The Witch's Ladder (Book 1)

By Dana E. Donovan

Book 1 in the Detective Marcella mysteries: A group of individuals proficient in the psychic academia of clairvoyance, telepathy and bilocation, working to understand life’s most unusual secrets soon realize that even their abilities of mind over matter can't save them from the blade of the surgeon stalker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dana E. Donovan
• Release date: Nov 10, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452305387

Dana E. Donovan

Dana E. Donovan grew up in New England where folklore and superstitions can mold a town’s history as much as its people. Such is the phenomenon Donovan exploits in all his books, perpetuating the enigma of small town life and the belief in all that dies is not dead.

Book preview

The Witch’s Ladder

Dana E. Donovan

Smashwords Edition

Author's notes: This book is based entirely on fiction and its story line derived solely from the imagination of its author. No characters, places, or incidents in this book are real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be copied or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author or author’s agent.

Copyright Dana E. Donovan 2000, 2024

Table of contents:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter One

It started innocently enough. I had just wrapped up a burglary case at Suffolk’s Walk that had fish house owners up in arms. The perpetrators in a series of break-ins came up under the fish houses in a small boat, cut holes in the floorboards, and gained access through them. They never got away with much, the boat being too small to haul off any real payload, but their ability to evade capture irritated the owners, motivating some to sit up nights, waiting with shotguns. I knew if I didn’t catch the thieves soon, we would probably end up with a couple of dead juveniles on our hands.

Turns out I was right about the culprits. The juvies were two young brothers that owned a small fishing boat. They hoped to make a few bucks selling live crabs. The problem was that after spending all their money on a boat, they had none left to purchase crab traps. A few more petty thefts and they would likely have made enough cash for the traps they needed, and then everything would have gone back to normal. Now, I’m not saying that’s right, or that I condone such things, but shooting the boys over a stupid adolescent mistake wouldn’t have made matters any better. It was in that vein that I knew I had to follow through on the case.

After staking out the pier a few nights with my partner, Detective Carlos Rodriquez, we finally caught the kids in the act. We ferried them downtown, took mug shots and fingerprints, though mostly for show, and then called their parents to come get them. The look on their faces told me they had learned their lesson, and that once they paid restitution and got their boat back, they’d try their hand at honest fishing.

I spent the rest of my shift filing my report, thinking that maybe it was a fitting if not so sensational, case in which to close the chapter on my professional career as a detective. You see, only the week before, I toyed with the idea of finally setting a retirement date. It wasn’t the big bang I hoped for, not some great jewelry heist that I might solve single-handedly and then write a book about afterward. Then again, in New Castle, big headline-making crime stories come few and far between the more mundane.

I had all but accepted that volumes of such less spectacular cases would fill my book of memoirs, not knowing that earlier that night the biggest, most bizarre case of my career was already unfolding only a few miles away. It took several months to conclude, and I’m letting you know now that not all the pieces fit together so nicely like in some perfect Hollywood movie. Real-life cases seldom do. But, as they say, it is what it is, and after collecting all the data, poring over countless interviews, documenting evidence, and then sewing together all the loose ends with some speculation of my own, I now have a clearer picture of what happened. And though I may take some liberties in my narration, I assure you it’s for theatrical purposes only, for this story went down exactly the way I’m about to tell you.

As I said, it started innocently enough, but boy if the wind could talk. While I sat in my boat waiting on the Suffolk’s Walk burglars to strike, Jean Bradford, middle-aged and newly widowed, pulled into the parking lot of the New England Institute for Research of Paranormal and Unexplained Phenomena, a multi-funded research center on the outskirts of New Castle city limits. As Jean told me in her initial interview, she remembered getting out of her car, turning her collar against the cold, and dashing across the moonlit lot to the steps of the old two-story brownstone. The lights were on in the room directly over the entrance and a lone bulb burned dimly in the foyer. She tugged on the plate-glass door, but it wouldn’t open. Inside, a small easel sporting a handmade sign read, WORKSHOP––SECOND FLOOR.

She told me how she leaned in and cupped her hands to the door, her warm breath fogging the glass. As she backed away, the fog dissipated, revealing the silhouette of someone standing behind her. She turned on her heels and clutched her handbag tightly.

Strangely, no one was there.

A brisk northeastern assaulted the front of the building. It wrangled in the doorway and rustled her hair. She inhaled deeply, finding composure in its cool embrace. The trees beyond the parking lot glistened in the silvery moonlight, swaying in dance step with their own long shadows. She thought it silly, allowing shadows to spook her like a child. When she turned around, it was there again, a tall, looming figure staring down on her. The fright lasted only a moment before she realized it was just a man, an ordinary man standing on the other side of the glass. He smiled thinly, nudged his dark-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, and unlocked the door.

Can I help you? he said, presenting a path into the building with a sweep of his hand. She hurried in, still not feeling entirely safe until he had locked the door behind her.

Thank you, I’m Jean Bradford. Doctor Lowell told me––

Of course, said the man, Phillip’s…I mean Doctor Lowell’s niece. He did say he’d be hiring you as my new assistant. Please, forgive me. I’m Doctor Peter Lieberman. I didn’t know you’d be starting tonight. We keep the doors locked after sunset. Had I known, I would’ve had someone watch for you.

I understand, she said. I should have called once I realized I was running late.

He gestured toward the staircase. No harm. Come, the group’s assembled upstairs. What do you say we join them?

She followed him up, heeding his advice to take hold of the banister, for the treads were poorly lit. We don’t meet every week like this, he told her. Both groups I mean. Normally, the Alpha group meets on Tuesday and Thursday nights, with Beta meeting on Wednesdays and Fridays. Tonight is our once-a-month workshop consisting of both.

I see, said Jean, but why nights? Doesn’t the institute conduct studies during the day?

Of course, he said and laughed softly. That’s precisely why my shops meet evenings. You see, during the day, we have all sorts of studies and experiments going on in this building in dozens of rooms with hundreds of people. It’s a terrible distraction. The group you’re about to meet tonight is the real crème de la crème. Some have worked here with us for years, and all have displayed genuine aptitude in ESP, clairvoyance, and other exceptional abilities. Just wait. You’ll see.

He led her from the top of the stairs, down the hall, and to a great room, its eastern wall dominated by four towering windows trimmed in fluted casework. The floors, planked in oak, carried the scars of a hundred years, as did the tables and chairs, whose heavily oiled patina resembled the color of burnt toast.

In ten of those chairs sat Doctor Lieberman’s disciples, six women, and four young men. None bothered to look up as the two entered the room; and instead, remained absorbed in an experiment still underway.

Jean looked up at Doctor Lieberman. He motioned with his finger to his lips, leaned in, and whispered, The young man sitting in the center of the table there? he pointed. That’s Michael Dietrich. He comes to us from Ravensburg, Germany. We heard about Michael after a German newspaper carried a story on him and his father. The article reported that Michael, after hearing of his father's death in a skiing accident, had caused an avalanche in the mountains simply by willing it to happen.

An avalanche?

On the very spot where his father was killed. As the story goes, he told an acquaintance he would cause the avalanche at a specific time of day, and when that exact moment came, so did the avalanche.

She whispered back, And you believe he caused it?

Well, we don’t know that for sure. What we do know is that the avalanche occurred and that it happened at the exact time at which he said it would. Perhaps it’s only coincidence, or perhaps he’s clairvoyant and he simply foretold what he saw in a vision. However, one cannot rule out the possibility of premeditated PK.

Psychokinesis, she said.

Exactly, the technique of mind over matter. Experts have documented the phenomenon as a mostly spontaneous event, which, by the sheer nature of its spontaneity, makes it difficult to document at all. Cases of deliberate or conscious psychokinesis on large scales are considered questionable, for sure, although not entirely disproven. Doctor Lieberman redirected Jean’s attention toward the experiment in progress. What Michael is attempting now is an experiment that I devised. It allows anyone at all to test his powers of PK.

Jean moved in closer, hoping to gain a better view of the process unfolding. Doctor Lieberman shadowed her closely, continuing his narrative.

"You see that Michael has two bar magnets on the table in front of him, their poles facing each other north to south, allowing their mutual attraction to align. Now, as you might imagine, if you positioned the magnets much closer to one another, they would snap together, as two magnets will. However, separated as they are, it’s obvious that the gravitational pull of the Earth exerts a greater force upon them than that which their magnetic attraction can overcome.

Witness Michael, as he concentrates on the magnetic field that still exists, yet is no longer strong enough to defeat the force resisting them, namely gravity. As he does this, he can direct ambient energy into the magnetic field, thereby displacing the gravitational potential, upsetting the balance between them and effectively increasing the attraction between the magnets. This should allow the magnets to overcome the barrier imposed by distance.

Jean leaned over a bit and positioned herself shoulder-to-shoulder between two other members of the workshop.

We first did this experiment, Lieberman explained, with the magnets separated just enough to prevent their union: initially, a distance of barely a few centimeters, but Michael has succeeded in causing the magnets to overcome that barrier in no time. As you see tonight, this time we’ve separated them by a distance of nearly two meters. He’s never tried this before. It should be fun. Let’s watch what happens.

Michael leaned in closer to the magnets, his concentration solidifying. Perspiration gathered along his brow and trickled down his temples. Jean sensed a crackle in the air, an electric buzz dulled only by the hum of the group’s collective breathing.

Before long, one of the magnets began to quiver, then the other. They trembled meagerly at first, but soon the quiver gave way to a vibrant shudder. The magnets inched closer, stopped, and commenced once more. This time, once they got going, there was no stopping them. As if a cord holding them back had finally 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 not fully certain as to what had taken place. It was supposed to be Michael’s experiment, she thought, yet it seemed as if the entire group contributed to the cause and effect. When she questioned Lieberman about it, 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. It is conceivable that your small contribution of energy 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.

We don’t, he said, already starting around the table to shake Michael’s hand. We’re not worried about that tonight. The experiments this evening are just for fun. We need that sometimes. Not everything we do is all work. Here, why don’t I introduce you to everyone? He cleared his throat, signaling the others to simmer down. Please, everyone? He gave a few hard raps on the table. Everyone, I would like you to meet Jean Bradford, my new assistant.

A chorus of polite hellos rippled throughout the room. The doctor presented Michael first, patting his head and playfully mussing the boy’s hair. Ms. Bradford, as I mentioned earlier, this is Michael Dietrich, our telekinesis expert. Michael smiled up at her and nodded. Jean returned the gesture. To Michael’s left and right, we have Chris Walker and Travis Webber, whom, it so happens, also possess abilities in telekinesis, although we’re still focusing our experiments to determine to just what extent that is.

Or if there is an extent, Michael joked.

Doctor Lieberman continued. Next, we have Master 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 an open palm, presenting the next two women in line, are our resident experts in ESP or clairvoyance.

Jean offered a little wave to all before returning her attention to the doctor. And here, he said, assuming position behind two very pretty and petite young women sitting so close together, their knees practically touched, here we have the lovely twins, Shekina and Akasha Kayo, who come to us from South Africa. They, like Gordon, Barbara, and Valerie, are also telepathic. However, we do find that the telepathy between these two is particularly strong. I would venture to guess that at any given moment these two young ladies know exactly what the other is thinking. He glanced down at them and smiled knowingly. Am I right, girls?

Shekina and Akasha merely returned a mischievous grin.

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

At the far end of the table, sat another young woman, though as lovely as any in the room, Jean could see that she appeared conspicuously out of place. She sat very still, her head low, her gaze fixed downward, her smile bashful as if born partly of fright. Even Doctor Lieberman’s manner of introductions changed for this young beauty. He approached her tenderly, as one might advance upon a frightened kitten, for this creature, Jean thought, was surely just as precious.

And here, said the doctor, reaching for Jean’s hand to coax her in closer, we say hello to Leona Diaz. He reached down and gently brushed 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, as you can see, and she has a most incredible gift, one I’m sure she could go on for hours telling us about if she was not so shy.

Hello, said Jean. Leona’s eyes remained fixed in a downward gaze.

You see, Ms. Bradford, Leona has the ability, though mostly involuntary, to travel out of body. You may have heard it referred to as astral projection.

Yes, I have heard that term.

Well, here we call it bilocation, though we still really don’t know much about it. It’s uncertain what her double looks like, whether she appears as a solid or ghostly form to others. Unfortunately, she’s 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 on events as they happen. Unlike ESP and clairvoyance, which generally tell 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. He knelt on one knee beside her chair and said, Hola, Leona. ¿Cómo estás?"

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

You’re welcome, dear.

He lingered there for what seemed like an incredibly long time before finally standing again and directing his attention to the last person in the room still awaiting introduction: another longhaired, dark-skinned beauty with rich ebony eyes. She stood alone in the corner, leaning against a filing cabinet, her arms folded. She seemed dark and mysterious, yet confident as though needing no introduction at all.

And last but not least, said he, we have the enchanting Ms. Lilith Adams, Jean followed him across the room and met up with Lilith just as he added, Who just happens to be a witch, you know.

A witch? Jean pulled back her outstretched hand. You’re kidding, of course.

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

If you say so, she said and hissed cat-like while taking a playful swat at him.

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, someone who displays fundamental abilities to serve as a host for spirit communications. Ms. Adams has established herself as an expert in working with thought forms, or nonphysical entities. It’s rather bewitching if you’ll excuse the pun. 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, umm….

Ms. Bradford, said Lieberman, Lilith doesn’t contact the dead, as much as the dead contacts 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 speak with him.

Of course, I’m sorry. That was inappropriate of me to ask. I should have––

It’s all right, said Lilith. It’s perfectly fine. In fact, she reached behind her neck, unclasped a strand of beads, and handed them to her. 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.

I don’t understand.

It’s simple. Anytime you get depressed and 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 beads and held them to her heart. I don’t know what to say.

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 that she bonded especially well with the two clairvoyants: Barbara and Valerie.

Later, as the experiments wound down and the groups began breaking up, Doctor Lieberman and the others took leave in staggered shifts, leaving only Travis Webber behind.

By all accounts, based on reports and what others have told me, Travis was committed to the study of psychokinesis. He never took an experiment lightly. If it were up to him, the workshop would practice twenty-four-seven, with summer breaks in 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, which fueled his decision to stay behind and work a while longer on experiments after the others had all gone home; and that, which likely killed him.

I imagined it was shortly before midnight when Travis decided to call it quits. From a thought-form manifestation I saw later, I knew that Travis 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 appeared to have forgotten something. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, turned, and marched head-down back to the main entrance. He needed only to tug once on the

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