Chasing Vito's Ghosts

CHAPTER

1

Becka Brandt removed her jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. It’s the middle of May, and I still need a winter jacket, she muttered. A moment later, a voice drifted into the room. Shit, she snapped, astonished he had heard her. She dropped her chin to her chest and silently chastised herself for speaking out loud.

It was on the evening of her first day in the house that she walked into the parlor and discovered the old ghost sitting in the brown recliner. She remembered his look of surprise when he glanced up to see her staring at him. Later that evening, she had wondered why she had not crossed his path earlier. By the end of the following afternoon, she regretted exposing her ability to see and hear the dead.

What’s a young thing like you have to complain about? The ghost scolded from the parlor across the hall. "You ought to be thankful you’re alive and not stuck in the afterlife feeling nothing. Believe me; it’s not something to look forward to.

Doing her best to ignore him, she inspected the jacket, certain it was the one she had worn the day she had signed the lease on the house two weeks earlier. She reached into a pocket, looking for the slip of paper with her landlord’s phone number. VJ, the owner of her furnished house and proprietor of the neighborhood convenience store, Vito’s Market, had forgotten to give her the key for the door connecting the garage and kitchen.

I could get this done faster if I had that damn key, she said to no one in particular. She was talking to herself again, but that’s what stress and being alone will do to you. She wished she hadn’t promised her mother she’d finish unpacking today. Her concerned parents’ recent and unexpected visit from her hometown in Iowa to her not-happy-to-be-here new residence in East Ridge, Massachusetts didn’t turn out to be a very pleasurable one.

She glanced over at the door. If only I could will it open! Becka knew carrying the packing boxes from the garage, across the yard, through the front door, and into the kitchen would be time consuming, forcing her into a semblance of normalcy. Doing the ordinary was a waste of time when all she wanted to do was sit around and grieve. She was certain her broken heart condemned her to a life of sadness and depression. She reached into the left pocket and removed a pack of gum. Realizing she had likely lost her landlord’s phone number she sat down, rolled the jacket into a ball, and laid her head on it.

A few minutes later, she cringed when the familiar yet unwelcome voice again broke the silence. This time, the voice was much closer. She lifted her head and moaned. Vito, the ghost of VJ’s eighty-four-year-old father was now frowning at her from the other side of the table. He wasn’t tall, just under six feet, but was by far the most formidable ghost she had ever encountered.

Vito carried with him the air of a person with authority. Well groomed, he had a head full of wavy gray hair. She decided that, in his youth, he must have been one of those broad-shouldered, dark-haired Italians that could take a woman’s breath away. It was obvious he had still been in good physical shape when he passed, lacking the slouched appearance usually seen in a man of his age. She wondered what he had died from.

Tsk tsk, just what I thought you’d be doing, the old ghost huffed, then folded his arms across his chest. He turned around and surveyed the messy kitchen. You plan on spending another day just moping around here?

Becka groaned and buried her head deeper into the jacket. Oh, why don’t you go find somebody else to haunt and leave me alone?

She clenched the jacket in anger. The last thing I needed was to lease a house with a crotchety old ghost to wake up to everyday. She’d been an attorney, then a detective for the law firm where being the only one able to speak to the dead had gotten her out of the office in Boston more often than not. Questioning one ghost or another over this or that was an invaluable tool when it came to winning cases of murder and/or mayhem. Ghosts are reminders of my life with Brad. I want . . . no . . . I need every aspect of that life closed!

She felt rather than saw Vito move closer. Lifting her head, she looked around the room. The sink was filled to the brim with a week’s worth of dirty dishes. A frying pan coated with burnt egg lay on top of a much-neglected stovetop. Six empty frozen dinner containers littered the countertop, and the floor looked as if a group of ten-year-old boys had tracked in mud after a game of football.

If I promise to clean up the kitchen and do the dishes, will you go to wherever else it is you go?

Just make sure you get it done, he demanded before crossing the hall and returning to the parlor.

She pushed herself from the chair. Opening a cabinet under the sink, she removed a plastic tub filled with a variety of cleaning solutions, brand new sponges and—thank God—an unopened box of dishwasher detergent. After filling the dishwasher, she sprayed the stove top with a strong degreaser and left it to soak while she swept and mopped the floor. Two hours had gone by before she finished.

She rinsed out the mop, put it on the back deck to dry, and then headed to the bathroom to shower. It was almost 11:00 a.m. before she emerged dressed in a pair of old comfortable jeans and one of her favorite oversized sweatshirts. Pulling on a lightweight pair of gloves, she reluctantly went into the garage to finish unpacking. As she bent to grab the first box, she heard footsteps behind her. She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder, having had enough of Vito for one day. She sighed with relief at the sight of VJ, her landlord.

I see you haven’t finished unpacking yet, VJ said, glancing at the stacks of boxes behind her.

I just can’t seem to get into it, she said, wearily picking up one of the larger boxes. It’s shameful to admit, but it seems that whenever I changed addresses, my parents were always there to take control. My dad did all the lugging, and my mom decided where everything belonged.

Here, let me carry it, he offered. Smiling, he lifted the box from her arms. Where’s it going?

In the kitchen, please. As she picked up another box, Becka wondered if she should thank Vito. The mess in the kitchen had been pretty bad. And, as sure as she was that Vito was the most annoying ghost she had ever encountered, she was also sure the old ghost had just saved her from a great deal of embarrassment. She dismissed the idea. Initiating a conversation with Vito almost always was regrettable. She was frowning at the thought when VJ suddenly stopped in front of the door to the kitchen.

OH! Sorry, she said, when the box she carried bumped his backside.

Don’t worry about it, he replied. He set the box down then removed a key from his pants pocket and unlocked the door. After he placed the box on the kitchen counter, he turned to her. Are you all right? You seem a little uptight.

I guess I am. It’s so different here. I miss Boston, and I miss my daily walks along the Charles River. I was right out of BCL when I’d lost the use of the campus grounds. . . .

VJ raised his eyebrows. Graduating from Boston College Law is quite an accomplishment and one of the reasons I accepted your lease application.

Becka gave him a nod of gratitude for the compliment. There was a pause and she dropped her gaze. It was four of the best years of my life. After graduation, I moved into a small apartment in Cambridge where I met a fellow graduate. He suggested I start taking my morning walks on the path along the Charles River.

Memory giving way to tears, she reached up and rubbed watery eyes. Walking became something I looked forward to every day. It was part of my life right up until the explosion. I guess I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it.

VJ frowned. "I heard about what happened in Boston. You lost your fiancé in that explosion, right?

The numbness over her loss returned. Becka nodded.

It’s a tough time for you, but it will get easier. I promise. He smiled at her with a knowing grin and waved his thumb toward the rear of the house. Hey. We don’t have any rivers here in East Ridge, but we do have Robins Pond. It’s only three blocks behind here. There’s a path you can walk or jog for miles. My son and his wife used it all the time. At the end of the driveway, take a right then walk to the corner and take another right. Keep walking past Ashton Avenue until you reach Nevin Road. You’ll see a children’s park on the opposite side of the street. Look for the path behind the jungle gym. It’s only about three feet wide. He spread his hands apart to show the size of the path.

Becka instantly perked up and stared in the direction VJ had pointed. Really? Maybe I’ll head over there later.

Noticing her excitement, VJ’s expression turned serious. If you do, be careful you don’t slip and fall. The path is probably icy.

Yeah, getting a freeze spell in May really sucks. She recalled yesterday’s frenzied rush to locate the furnace switch. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. She followed him out through the garage to his car. So, how does living above the market suit you?

Not bad. Not bad at all. And it only takes a few seconds for me to get to work, he said, smiling. Oh, here. He handed her the missing key.

By the time Becka finished unpacking two hours later, she was satisfied Vito wouldn’t find anything further to complain about. The kitchen was tidy and the boxes had been returned to the garage. She filled up a water bottle and went in search of her walking shoes. When she found them in a box marked Becka’s favorite things, she hastily laced them on.

Barely able to contain her excitement for the impending walk, she thought about her sudden good fortune to have unknowingly leased a house near a pond. And with a walking path. Like a child whose parents just told her she was going to Disney World, she did something she hadn’t done since before the explosion; she grinned with happy anticipation. She rushed out the front door. When she reached the bottom of the driveway, she took out her cell phone to set the alarm to beep in an hour. She would need to return and prepare for her four-o’clock interview for a partnership at a law firm in New Bedford.

The short path leading to the pond began at the rear of a children’s park a couple of blocks behind the house . . . just as VJ said. When she reached the end of the path, it opened up to expose the wide expanse of the pond and its surrounding. She stopped. As she took in the glorious sight, she noticed thin slivers of ice from the recent freeze bobbing up and down in the pond. The ice was reflecting the bright, early afternoon sunlight.

It’s very beautiful, she said. An awareness crossed her mind that her habit of speaking out loud was getting worse. She immediately dismissed it. Not exactly the Charles, but I guess it’ll do. Smiling, she kept her walk to a brisk pace, keeping her eyes downward to avoid tripping over the uneven gravel surface.

When a couple of joggers passed by, she glanced up and followed them with her gaze until they turned at a slight bend in the path about fifty yards ahead. When Becka rounded the bend, she saw the stone memorial. She stopped. Her mouth dropped open. An elderly female ghost somewhere just past sixty years of age stood at the base of the statue. Becka noticed that the ghost bore a striking resemblance to the statue and quickly determined it had been erected in the ghost’s honor. The ghost was dressed in summer clothing and appeared to be having what others like Becka referred to as a paranormal flashback. Because these flashbacks terrorized her, Becka had long ago memorized the definition until it was ingrained in her memory. Paranormal Flashback: A ghost’s reenactment of its death as if it was reliving it, right down to the smallest detail. These reenactments materialize in the ghost realm of existence as glimmers, but only when he or she is near the location of their murder. These flashbacks are triggered by the unintentional action or actions of a living soul, usually by way of word or suggestion or even the sight or the thought of someone from their past life. They also occur every year on the anniversary of the ghost’s murder. Only ghosts, or those with the ability to see and hear ghosts, have witnessed these flashbacks. Energy released from the ghost during a flashback will manifest through one of three elements; fire, water, or air. Unexplained occurrences of destruction in the normal world have often been thought to be the work of angry demons.

Well, they’re almost correct, she whispered. She increased her pace until she shortened the distance between her and the ghost to about thirty yards. Her eyes widened.

Forceful gusts of wind kicked up along the row of thousand-year-old oak trees lining the path, bending the thick branches. Becka frowned as she watched twigs, complete with the trees’ new spring buds, spew from their branches and whisk about the joggers’ heads, as if threatened by their presence.

The joggers, now only a few feet from the ghost, stopped. They twirled around, ducking to avoid the flying twigs. Their expressions were aghast at the sudden and unusual change in the weather. Becka was about ten feet away from the joggers when she noticed a small tsunami of stormy waves gathering twenty feet from the river’s edge. She winced as she imagined thin slivers of ice torpedoing straight for the couple.

Hoping to prevent such an inexplicable accident, she slowly pushed forward against the wind. When she reached the ghost, she frantically waved her hands just inches from its face. Their eyes met and the spell was broken. The gusts of wind stilled.

Becka breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced at the two joggers, who started discussing the strange occurrence. They each seemed to have a different explanation for what happened. They turned to Becka. Not willing to comment, she shrugged. The disappointed joggers turned away and resumed jogging down the path.

When they had faded into the background, the ghost came closer to Becka and began skipping circles around her. She sees me! She sees ghosts! she happily exclaimed in a soft angelic voice before stopping to stare quizzically at Becka, as if questioning her own certainty.

I see you, Becka said in a raspy voice, inhaling and then slowly releasing the air until her breathing slowed.

Finally, the ghost said quietly. She walked to a bench near the edge of the pond and sat down. She glanced back to Becka, patting the seat of the bench for Becka to join her. Becka grimaced and stole a look at her cell phone. She would have to forgo the rest of her walk. Sighing, she moved toward the ghost and the bench.

The ghost wasted no time telling Becka her story, and it wasn’t long before Becka was thrilled over her decision to stay. The ghost told Becka her name was Dotty Burkell and that for twenty years preceding her death, she had been a private consultant for the Boston police department. She explained to Becka how, five years earlier while standing in the vicinity of a crime scene, she saw the glimmer of her granddaughter’s husband beating a man with a rock.

The man had been found dead in an alley two days earlier by a homeless couple collecting cans. Dotty said that later that night, she called the young murderer and asked him to meet her the next morning here at the edge of the pond. After he had accepted her invitation, she called and left a message for a detective friend at a Boston precinct. She requested that he inconspicuously watch her confront the man. Unfortunately, the detective overslept the next morning, and Dotty was dead by the time he arrived.

Intrigued, Becka listened intently to the ghost talk about glimmers. What triggered your flashback?

It’s my anniversary, the ghost replied.

But why didn’t I see the glimmer of your granddaughter’s husband?

Dotty smiled then winked. Don’t you remember, dear? You interrupted me. If you hadn’t been so persistent in getting my attention, I assure you, my murder would have greatly entertained you!

Oh, Becka said, feeling her face warm.

Dotty chuckled. You see, dear, glimmers are images from the ghost’s point of view. They are the characters that either participated in or witnessed a murder. Glimmers are never the victim, and they are nothing like the hurricane-like wind you experienced earlier. They are just harmless images formed by the energy a ghost releases during a flashback. You have absolutely nothing to fear from them.

As Dotty continued, Becka realized that, regrettably, whenever faced with a ghost’s flashback, her first choice had always been to hide, thus denying herself the opportunity to see the glimmers of those responsible for the death. She glanced down at her cell phone and let out a small moan.

Am I keeping you, dear? Dotty asked.

The ghost’s sweet smile vanished when Becka told Dotty about her job interview. It was time to head back and it was clear the disappointment was mutual.

Dotty followed Becka in the direction of the statue. When they reached it, she turned to Becka and studied her with a critical sweep from head to toe. Her gaze locked on Becka. Her ghostly substance quivered and her expression turned both sad and serious. I wonder if you are the one everyone has been waiting for.

What do you mean by ‘the one’? Becka stammered the question. And who is everyone?

We ghosts are ‘everyone’ and you, I think, are ‘the one.’ Dotty launched into a quick account of the rumor. You see, dear, we ghosts do communicate. As long as our earthly boundaries overlap, we can speak to one another. We’ve been hearing whispers about something evil heading this way.

Becka’s gaze darted around. Whispers? And you think these whispers have something to do with me?

The ghost touched her head. We hear them in here. But see, I have frightened you. That was not very nice of me.

Becka shuddered. No, please tell me. What do these whispers say?

They tell us not to worry. They tell us someone will be there to help the old one and the others who are angry.

Unable to tear her gaze from Dotty, Becka became mildly aware that she was having difficulty breathing. What old one? And who is angry?

We do not know who they are, but we feel an evil heading this way. It is getting closer. Some of us are frightened! Now, I have kept you long enough. So go, be on your way.

Becka could feel her heart pounding. She thought for a second then asked, How long have you ghosts been hearing these whispers?

Well, we really have no sense of time, but I think I’ve watched the leaves fall from these trees twice since I first heard it.

Becka’s fear evaporated as she recalled how different her life was two years ago. Certain that Dotty was mistaken, Becka smiled and reassured her new friend she would return in a few days. She was in a good mood as she walked back to the house. It felt good to have a friend again, and she couldn’t wait to hear more about glimmers.

CHAPTER

2

After her interview, Becka felt her confidence surge. It had gone better than expected and she had been offered the position. Unfortunately, the position the growing law firm was interviewing for was at their new office in Boston on Tremont Street. And she was certainly not ready to go back to Boston. Disappointed, Becka had immediately turned the job down.

As she took the exit that would lead her back home, she reviewed all the positive details of the day: VJ, the key, the pond, meeting Dotty, and her interview. In spite of the tremendous sadness that continued to follow her, she smiled. She remembered her sudden whim to throw her workout bag into the car earlier in case she decided to head to East Ridge’s gym, conveniently located about a mile from her house. Why not, she thought and pulled into the parking area. Inside the building, she walked tentatively toward the glass wall that separated the lobby from the gym. She stared at the machines for several minutes, reminded of the menagerie of old equipment she had used daily in her office building in Boston before the explosion destroyed it. The same explosion that had killed her fiancé and most of her dearest friends. She could feel the shadows of the past follow her as she moved away from the window and headed toward the front desk. Posted on the wall behind the desk was a membership advertisement. Above it hung a large red clock. She wasn’t surprised to discover it was already eight o’clock. The evening traffic had been pretty heavy.

After purchasing a trial pass, she changed into her workout clothes. As if she could wipe out all the pain of the last few months, she hit the weight machines with a vengeance, pushing her body to its limit. Fifty minutes later, she wiped the sweat from her forehead. She felt great. Her workout had been invigorating, and she could feel the adrenaline flow through her body as she jogged the short distance to her car.

A few minutes later, when she turned right on to Sage Street, she found it quiet . . . too quiet. She felt that she had just entered a dead zone. As she passed Vito’s Market, on her right, a strange tingling sensation surged through her body.

Something here doesn’t feel right, she mumbled, wondering if she had left the living world behind. She glanced from one side of the street to the other. The only thing out of the ordinary was a very odd couple, who danced in front of a little blue house on the left side of the street. A little late for someone to be dancing and there’s no music. Becka was certain she’d seen this dance before, but the depletion of the adrenaline rush left her too exhausted to give the couple a second thought.

I’ll check it out again in the morning, she said to herself, refusing to admit what her mind already knew regarding the couple. She covered a yawn with her hand as she passed by. A half minute later, she pulled into her driveway and went into the house. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she hastily put on her nightgown and crawled into bed. She hadn’t been this tired in months.

VJ, thank you for the pond and my new ghost friend, Dotty, she whispered before closing her eyes.

Becka woke disappointed the following morning. She had hoped her walk and the workout would have kept the nightmares away, but they hadn’t. Groaning, she kicked the tangled blankets from her body, sat on the edge of the bed, and glanced at the alarm clock.

Oh crap! she exclaimed. The clock’s digital display blinked 12:00. Panic woke her fully. Tossing aside the blankets, she ran from the bedroom in search of her cell phone. She had four job interviews scheduled throughout the day. The first one was in Brockton at 9:30 a.m., and she had no idea what time it was.

Scanning surfaces as she moved through the house, she entered the parlor and groaned. Vito was sitting in his recliner. It was apparent from the look on his face that he was suspicious of something.

What are you in such a rush for? he asked, getting up to follow her into the breezeway.

If you really must know . . . she snipped as she returned to the parlor, . . . the electricity went out last night and I’m looking for my cell phone to get the time.

Well, if you ask me, he said, trailing behind her, you young people rely too much on electricity and all those modern gadgets I see advertised on the TV. If you ask my opinion, there’s nothing like a good old fash—

I don’t recall asking for your opinion, she interjected. She rummaged through the few remaining spots where she habitually left her cell.

She returned to the kitchen flustered and pressed the power button on the coffee maker. She turned. Vito sat at the table watching her. Now past annoyed, Becka was quickly approaching rage. Her fingers immediately began to tap the counter behind her. Vito, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have time for a debate on the pros and cons of modern technology.

He grinned like a child needing to have the last word. When I was your age, we relied on nature to wake us. Roosters don’t break.

No, they die!

Not all at the same time, he replied, looking smug.

Okay, you win, she growled, hating herself for conceding but needing to get going with her morning.

Walking toward the bathroom, Becka sensed the ghost following her. At the door, she turned and gave him a disgusted look. Would you mind giving me a little privacy? She slammed the door in his face.

She noticed her cell phone on the toilet tank and snatched it up.