he’s in the backseat,” I emphasized. “Ron whipped out the holy water and sage mix… and at that very second the EMF beeping stopped.” I continued, “What does that tell ya?” My sentence broke off with a laugh. “That the spirit knows he’s going to be spritzed.” I glanced in my rearview mirror, the energy so strong I half expected to see him sitting there staring back. A little nervous, I said, “He’s in the backseat, Ron, if you wouldn’t mind spritzing there too.”

Ron turned and began spraying over his shoulder. He looked at me. Reading my thoughts, his demeanor changed. His voice was now laced with concern. “Wow, this is definitely not good.”

The energy began swirling around me, closing in as if the spirit were trying to escape being sprayed and was intent on sharing my body. It suddenly became difficult to see. My peripheral vision was getting hazy. I dug my fingers into the steering wheel and mentally pushed back once again. The sudden haze in my vision receded. There was no way I could allow this to happen. I was driving, for God’s sake! “This isn’t a joke, you know. I am totally serious.” I became even more determined as I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Don’t worry; I am in control.”

Ron fidgeted in the seat to remove the EMF meter from the front pocket of his jeans. He turned to me, holding the meter
in the air. “You tell me this. How can my meter go on, when it’s switched off?”

My jaw dropped. “Oh my God.” Although the switch was turned off, Ron’s meter was beeping wildly. I could hardly believe my eyes.

A sudden jolt of energy seared my forehead. “Ohhhh…I can feel energy,” I yelled.

“Wait a minute,” Ron said. He lifted the blue bottle once again. “I got the spritz.”

I choked when I swallowed a mouthful of special blend.

“Can you drive and channel at the same time?”

“Ahh, I don’t know. I’ve never done it.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

“No. Why don’t we say a prayer?”

As we began to recite the Our Father, I couldn’t help but notice the sky in front of us. With each verse we recited, the cloudless sky, through the windshield of my Audi, began dramatically changing from blue to a deep crimson to flaming orange. “Ron, check that out,” I said, giving a quick nod.

“Holy shit!”

The energy seemed to subside, but I wasn’t convinced. I was nervous to keep driving, and I was hungry, so I told Ron we were pulling over.

Once in the Wendy’s parking lot, Ron asked, “What now?”

“Well, I don’t know. You think we should spray the car with the special blend?”

“Probably.”

With all four doors open, he began dousing my black leather seats with spray. I cringed; what the hell was I thinking? My poor leather seats.

We went into Wendy’s, ordered, and found a table.

Ron said, “So, now that I’m thinking about it, we may have only chased him out of your car and into the parking lot…What do you think would happen if he followed you home?”

I scanned the room, replaying Ron’s question in my mind. Hmmm. I shrugged my shoulders as I took a bite of my cheeseburger. “It hasn’t happened while working with you yet, but when it does, I’ll let you know.”

Little did I know these words would come back to haunt me.

Ron and Maureen at the Concord Colonial Inn

M
aureen and I sat with our laptops in the crowded, haunted Room 24 of the Concord Colonial Inn, anticipating another remote episode of
Ghost Chronicles
. It was 9:55 p.m., five minutes before we were due to begin, and our guest had yet to arrive. David Grossenburg, the manager of the inn, had invited my wife and me to spend the night, but first we had to do the show. The other members of the NEGP sat on the bed, waiting. As I shifted in my chair, a soft knock interrupted my train of thought. I breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened and I realized it was Arthur, our guest. Finally. Pulling out the chair, I quickly motioned for him to take a seat. Not trying to hide the irritation in my voice, I said, “Cutting it close, aren’t we?”

“Well, I was busy downstairs with…”

I cut him off. I really didn’t care. There was no time for explanation. “It’s showtime.”

Our producer, Erik, echoed over the headset, “You’re live.”

“Good evening everyone, welcome to another edition of
Ghost Chronicles Live
, on TogiNet. I am Ron Kolek, your host, the gatekeeper to the realm of the unknown, the unexplained, and the unbelievable, New England’s own Van Helsing. With me tonight, as usual, is my co-host, psychic investigator for the New England Ghost Project, the Queen of Pain, Maureen Wood. We’re broadcasting live from the haunted Concord Colonial Inn in Concord, Massachusetts, and our special guest is Arthur, the head waiter.

“So Arthur, you’ve worked for the Concord Inn for more than twenty-five years. I’m sure out of everyone here, you must have some great ghost stories that you can share with our listeners.”

“Oh my goodness, yes.” The words rolled off his tongue. “I’m sure I have one or two.”

Maureen’s shoulders bunched up like a kid waiting to hear a haunted campfire story. She leaned in closer to the microphone. “Oooh, tell us, please.”

I looked at Maureen. She frowned as if she knew what my next words were going to be. As always, Maureen was eager to jump right into the meat of the stories, without setting the table. Dismissing her words, I continued, “They’ll be plenty of time for that later. For now, could you share a little bit of the history of the Inn?”

Arthur lifted the microphone off the table and held it to his mouth. “Well, this house was built by John Thoreau, Henry David Thoreau’s father. Henry David Thoreau lived here from 1835 until 1837. In fact, the front parlor I walked you through earlier this evening is rich with history.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Thoreau’s aunts, two sisters on his father’s side, would meet in that room and discuss the evils of slavery with locals and likeminded members of the First Parish Church, over there across the green,” he said, pointing toward the window. With the darkness of the hour, there was nothing to be seen but his reflection staring back. “Noted people took part in these meetings: Mr. Pitney, who wrote an antislavery book, and who now has a street named after him on Beacon Hill; Frederick Douglas, the great black emancipator; and Senator Charles Sumner, who, because of his antislavery beliefs, was caned over the head on the Senate floor.”

Arthur puffed out his chest and adjusted his bow tie, as if in preparation for the words to follow. “The seeds of the Thirteenth Amendment of the Constitution, which abolished slavery, were planted in the downstairs parlor. It’s a very
spirited
room. You never know what’s going to happen, but it all happens when it’s supposed to.”

The moment Arthur said “spirited,” the battery light on my laptop began to blink wildly, indicating I was about to lose power.

In panic mode I reached behind me, only to find that I was still plugged in.
What the hell? A low battery is impossible; the computer’s plugged in
, I thought. Trying not to interrupt the flow of the show I gave a knowing nod to Maureen to take over as I frantically began to check the connections. It was too late. Arthur’s voice trailed off as the laptop died.

“Hurry up, connect, connect, connect,” I yelled at Maureen as she scrambled to bring up the network and connect to the studio on her laptop. Clay, our tech specialist, jumped off the bed and picked up my laptop, adjusting the settings. Then he unplugged the power cord and visually inspected it. “It looks fine to me.”

“Maureen, are you up yet?” I asked, frantic.

“Almost, give me a minute,” Maureen said.

I swapped the microphones and headsets from my laptop to Maureen’s just as our connection went through and the station answered. “Erik, are we up and running?”

“What happened? One minute you were there, then you dropped,” Erik asked.

“I was running off the wall current when the battery died and my laptop lost all power.”

“Did you bless your laptop? I did,” Maureen said smugly.

“Bite me,” I replied, more than a bit irritated. But she was right— I hadn’t blessed it. Ghosts tend to not be able to mess with blessed objects. Paranormal activity had most likely drained power from my laptop, and her blessed machine was still up and running.

“Okay guys, you’re on in five, four, three, two, one, go.” Dead air replaced the sound of Erik’s voice. I pointed at Maureen, giving her the cue to come back on live.

“We’re back,” Maureen said.

“I apologize for that little mishap,” I told our listeners. “But you know, that’s what happens when you deal with the paranormal.”
And you broadcast in a haunted location.

“Are you ready for a ghost story?” Arthur asked.

“Shoot,” I said.

He rubbed the bottom of his chin. “It was November, Thanksgiving, three years ago now. I was waiting on stations five and six, in the dining room where you ate tonight. Thanksgiving is one of our biggest days; we serve over twelve hundred meals in four hours. There is a lot of pressure on all waiters to keep up with the pace, you have to keep it moving or risk ruining the rest of your day.

“I was waiting on four parties of eight. When one party finished, they handed me a credit card for payment. I hurried over to the cash register to swipe the card.” He mimicked the motion with his hand. “When suddenly…bingo, gone, zappo, it disappears right out of my hand!”

“Seriously?” Maureen asked. “What did you do?”

“I panicked. I began getting upset. Where was it? What happened to it? Where had it gone? There I was, with dishes coming out of the kitchen, stacked up high, customers waiting. And the gentleman whose card had just vanished into thin air was staring
me down, watching the whole thing. So I dropped to my knees and looked all over the floor. I looked to my left, to my right, and still, no credit card.

“The credit card machine sits on top of a wooden cabinet with doors that are always kept closed. The worst thing you can do as a waiter is to lose someone’s credit card, the second worst thing is to do it with them watching you.”

I wondered where he was going with this. “So then what?”

“For some odd reason, I decided to look in the cabinet. I bent down on the floor once again, opened the door, and voila! There it was. Tucked in the back of the cabinet. But the problem was, the only way into the cabinet is through the front door, and it had been closed, all night.”

“Arthur, that is fascinating,” Maureen said. “Evidently the spirits wanted you to know without a shadow of a doubt that
they
had taken the credit card.”

“We’ve had some professional psychics here and they told me that a male spirit was playing games with me. He didn’t mean any harm. Apparently it was his way of trying to stop me from taking things so seriously.”