Westside Tragedy

The incessant phone ringing was the first thing that should have tipped me off, an iniquitous start to a nefarious day. People today don't seem to fathom the concept of voicemail. Nobody leaves a message, resolving themselves to still fortitude. Instead they hang up and start the phone ringing all over again. If I didn't have to get up to take the phone off of the hook, I wouldn't have answered it at all.

The voice, tremulous and nervous, the normal tone of a rather aberrant person, speaking through with too much mirth, relayed a solicitation that gave me no reason to turn down. Norman. He was a hunter for lack of a better term, a self-acclaimed ghost hunter and self-appraised demonologist, a man of few credential, but high ambition. And to his credit, Norman did manage to attract supernatural cases like I attract dates with severe - yet cunningly hidden for the first few months - mental problems. And those few credentials were building up. I had no reason to doubt the validity of the scenario that he reenacted over the phone, and I've worked with him before... so I knew what I was in for.

I arrived on the scene early, a chance to gauge the situation on my own without any ulterior motives penetrating my personal space. I was about to be stuck in a restaurant with a seasoned ghost hunter, a lawyer / artist, and two psychics. Without a headstart, I would be constrained to second, third, fourth, and fifth guess everything that came out of this excursion, but with a little forethought and planning I had a dreamcatcher that would marshal all the false fairy tales and only let the probabilities pass through my mind.

Surveying my surroundings I realized that I just might be a little bit overdressed. For a restaurant, this place seemed more concerned with their patrons' alcohol content than any lingering hunger. I suddenly became a focal point for the majority of the people in my vicinity, stares of intrigue and inquisition. I was approached by the bartender in a matter of seconds - John, complete with half-buttoned shirt and gold Rolex. It didn't take his overture for me to realize that he owned this place. What did astound me was when I alluded that we were here for the investigation, he said that he didn't think it was going to be a public display. He thought the investigators were just going to do their thing expeditiously (my word not his) and then leave. It hit me with the force of a brick wall; he thought we were there to watch! After I corrected his assumptions, John quickly apologized and offered to give me the grand tour and a little back story. As we made our way up the semi-dilapidated stairs, and I fought off glares of black dressed eyes - manifest poltergeist groupies - I had enough time to question the very character of our new friend John. If he thought that I was here to watch and not participate, that meant he spread a little propaganda himself. I wondered just how much publicity he did for this event.

The narrative itself was a scatterbrain collage of unjustifiable employee concerns, late night chicanery all concentrated on a little incorporeal boy. I was fed only pieces of the tale as John faded in and out of our paranormal dialogue with everlasting references to how people have come in since hearing about the ghost, and his persistent questions about how we planned to uncover this spirit.

I brushed him off, he was nothing more than small white fuzz collecting on a black shirt. You had to be relentless. Better to leave him to Norman. I was, however, beginning to doubt my very presence there.

The rest of the ragtag soldiers showed up a half hour after I did. Norman instantaneously took control, a general always feeling that he was on the fringe of combating mutiny. He brought more equipment than the six of us could administer, but it didn't matter to me, I was just along for the ride.

Now with a larger audience to communicate the fame of his establishment to, John brought in his "key witnesses" and set them to their craft.

First up were the kitchen crew, a dishwasher and a waitress I was presuming. Both seemed not to bother with the presence of the camera, and I could mark the genuine nature of their words through their eyes before they even vocalized them. They believed that something was there, though neither of them saw anything, there were rumors unremitting among the workers that, around closing time, a little boy could be heard as if he were sitting in one of the restaurant's booths.

The waitress relayed most of the story to us, while the dishwasher nodded affectionately in consonance. It seemed that the little boy delighted to let the same song play over and over again on the stereo system. It didn't seem to matter to him that the song only appeared on the tape once. He made sure it replayed continuously without discontinuity.

The genuineness of these two employees struck me as touching. It was a nice relief from the prodigal nature of their employer John. Though the evidence wasn't overwhelming, I decided that for them, it would be worth the time spent. They had high hopes for this investigation. They seemed to want reassurance that their minds' weren't inventing their little excursions into the supernatural.

John didn't seem to get the memo about my decision though, since he then took the opportunity to pull the fifth ace out from up his sleeve.

In strolled one of John's former bartenders. Arrogance brimmed from him, a man who pats himself on the back even when no one is observing.

His story was massively exaggerated and unreliable. I should have wore boots.

Claiming to be working late one night, the bartender was rearranging the liquor bottles under the bar. Nobody was in the restaurant at that time, but when he rose up from his work there was a man standing in front of him; a sailor of sorts, an old pirate-looking individual complete with tailored clothes and hat. The individual leaned over the bar and eyed the bartender up. He looked to the left. He looked to the right. Then looked right back at the bartender and proclaimed "There's nobody here." He then disappeared.

I already knew from other research that, well before John bought this place, it was rumored to have been haunted by a ghost resembling a pirate. Apparently I wasn't the only one who knew this. I kept an eye on John during the whole story and was sure to note the joyous grin on his face as his former bartender drooled out his story. I could almost see John as a ventriloquist, and this bartender was nothing more than his dummy - in more sense than one.

John was already trying my patience. He thought he was feeding a few starving dogs, and though that might be the case with some of the others, Norman and I have seen things that he couldn't possibly imagine. And I'm not easy to toy with.

We now had two ghosts to look for, but little did I know at the time, a third was about to join the mix.

We split up into two groups. Faith went with Antonio and Mikki (the first psychic), while I accompanied Norman and Debbie (the second).

We took our time through most of the conveniently dark rooms, trouncing our way through bitter attic cold and inch thick dust, the holy dirt of negligence - the honorary action handed down by the gods of money and business. I silently thought of the hauntings and let the brief picture of a giant cockroach with a pirate's hat cross my mind. I brushed it away with a humorous smile, and then made a mental note not to ever eat anything at this restaurant.

The night began as uneventful as I had anticipated it to be as we moved from room to room recording nothing more than the blank stares on our own faces and the occasional flying dust bunny. Then we found the third story attic storage room.

The three of us cautiously walked up the stairway into a decrepit open room with boxes and other garbage thrown about like dirty clothes in a child's room. Debbie and I gathered in the center while Norman branched off.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the faerie dance of two glowing balls. I wasn't the only one that noticed it as Debbie began to take a few steps forward to meet with it. I quickly grabbed hold of her shoulder and arm and held her back from going any further. She gave me a glare - a look to turn me to stone - but it hastily subsided as she followed the pointing of my finger to the broken floorboards in front of her that she almost gracefully fell through.

Norman apparently noticed the glowing as well - a light hue not so noticeable with the first glance - as he rushed over to get a better look.

I studied these glowing balls diligently as they moved from place to place, but always at the same height, always with the same speed. And then, I saw the shimmering of the air around them, from their position to the floor. Quite an oddity.

Norman motioned for us to follow him down the steps. I could only imagine that we were to meet up with the others. I was the last to pass down the steps, and I managed to hold strong as I felt a forceful pressure brush by me. I spun around and looked back at the darkness. Nothing to be seen.

Apparently Norman thought that this would be a good time for all of us to take a siesta or something as we all huddled into a nice little booth in the restaurant, caged calves devoid of liveliness. I didn't quite understand what the whole break session was about until I saw the reporter walking over to the table. What happened next was the most astounding thing that I had ever witnessed.

I've never seen so many people blow smoke up one person's ass ever before in my life. I'm surprise the reporter didn't have gas by the time he left. John put on the most amazing display of self promotion while at the same time delineating majesty status on the newspaper that this person was reporting for. Even Antonio attempted to charm the journalist into accepting his business card in order to promote his art. I felt like I was in a circus being paraded around for display in order to fatten P.T. Barnum's wallet. I should have walked out right there.

Instead, I stayed, if only for the sake of the hour and a half drive it took me to get there. And the hostess was pretty attractive too, so that didn't hurt.

We continued our assault on these so-called specters. I didn't return to the attic (the only place yet to come close to a hot spot). But apparently my luck was with me today as one of our psychics began flaring up in the far room.

The story unfolded through the momentum of hysterical pronouncements by Mikki. It seemed that the pirate-looking individual was referred to as "Bad John", and don't think the irony of his name matching up with that of our gracious host was lost on me.

Bad John was a bit of a "scallywag" in his heyday, and apparently he was well known for his torturous ways with children. All of this information was passed on to Mikki not by Bad John, nor the little boy that we originally came here for, but instead, it surfaced through communication with a lost little girl (our third ghost). This presented us with a scenario of a little girl constantly being hounded by an evil man.

It was at this point that the EMF detector started topping off. We were getting wild readings that corresponded with the active movements, perceived by Mikki, that this girl was making. And when Bad John was on the chase again, and the little girl fled the room, our readings went cold. Unfortunately for me, our host John, was present for the entire exchange. The grin on his face made me wonder why I was refraining from stomping a hole in him.

The rest of the evening was fruitless. No contact. No readings. Norman constructed a theory that Bad John was pursuing both the little girl and the boy, and possibly other ghostly children throughout the establishment, repeating his Earthly hobby.I constructed the theory that our host John had more hair popping through his shirt (front and back) than he did on his head.

Upon completion of the investigation, we were, of course, offered free drinks as John anxiously awaited hearing the next steps of our inquiry. I declined the drink and was ready for the drive back home. I didn't "exit stage left" quickly enough; however, as Norman managed to introduce John to the concept of a burned CD of all our findings - pictures, video clips, stats sheet, etc.

I simply nodded... and reached for the door.

*****

Back home I constructed my opinion carefully. I weighed the consequences of my actions. There was something there at that restaurant, something not necessarily benevolent. I didn't have Earth shattering evidence, but I had enough to make John's day and get him in the paper. I had the proof that he needed to make the news. Many thoughts rang through my head.

John... after reviewing the material, it is my expert opinion that no ghosts or any other kind of supernatural entity currently resides on the premises of your restaurant. All video images are inconclusive and the EMF readings were likely the result of interference from the kitchen equipment that existed below the room that we were in. Sorry for the disappointment...

Should I keep my opinion to myself? I slipped a CD full of inconclusive evidence into a padded envelope... and headed for the Post Office.