The Witch's Ladder (2 page)

Soon, one magnet began to vibrate slightly. When the other began to quiver, Jean let out a gasp, interrupting the rhythm of breathing among the group. The doctor steadied her hand and she reigned in her excitement, allowing the others to regain their concentration on the experiment without consequence.

The magnets continued to tremble, still meagerly, but slowly the subtle pulsing gave way to a rapid and vibrant shudder. They began creeping toward each other. Initially the magnet on the left moved only an inch, then stopped but continued shaking. Then the magnet on the right moved, shimmying as it walked, almost with intelligent intent. Then it happened, as if a cord holding them back had snapped, the two magnets raced toward each other, sliding along the tabletop like skaters on ice until slapping together with a click.

The group cheered in celebration. Jean, too, clapped, though admittedly uncertain as to what had actually taken place. It was supposed to be Michael’s experiment, yet it seemed as though the entire group contributed to the cause and effect. When she questioned Doctor Lieberman about the outcome of the test, he concurred, noting that the entire group most likely combined their collective energies to facilitate the results.

“
And to some small measure,” he told her, “I suspect you were instrumental in the success of the experiment, as well. Perhaps it was your small contribution of energy that enabled the magnets to overcome what otherwise might have been too great a distance.”

“
But then how do you document to what extent Michael’s part played in the experiment?” she asked.

He laughed casually. “Ms. Bradford, we don’t. The experiments tonight are just for fun. We do that sometimes. Not everything we do is all work. Here, why don’t I introduce you to everyone?”

Doctor Lieberman cleared his throat, signaling the others to simmer down. “Everyone, I would like you to meet Jean Bradford, my new assistant.”

A chorus of hellos rippled through the room. The doctor gestured toward Michael. “As I mentioned earlier, our telekinesis expert in the middle there is Michael Dietrich.” Michael smiled at her and nodded politely. Jean nodded back. “To his left and right are Chris Walker and Travis Webber. Like Michael, Chris and Travis possess acute abilities in telekinesis, although we’re still focusing our experiments to determine to just what extent that is.”

The two boys acknowledged Jean with a wave.

“
Next we have Gordon Walsh.” He came around the table and placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “Gordon, along with Barbara Richardson and Valerie Spencer,” he gestured toward the next two women in line, “are our resident experts in ESP, or clairvoyance.”

Jean reached across the table and began shaking hands, noting the obvious that Barbara and Valerie were much older than the boys, enough so that they could be their mothers. She smiled politely and continued following Doctor Lieberman around the room. “And here,” he said, presenting two very pretty and petite young ladies, “are the lovely twins, Shekina and Akasha Kayo. These two come to us from South Africa. They, like Gordon, Barbara and Valerie, are also telepathic. However, the telepathy between Shekina and Akasha is particularly strong. I would venture to guess that at any given moment these two know exactly what the other is thinking. Am I right, girls?”

Shekina and Akasha turned to each other and smiled knowingly.

“
There, you see? They’re doing it again.”

Jean merely nodded.

Next, the doctor turned his attention to the far end of the table. There, a young woman sat with her head down, her arms gathered tightly below her breasts. Her eyes stared innocuously at the floor, her smile bashful, as if born partly out of fright. “This is Leona Diaz,” said the doctor. He reached over and gently stroked Leona’s hair with the back of his hand. “Leona is the newest member of our workshop. She comes to us from Honduras. She’s a wonderful child of innocence, and she has a most incredible gift, which I’m sure she could go on for hours telling us about if she were not so terribly shy. You see, Ms. Bradford, Leona has the ability, though mostly involuntary, to travel out of body and maintain a presence in two places simultaneously. You may have heard it referred to as astral-projection. It’s uncertain what her double looks like, whether she appears as a solid or ghostly form to others, for she’s been unable to bilocate to places any of us can be at that time. However, we have documentation of her travels to substantiate her experiences. Always, it’s information of events as they happen. Unlike ESP and clairvoyance, which generally tells of future or past events, Leona can see events unfolding and recite a virtual play-by-play of those events in real time. We’re all very excited that she’s joined us, and we hope to make her comfortable in her new home so far away from home.”

Doctor Lieberman warmed Leona with his smile. “Hola, Leona. ?Como estas?”

In better English than Jean expected, Leona replied, “I am fine, Doctor. Much thanks to you for asking.”

“
You’re welcome, dear.”

Finally, Doctor Lieberman turned his attention to the last person in the room still awaiting introduction: a longhaired, dark-skinned beauty with rich ebony eyes. She stood alone in the corner, leaning against a filing cabinet, arms folded. She seemed dark and mysterious, yet confident as though needing no introduction at all.

“
This, Ms. Bradford, is the enchanting Lilith Adams,” he smiled tentatively. Jean followed him across the room and met up with Lilith just as the doctor said, “Ms. Adams here is a witch.”

“
A witch?” Jean’s outstretched hand froze in mid-reach. She offered a suspicious smile. “You’re joking, of course.”

“
No I’m not,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed, though. I’m sure Lilith here is a good witch. Aren’t you, Lilith?”

“
Of course,” she said, and she hissed cat-like while taking a playful swat at him.

“
Actually, Ms. Bradford, we include Lilith in our workshop not for her sorcery, but because she demonstrates abilities as a sensitive with surprisingly accurate results.”

“
A sensitive?”

“
Yes. That’s someone who displays fundamental abilities to serve as a host for spirit communications. Ms. Adams has established a long and successful record in working with thought-forms, or nonphysical entities. It’s rather bewitching, if you’ll excuse the pun.” He laughed lightly at his own wit. Neither woman seemed amused. “Seriously though, her work here at the institute has been enlightening. Although her fascination with witchcraft is something we don’t particularly endorse, we do excuse it for the sake of research.”

“
Interesting,” said Jean. “You communicate with the dead. Do you suppose you could talk to my late husband, Arnold? I’d love to hear from him.”

Lilith’s grin grew doubtful. “No…I don’t….”

“
Ms. Bradford,” said Doctor Lieberman, “Lilith can’t actually contact the dead, as much as the dead can contact her, or rather information about the dead comes to her. A Sensitive is not a medium. Lilith is capable of learning things about your husband without you telling her particulars, but she can’t actually speak with him.”

“
Of course, I’m sorry. That was inappropriate of me to ask, I know.”

“
Not at all,” said Lilith. “It’s perfectly all right. In fact….” She reached behind her neck, unclasped a strand of beads and handed them to her. “Here, I want you to have this. It’s a special necklace. It holds the power of hope, something we lose sometimes when someone close to us passes. Anytime you feel that hope is slipping away, I want you to remove a single bead from this necklace and drop it into water. It doesn’t matter if it’s a fountain, a lake, or even a puddle. Just drop it in and concentrate on the ripples. When the last ripple disappears, it’ll take with it your sense of despair and desperation and leave you with renewed hope.”

Jean took the necklace and held it to her heart, unsure what to say. Lilith told her, “Don’t say anything. Just know it works.”

The evening progressed with the workshop breaking up into smaller groups and conducting experiments independently. Jean hopped from one experiment to the other, observing, as Doctor Lieberman explained them to her. By the end of the evening, she felt comfortable enough to call everyone by his or her first name and found she bonded especially well with the two clairvoyants: Barbara and Valerie. Later, as the experiments ended and the groups began breaking up, Doctor Lieberman and the others took leave in staggered shifts. The last to leave was Travis Webber.

By all accounts, based on my reports and what others have told me, Travis Webber was committed to the study of psycho kinesis. He never took an experiment lightly. If it were up to him, the workshop would practice twenty-four seven, with summer breaks consisting of field trips to Sedona where he could slip into one of Earth’s vortexes, find his Chi, and move objects with his mind from sunup to sundown. It was that dedication that fueled his decision to stay behind and work another thirty minutes on experiments after all the others had gone; and that which likely killed him.

I imagined it was shortly before midnight when Travis decided to call it quits. From a thought-form experiment I saw later, I knew he grabbed his coat, turned off the lights and headed out. Once downstairs, he pushed open the plate-glass door and stepped out into the cold. His brisk walk across the parking lot had barely begun when he realized he’d forgotten his car keys upstairs in the room. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, turned and marched head-down back to the main entrance. He needed only tug once on the door before realizing that it locked automatically after closing.

I know he cupped his hands to the glass the way Jean described she had done earlier that night. He rapped on the door, hoping someone was inside and might hear him. There wasn’t, of course, and he soon realized his limited choices. He could break the glass to get into the building and face the consequences with Doctor Lieberman in the morning, or turn and hoof it in hopes of catching a ride on a dark and lonely country road. I imagined neither seemed appealing.

While still staring at the door he noticed a strange reflection in the glass. His brows gathered as he squinted in stiff focus at the blurred silhouette, watching it bleed into the darkness; melt into the shadows as if it had no flesh. He realized that nothing about the figure seemed even remotely familiar or friendly. And it came to him: the chilling realization that the mysterious figure was a reflection of someone standing behind him.

He turned to confront the specter, when the assailant’s forward thrust knocked him off balance. He staggered back into the plate-glass, shattering it. His hands came up instinctively to protect his face, leaving his body open and vulnerable. He must have felt the push of cold steel tear into his stomach and rip through his chest to the bottom of his neck. Then he dropped to his knees. Steam from his gaping wound commingled lazily with the still, night air, and the smell of death—his death—lingered within its vaporous trail under his nose.

Some miles away, still driving, Barbara Richardson felt an ominous sense of peril. She later told me she thought she was going to die. She turned down the volume on the radio and listened for sirens, horns or warnings of any kind. Yet all she heard was the wind whistling through her opened window.

At the same time, Valerie Spencer told me she had already arrived home and was putting her key in the front door lock. She, likewise, reported the feeling of impending doom. An abrupt and unexplained horror gripped her from inside and squeezed her of breath. She gasped, dropped her keys and purse and clutched her stomach in reflex. And though it lasted only a moment, she knew instinctively that all was not right.

The next morning, bright yellow crime-scene tape ringed the perimeter to the entrance of the research center. Reporters and news crews gathered a short distance away as the city awoke to the early headlines: Murder at the Institute of the Paranormal and Unexplained.

My office had not yet released the details, but word had somehow leaked out that this murder was a particularly grisly one, revealing that the victim died of a knife wound and that the killer had cut the liver out of his victim’s body. I’m sure it made for great conversation over breakfast.

I arrived at the scene around eight o’clock to meet with Doctors Lowell and Lieberman, the project’s director and coordinator, respectively. They both saw the murder scene up close for themselves, and one of them, Doctor Lowell I believe, was the one who called 911. We met in the great-room upstairs after my briefing with first responders, the CSI team and the medical examiner. I started the conversation with the standard promise that I usually made in high-profile cases. It’s a promise I had always been able to keep up until then. In the future, I think I’ll try to remain a little less committal about things.

“
I’m Detective Anthony Marcella,” I said, “Second Precinct. I’m here to tell you that I’ve got a crack team of officers working the case downstairs, and my partner, Carlos Rodriquez, is downtown working on putting together what clues we’ve found so far. It’s only a matter of time before we catch whoever did this.”