Shades

By Joelle Steele

Shades is a complex, intellectual, short novel that is part mystery and part ghost story. It is also the account of a conflicted young man, paranormal investigator and sometime psychic-medium Michael Grainger, set against his experiences hunting and interacting with ghosts – "shades" – and his difficulty connecting with and gaining the respect and love of the living. The tale takes place in present time at Redthorn Hall in York, England where Grainger has come to investigate an alleged haunting. Masquerading as a genealogist to engender cooperation from those who might otherwise be skeptical about the very idea of ghosts or hauntings – or who may be disguised as ghosts to halt the sale of the estate – Grainger studies the ancient history of the Arden family at Redthorn Hall. As he explores the elegant house from basement to attic and attempts to make contact with lost souls from the past, he reflects on his relationships, his former ghost-hunting adventures, and his studies of the paranormal. Ultimately, he solves a 150-year-old mystery and uncovers something far beyond your average, garden-variety haunting, and it could very well be the downfall – or the much-needed salvation – of Michael Grainger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joelle Steele
• Release date: Mar 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781940388076

Joelle Steele

Joelle Steele writes mystery and ghost novels and non-fiction books about face & ear ID, handwriting forgery, art, astrology, cat care, genealogy, and horticulture. And, she is a legal writer of contract templates for small business. She has extensive published credits and has worked as a writer, editor, and publisher since 1973.

Book preview

As always, more than one person has contributed to the creation and completion of one of my books. So, for their assistance in completing Shades, I want to thank my friend Gretchen Wilding for her editing services, and my friend Liz Hart-Graham for her knowledge of physics and English history. I also want to thank my friends and acquaintances whose ghost stories were inspirations for some of those attributed to my character: Janice Vickery, Mark Borgos, Kurt Habberich, Elyse Church, and the late Helene Matthews.

The Shade

I seek the truth at night, after the mourning ends

amid the trampled grounds still wet with guilty tears.

Into the vault I stumble where lightning cannot touch,

from rainy clouds above, the sleeping soul at rest.

I call out to the shade and pray for his reply

scarce heard above the bells that toll the midnight hour.

He rises like a mist, freed from his black decay

and cozy bed of dry bones that held him fast to earth.

I bid him speak to me of what might one day come

and capture me when I am not prepared to go.

The shade withholds his words and I tremble in his wake

as he passes through this visage of my all too humble flesh.

Gone! He told me nothing, save only what I know,

that one day I may be a ghost and haunt this world too.

So when a hunter speaks my name and summons me to rise

I will answer what he asks of how I lived and died.

And when he bids me find my peace and go to sleep at last

The shade I am will listen and seek my final rest.

Chapter 1

Is anyone here? That was always Michael Grainger's initial greeting. And it never failed to amaze him how many times he actually got an answer. He pushed the record button, but this time, his words merely echoed off the walls of the second floor hallway, lined with family photographs, mostly recent portraits and group shots, and several old but newly-framed antique cabinet photos.

Michael loved to look at old photographs, especially portraits. He stopped to admire one of a beautiful young woman in her finest Victorian apparel. As he stood alone in the long hall examining more photos, the old house lapsed into an eerie silence. It was 2:30 a.m., and he strained to hear the sounds of distant freeway traffic, semi trucks barreling along at high speeds as they raced to meet their delivery deadlines during the night when the roads were less traveled. But his ears were plugged up the way they sometimes got when he was flying, as he had done early the previous day.

Avery McMillan, can you hear me? he asked. But there was still no reply. He continued his slow walk down the hall while his mind drifted back to the video chat he had with the Morrisons a week earlier.

We moved to Decatur a year ago and it all started the night we moved into the house, explained Jonathan. There were these sounds in the second floor hallway, like an old person shuffling down the hall.

And there's this chemical odor, said Susannah. Sort of medicinal. I can't identify the source of it but I can sense it slightly now and again, upstairs mostly. Jon can't smell it at all, she added.

Anything else? asked Michael.

The couple hesitated, looking at each other, until Jonathan finally spoke.

Well, I may have just imagined this, but on several occasions I thought I saw a dark smoky figure out of the corner of my eye, but when I actually looked, no one was there. It may just be my imagination ... his voice trailed off as he shrugged his shoulders.

So far, Michael hadn't heard any unusual sounds, smelled anything out of the ordinary, or witnessed any ghostly apparitions. He had arrived in Atlanta early that morning and had prepared for his ghost hunt by visiting various DeKalb County archives, including the Registrar of Land Records and the DeKalb History Center. He discovered that the house had been built in 1819 by Lionel Curfew, a carriage maker. After Curfew died in 1833, the house passed to his son-in-law, Charles McMillan, who added several rooms to the original structure. The house then changed hands in 1878 and again in 1916, remaining in the McMillan family. The Morrisons purchased the place from the last remaining McMillan descendant. Among the many documents Michael studied was a promising lead on a candidate for a restless ghost. It was a flowery old Victorian-style newspaper obituary dated November 17, 1863:

Avery Clevis McMillan, born June 8th 1842, died in the early evening this past Sunday, November 15th, from a failed second attempt to remove a bullet from his hip. He was a member of the 3rd Georgia Volunteer Infantry and served under Brig. Gen. Ambrose R. Wright at the battle of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, where he was felled by a ball from a sharpshooter on July 3rd last. The bullet entered his right hip and would not be removed, but his condition was deemed much improved, and he was returned to his beloved family home on August 20th. Avery was the youngest son of Charles and Creatia McMillan of Decatur, DeKalb County, who wept at his bedside when he left this world to join our heavenly Father and his Angels. This brave soldier entered the War under a great sense of duty and obligation, and in doing so became a true patriot, as his whole mind and attention were dedicated to the cause. On August 28th he married his childhood sweetheart, Aurora Euphemia Wheatley, daughter of Rev. Erastus Wheatley and the late Laurann Wheatley, both of DeKalb County. In addition to his wife and parents, Avery leaves behind two brothers, Aldus McMillan and Amos McMillan; a sister, Adela Marie Jackson, of Atlanta; and several nieces and nephews.

An injured war hero who died young. A very real tragedy. Michael thought he had the answer to the Morrison's alleged haunting and was about to return the file when a small newspaper clipping fell out. It was another obituary, a very short one:

Aurora Euphemia McMillan, née Wheatley, hanged herself until dead on December 7, 1863. She was the 18-year-old widow of Avery McMillan of Decatur. Her lifeless body was discovered by her mother-in-law, Mrs. Charles McMillan. A private funeral service for family members only will be held this Friday, December 11.

With the addition of a grieving widow's suicide, Michael now had two possible ghosts to consider.

Aurora McMillan, can you hear me? he called out. But again, there was no reply.

The hallway ended at a large bathroom, one that had been restored to the style of the late 1890s. Michael flipped on the light and glanced at the old fixtures and absently wondered if any were original to the house or if they were modern-day replicas. Then he turned off the light and walked in the opposite direction back down the overly warm hallway. It was so typical of old houses to have some areas where the air circulated freely and others where it seemed to lodge itself and create an unrewarding stuffiness. The hall was dry and dusty, and the wood floor creaked loudly as he trod its wide antique pine planks.

Avery, Aurora. Please speak to me. Show yourselves.

Being somewhat mediumistic, Michael could usually sense a presence, but so far he had felt nothing at all since his arrival at the Morrison's. He paused to examine another photograph when he suddenly felt the familiar ice-cold chill throughout his being and he shuddered as the hairs all over his body stood up on end. The once warm, dry air was now being replaced by an overwhelming smell that reminded him of stain remover, maybe nail polish remover, but with a certain sweetness to it. He had never smelled anything like it before in his life, and yet he knew exactly what it was: chloroform.

He started to feel a bit woozy and thought he might faint. That was when he heard the shuffling sound and was stunned to see the translucent form of a young man, the details of his image fading in and out, revealing only parts of his body at a time, while the rest remained shrouded in a dull gray mist. He appeared to be wearing the remnants of a ragged Confederate uniform, and he was limping slowly towards Michael, leaning with his right hand against the wall for support and all but dragging his right leg.

Another smell was also assaulting Michael's olfactory receptors. It was the smell of rotting flesh, a wound gone putrid. He felt sick to his stomach and he tried to speak, to call out again to the shadowy figure, but he could not open his mouth. He was trapped in his own body, frozen in his tracks from head to toe.

The ghost was unmistakably that of Avery McMillan, and the dark shade drew closer as Michael stood paralyzed. The two stood face to face, as if a confrontation was inevitable. Instead, the disembodied man walked straight through Michael in cold, tingling waves, shutting off Michael's breathing as he quickly entered and as rapidly exited Michael's body.

Michael gasped as he fought to catch his breath. His heart was still pounding and his adrenalin was pumping at top speed as he spun around to see ... nothing. Nothing at all! Avery McMillan had vanished into thin air along with the stench of decay and the cloying odor of chloroform.

Despite the experience, Michael was not deterred from his mission. He had to talk to Avery McMillan, to try to send him on his way.

Avery, are you here? he asked. I know you're in this house.

One of the bedroom doors behind him unlatched slowly and quietly, and Michael again turned, this time to glimpse the foggy shadow of the wretched rebel standing before him, looking straight into his eyes, the odor much fainter this time but still alternately teasing and tormenting Michael's nostrils.

Avery, began Michael, using the most soft and reassuring voice he could muster under the circumstances. You must go to your rest. This is no longer your house. Someone else lives here now and you must leave them alone. You must go and never return.

Avery McMillan continued to stand there, fading in and out of his wavering transparency. Michael suddenly flashed on the despondent teenage widow, Aurora.

Aurora doesn't live here anymore either. There is nothing for you here, Avery. Leave now.

The odious smells faded away completely and the image of Avery McMillan vanished with them. Michael didn't know if the restless spirit had gone for the moment or if he was gone for good. It was rarely so easy to banish a ghost. Only time would tell.

* * *

Back at the Days Inn, Michael opened one eye, squinting at the tiniest ray of sunshine that was diligently peeking in through the crack between the heavy blackout curtains of his tiny room. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was 9:20 a.m., almost too early for him to think coherently – ghost-hunting was largely a nighttime enterprise that had made him evolve into a day-sleeper and a night owl. His business cell phone was buzzing and the number was blocked. He debated for an instant before answering it, but he was always intrigued at the prospect of earning a few more shekels, so he picked it up.

I saw you interviewed on that TV show, 'The Haunted,' said Emily Thompson. I think I have a job for you.

Tell me about it, he directed, struggling to wake up from what had been less than seven hours of sleep.

It's Redthorn Hall, a very old estate in Yorkshire ... England, began Thompson. Its origins date to the 11th century.

Michael Grainger was a certified, card-carrying anglophile of the first degree. The very thought of a trip to England caused him to instantly sit up on the edge of the bed. He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair and stretched as he listened intently to his prospective client describing her haunting dilemma.

I don't know much about the place, continued Thompson. In fact, I've never seen it in person, just some very old photos from 1900 or so. I inherited it years ago, back in 1976. I was only 14 at the time and I didn't know what to do with it. I finally decided to sell it six years ago. Two deals fell through right after we signed the papers. The first buyer went there two days later and came back saying it was haunted and that he wanted out of the deal. Three years later, a second buyer backed out for the same reason. Now there are all these stories circulating among the locals that it's haunted and I can't find a buyer at all.

Thompson's story was fairly typical of the kinds of calls Michael got on a regular basis. A supposedly haunted house was all that stood between someone and their financial solvency. In this case, he was interested only because it meant a trip to a part of England that he had visited briefly right after graduating from college, and he had always wanted to go back again. It would also be the oldest allegedly haunted house he had ever investigated.

By the time their fifteen-minute conversation was finished, he had accepted the job without hesitation, had quoted Thompson a fee, and she had agreed to wire him a deposit within 24 hours. He jumped up and whirled around the hotel room in his stockinged feet doing his uniquely awkward dance of joy. It wasn't just the prospect of a job, which was great in and of itself. And it wasn't as if he had never been to England or anywhere interesting. He just loved England and the prospect of visiting a potentially haunted and very ancient manor house. And, there was some real money to be made.

For ten years, Michael had been investigating hauntings throughout the United States and all over the rest of the world. His travels had taken him to exotic locales such as Hong Kong, Russia, Germany, France, Australia, Argentina, Scotland, Ireland, Norway, Italy, Peru, and Hungary, where he had searched for evidence of restless spirits in old houses, new houses, barns, hospitals, warehouses, restaurants, hotels, cemeteries, apartment buildings, and even on a yacht. But England ... it really tugged at his heart. For some reason, it had always felt like home to him.

But his current home in West Harford, Connecticut was where he was headed now. He flew out of Atlanta on US Airways and arrived at Bradley International five hours later. He was home in time to watch a rerun of Lost. Three days later, he boarded a KLM flight to England.

Chapter 2

Michael boasted a contented smile as he gazed through the passenger window of the non-descript beige Range Rover. The countryside was a dark olive green, the trees mostly skeletal or fast approaching their full autumn bareness, and the weather was exactly what he expected for the Yorkshire moors in late October: cold and damp. The sky was soft pewter with an occasional opening that revealed a brilliant speck of deep turquoise, just enough to remind him that way up there, far above the ominous cloud cover, was a cheerful, sun-filled sky.

His driver, Jamie Diggery, was a local man, about 55 years old. He wore faded jeans and an old navy blue wool jacket of the thrift store variety. Around his neck and covering an ample double chin was a brown plaid wool scarf that didn't match his jacket and had clearly seen better days. He was silent, save for an occasional throat-clearing, as he drove north along York Road.

Michael pulled down the visor and looked into the mirror. After so many hours of travel, he had managed to remain presentable. His dark brown hair was a little messy thanks to some morning wind and rain, and he used his fingers to tidy it up a bit. His steel gray eyes were framed with thick lashes and underscored with puffy taupe circles – no worse than usual. He had inherited that trait from his father's side of the family where most of the men looked like they never got a decent night's sleep. Michael's dark circles were camouflaged, at least in part, behind his tortoise-rimmed glasses. Satisfied with his appearance, he returned the visor to its original position, leaned his head back against the headrest, relaxed, and closed his eyes.

Yesterday's trip to York had been smooth and uneventful. He rose earlier than usual, which normally meant that he was up before noon. In this case, he was up at 7:30 a.m., but he felt refreshed and excited about the job he had been hired to do across the pond. The cab arrived right on time and traffic on both I-84 and I-91 was smooth all the way to Bradley International. Even the airport security checks went off without a hitch. And, despite his tendency to fly white-knuckled wherever he went, he slept through most of the flight. His reservations at a Travelodge near Leeds-Bradford International resulted in a modest and comfortable room that afforded him a restful night's sleep, only occasionally interrupted by airport noise. In the morning, Diggery had collected him, on time, for the 45-minute ride to York. Everything had gone smoothly, the timing perfect, like the trip was meant to be. The trip of a lifetime.

He adjusted the cinnamon-colored muffler that his sister had knitted for him two years ago, then turned his thoughts to the routine spook check ahead of him. Most people would call it a ghost hunt, but a spook check was Michael's own inside joke for his paranormal investigations. And this was not his first such spook check. He was a writer and researcher who had quickly achieved a certain amount of international recognition as a ghost hunter. He had published more than fifty articles on the supernatural world in the last three years and was currently finishing his second book on the subject, Shades of the Night, the term shade coming from an old literary term he enjoyed using for a ghost or spirit. It was a collection of stories of some of his most intriguing and most frightening ghost adventures. After years of being underpaid and often working for expenses only, he had finally developed a reputation within his field for being, at the very least, open-minded and objective. He didn't have his own TV program and he wasn't enormously rich and famous – yet – but he had been interviewed for a few shows about ghosts and hauntings.

Rain began to fall in more than a drizzle and Diggery silently turned on the wipers without taking his eyes from the road. Michael continued in his reverie, wondering what this new ghost hunt might bring. He hoped it would not turn into another haunting that wasn't a haunting at all. He had surely run into a few of those lately. Old houses and buildings that only looked scary. Of course, debunking was part of his job, and Michael had built his unique reputation as an objective paranormal investigator due to being both a true believer and a skeptic. Unfortunately, he had only gained the respect of that minute population who even considered the possibility that there might be such things as ghosts. In this, Michael always felt he had been unable to live up to his own expectations for success. Or those of his father.

You have got to be kidding! I can hardly hold my head up in public with people asking me questions about my-son-the-ghost-hunter! What kind of a life can you possibly build for yourself based on looking for signs of phantoms in old houses? Roy Grainger's voice boomed as he ranted at his youngest son while