Haunted

A/N: To clear up any confusion, these are the Caleb's 'forms'
Blank Form: Invisble to anyone, even mediums or psychics
Plain/Grey Form: Visible, looks like an old black and white photo
Real/True Form: Visible, with color, sometimes even looks solid
White Form: The glowing form in the hallway, see Chapter Three.

The Blank and Real Forms take concentration, The Plan Form is the easiest
for him to maintain, and the White Form will be explained later.

If he uses all his energy, as in getting away from Hiram Tripper, he can't maintain
any form, and goes somewhere that will also be explained later.

And, yes, I'm making every bit of this up. It's not like ghosts have rules that
anyone can prove... ^__^


CHAPTER FIVE:


Pete was putting on coffee for his usual early morning ritual.
He enjoyed being up before the sun, fixing coffee and toast
and sitting by a window the watch the sun come up. It helped
him to have a calm, quiet moment at the beginning of each day.
He had a lot of stress to deal with, between Sally’s single-minded
goal of proof that this house was haunted and Eric’s continual
stubborn resistance to getting along with his aunt.

Not that Sally’s attitude helped...

Pete sighed. He’d never imagined that his role in life would be
that of a mediator between the two people he loved most.

Well, it was worth the stress, if it meant he had them both with
him.

He had just settled down with his first cup of coffee when he
heard footsteps come thumping down the stairs. For a moment
he thought he should get up and retrieve the equipment, because
this had to be ghostly activity. Sally and Eric were never up
before nine - not if they could help it.

So he nearly fell off the chair when his nephew strolled into the
room.

His wide-awake, fully dressed, and ready for *something* nephew.

“Morning,” Eric grumbled, going straight to the fridge and reaching
for the juice.

Pete relaxed slightly. Eric might be up unusually early, but his attitude
was business as usual.

“Good morning, bud! What’re you doing up so early?” ‘And
dressed for battle?’ he added silently.

Eric just made another grumbling sound. He was indeed wearing
the sort of clothes he preferred when he was going someplace new,
someplace where he felt less than confident. To cover any insecurity
of his own, he dressed for shock value, opting to try and throw *other*
people off their stride.

It usually worked.

This time he wore wide-legged bondage pants of some rich black
material; they looked like soft velvet but Pete knew they were sturdier
than that. They were crisscrossed with silver chains, buckles and belts.
Safety pins lined the outside seam of each leg and the heavy chain belt
around his waist ended in handcuffs. The pants were long enough to
drag the floor and show only a glimpse of the toe of heavy-soled black
boots. His black tank top was tight enough to have been painted on,
a picture from the Trigun anime on the front. Instead of his usual jewelry,
he wore wrist-length fingerless black gloves. A silver snake with ruby
eyes was coiled around his left bicep. He wore a black choker and
several silver necklaces with different pendants. As usual, the edges
of his ears were covered in silver rings, his eyebrow ring and nose ring
were in, and the stud below his lower lip had been replaced with a tiny
silver skull. He wore eyeliner, his chin-length, streaked blond hair was
caught up in an oddly bristling ponytail, and Pete really hoped he wasn’t
going to get arrested.

“So... what do you have planned for today?” Pete asked, trying to keep
his voice casual.

The twinkle in Eric’s eyes when he turned around told him he had failed.

“Gonna go into town,” he smirked, “see what there is to see.”

Uh-oh.

Pete swallowed and somehow managed a grin. “Not planning any -
uh, pranks?”

“Nah.” Eric’s voice was casual as he started making himself some
breakfast. “No plans on spray painting Town Hall. Not today, anyway.”

Pete didn’t laugh - because he knew Eric wasn’t joking.

In the last conservative New England town they’d gone ghost-hunting in,
Eric had painted bright red footprints down the steps of the courthouse and
across the street to a law firm. Most people had thought this was hilarious
- except for the judge and the lady lawyer he was having an affair with. They
would have loved to send Eric to Juvenile Hall, but it would have drawn too
much attention - too much *more* attention - to his little ‘prank’.

And their clandestine affair.

So Eric had ended up with six months probation for ‘defacing public
property.’

“Kiddo - please, don’t...”

“Pete, don’ worry.” Eric’s mouth was full of cereal. “‘M’not gonna do
‘nything. Gonna see m’seum, ‘n stuff.”

“There’s a museum in town?” Pete was instantly interested. “I didn’t know
that.”

Eric held his forefinger and thumb close together, indicating that the
museum was little.

“So? There may be some history about the house. Want some company?”

Eric shrugged, but he didn’t exactly look enthusiastic. Pete thought for
a moment, realized he’d have to tell Sally where they were going, and
that she’d want to come along. “On second thought, I think I’ll wait until
after Sally’s done her house rounds and registered the readings. Then I’ll
take her to lunch and to visit the museum. Do you know where it’s at?”

Eric nodded, and gave him the directions. Then he dumped his dishes in
the sink and escaped.


*


The ‘ten-minute walk to Lakeside’ that Roberta Seals had mentioned was
more like a five-minute slow stroll. Either the woman had never walked it
or she was one of those people who never exercised at all. It was Saturday,
and he expected to see kids, but the streets were deserted.

Lakeside was a very small town, and reminded him of old everyone’s-happy
-and-love-one-another black and white movies. After a moment, he realized
that the place had been deliberately restored to look that way, and he snorted.
Should have known it was just a tourist trap.

A small building that proclaimed itself the Library caught his eye and he
drifted toward it, kicking little rocks off the sidewalk as he went. The lack
of people in this place was a little disconcerting.

The website had said the Museum was right behind the Library, and it was
- a small, brightly painted little building with flowers planted around the walk.
Eric curled his lip, but went up the path anyway, bracing himself for a bouncing,
cheerful Curator.

The old woman that opened the door was a surprise. She was dressed in black
from head to toe, wearing a huge silver cross around her neck. Her hair was
caught up in a bun and she had little half-moon glasses perched on the end of
her nose. Her dress touched the floor and the neck went up to her chin, the
sleeves tumbling down to nearly cover her hands. She looked like the old
stereotypical librarian who ‘shushed’ people in those same black and white
movies he’d thought of earlier.

Except that she had a purple streak in her hair, and the book in her hand
was an Anne Rice vampire novel.

Eric grinned.

She looked him up and down, then smiled slyly back.

“You must be the ‘odd little boy’ who moved into Dark House. Roberta
has been telling the whole town about you. Come in.”

He obeyed the summons and entered the cheerful little room, looking around
at the glass-enclosed ‘exhibits’ - none more than a handful of items - and the
rocking chair pulled up next to the window, a cup of tea on a small table next
to it.

“You look more like the librarian.” He didn’t bother to think before he said it,
turning his eyes back to her.

She gave a very un-librarian snicker. “I used to be. I think they were afraid I
would scare away the tourists. I’m not the Curator of our lovely Museum, either
- I’m just watching the place. Everyone is away, cheering for the home team at
the Little League game.”

Eric shuddered.

She snickered again. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Eric Gaines.”

“Eric Gaines. I’m Amelia Heathrow.” She offered a slender, wrinkled hand.

Eric took it, but didn’t shake it. He just held it a moment, gazing at the ring on
her finger. “Cool.”

“My great-grandfather’s ring. Been in the family for centuries.” She twisted
the heavy, carved piece of silver. “No one but me to wear it now. What can
I help you with? You don’t look like the type to come studying early American
textiles. All they have here is looped rugs and old needlework samplers.”

“I want to see the display about the house.”

“Ah, Dark House. Have you had much fun with the ghost?”

Eric jerked his eyes away. Normally he could lie along with the best of them,
but her clear green eyes seemed to bore straight through him. “Uh, yeah, lotsa
fun. C’n I see it?”

“Of course. It’s over here.” She smiled knowingly at him and laid her book
on the seat of the rocking chair, then walked to one of the display cases.
“Everything you see is at least fifty years old. Most of it is much older.”

Eric leaned over the case, the only one in the room that had a lot of stuff in it.
He hadn’t noticed it when he came in - it was tucked away behind a display
with some sad looking old pillows embroidered with farm animals. There were
about two dozen photographs, an old pocket watch, scattered jewelry, some
toys, and a miniature replica of Dark House. All of it was carefully labeled.

He pursued the photographs first, ignoring the fact that Amelia Heathrow was
watching him, sly smile still stretched across her lips. One was labeled ‘Tripper
Family’, and showed the man, his wife, and their three children, all dressed in
what was probably their best and posed stiffly, unsmiling.

Hiram Tripper was the ghost who had tried to hurt Caleb.

Eric scowled at the photo and moved on, not wanting to look at him anymore.
Old bastard...

The other photos were of maids dusting the dining room, a horse and carriage
with a groom holding proudly to the horse’s head, Tripper’s wife playing the
piano, his children sharing toys with other children, a cook standing in front of
a lavishly decorated cake.

It took him a second to realize all of them were posed, pretending to be doing
things without actually moving. Their body language was stiff and formal, even
the children.

“Why do they look like puppets?” He asked.

“You had to hold still for the camera back then. It took several seconds for a
picture to form on those old films - or whatever they were called. Any movement
was just a nasty blur. Rich families like the Trippers considered it a sign of their
social status to have ‘casual’ pictures like these, because photographers had to
work hard to get good ones. It was quite expensive.”

“Oh.” One of the pictures caught his eye, and he frowned, leaning closer.

It was labeled as ‘Henry Tripper and unknown children playing.’ Hiram Tripper’s
oldest son, the one labeled as ‘Henry’, was sitting on the floor, playing with tin
soldiers and wooden horses, several other boys around him. Most of the boys
were looking down at the toys, but one of them was looking at the camera, bright
eyed and curious.

He was younger, and his hair was shorter, but there was no mistaking those big
eyes.

Or that sweet, shy smile.

It was Caleb.


.