The Restorer

Twenty

The Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies was located on a dead-end street just inside the Historic District. It had once been a run-down neighborhood of sagging antebellums, but a flurry of redevelopment had spit-shined the grand old dames into a semblance of their former luster.

With the facelifts had come a rather pretentious promenade of trendy new businesses—art galleries, design houses and antique shops—all entering into an unlikely waltz with the tattoo parlors and the adult video stores that had dominated the area for the past twenty years.

The CIPS building was the fairest belle of them all, a three-layered confection of white columns and lovely piazzas with off-street parking in the rear. I located a space in the shade and cracked the windows to allow for airflow.

As I walked back to the side entrance, my gaze was drawn by the flicker of a hand-shaped neon sign on the house across the street, where some enterprising palmist named Madam Know-It-All had set up shop. The irony of her proximity to the loftier Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies gave me the best laugh I’d had in days.

I’d been to the Institute before, so I knew the drill. Ringing the front bell, I waited for the lock to disengage, then passed through from the muggy midmorning heat into the cool, shabby elegance of crystal chandeliers and brocade wallpaper. Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimed, enhancing the sensation of having stepped back in time.

No hoop skirts for the young woman who came out to greet me, but she was quintessentially Southern—golden hair, golden skin, friendly smile. She’d added a bit of mystery to her appearance by rimming her blue eyes with kohl and adorning herself in silver rings and chains dangling with exotic charms.

She was new since the last time I’d been there, but she recognized my name. Escorting me down the hall to a set of pocket doors, she slid them open to announce me, then waved me in.

Unlike the rest of the house, Rupert Shaw’s office was sparsely furnished with a mishmash of seedy castaways and a noisy window AC unit that kept the temperature somewhere between warm and frigid, depending on where one sat.

What the room lacked in style, it made up for in substance. A view of a cozy back garden, a huge marble fireplace and books—hundreds and hundreds crammed into wooden shelves, stacked on the floor, spread out over every square inch of desk space. Old leather-bound volumes reeking of mildew and knowledge of the ages sat alongside dog-eared paperback novels.

It was a room I would have felt very comfortable in if I could have adjusted the air-conditioning.

Dr. Shaw rose when I came in and walked over to kiss both my cheeks before motioning me to the empty leather chair across from his desk. He wore his usual tattered attire of flannel trousers, houndstooth vest and a light blue shirt that complemented his eyes and an impressive helmet of white hair. He was taller than Ethan, with a lankier build and a graceful carriage that suggested, despite his threadbare garb, a lifetime of affluence.

As I sat down across from him, I was reminded of the first time we’d met. Someone had sent him the Samara video, and he’d contacted me through my blog, persuading me to come by for a tour of the Institute. Afterward, he and his research assistant had taken me out to dinner. She was a grad student who’d recently accepted a teaching assignment overseas and needed to sublet her apartment on Rutledge Avenue. Since I was looking to move to Charleston and had yet to find suitable accommodations, I’d asked if I could take a look at her place. The moment I set foot in the door, I knew it was where I needed to be. A week later, I was moved in, and when the assistant decided not to return at the end of her term, I boxed up all her personal belongings, stored them in the basement and signed my own lease. I’d lived there in perfect harmony ever since…until Devlin’s ghost child appeared in my garden.

But that wasn’t the purpose of my visit.

After we’d exchanged pleasantries, Dr. Shaw steepled his fingers beneath his chin and gave me a curious scrutiny. “So what can I do for you today? Your phone call sounded a little mysterious.”

“I’m hoping you can provide a plausible explanation…or any kind of explanation…for what I’ve been seeing lately…” I trailed off, uncertain of how I wanted to proceed. I wouldn’t tell him about the ghosts. Until my conversation with Essie, I’d never talked about the sightings to anyone but Papa. Though not a specific rule, silence and secrecy had always been implied.

But the new entity I’d been seeing was a different matter. I’d never witnessed anything like it and I didn’t know how to protect myself from it.

I settled back in my chair, willing myself to relax. Opening up about a paranormal event, even to someone like Dr. Shaw, wasn’t so easy. It made me feel exposed and subject to ridicule.

“You know I’ve been working in Oak Grove Cemetery, right? In fact, Ethan told me you’re on the committee that awarded me the contract. I’d like to thank you for that.”

He made a dismissive motion with one finger. “Your work speaks for itself.”

“Still, I’m grateful for the vote of confidence.”

He inclined his head and waited patiently for me to get to the point of my visit.

“I’m sure you’ve also heard about the murder victim that was uncovered in one of the graves. It’s been in the papers and on the news…”

Still he said nothing. I wondered if he was thinking, as I was, about another homicide victim discovered in that same cemetery fifteen years ago. He’d been questioned by the police in Afton Delacourt’s murder and, according to Temple, had been dismissed from Emerson because of certain rumors connected to that crime.

Even knowing all that, I wasn’t apprehensive about being alone with him, perhaps because our friendship preceded my knowledge of the murder. I’d had time to form an opinion before it could be tainted by past events, and so my initial impression of a refined, somewhat eccentric gentlemanly scholar hadn’t changed. I simply couldn’t imagine Rupert Shaw involved in murder, let alone a slaying as brutal as Devlin had implied.

His blue eyes continued to regard me thoughtfully.

With an effort, I reined in my scattered thoughts and focused. “Two days ago, I saw something at Oak Grove I can’t explain. I was walking alone on the path to the gates just before dusk when I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. It was like a silhouette or a shadow hovering at the edge of the woods. When I stopped to look at it, the thing came at me with such speed and power that I know it couldn’t have been human. It never touched me, but I felt this awful chill, this fetid dankness. Fetid isn’t even the right word because that implies an odor. There was no smell. And yet I had the definite impression of something foul, something…putrid.” I paused to observe his expression. “Yesterday, I saw it again. I was about five miles out from a cemetery in Beaufort County when I had a flat tire. I spotted that…thing, that silhouette…in the trees and again at my car window. It was there one moment, gone the next.”

“On both occasions, you say it was almost twilight and you saw this dark shape at the edge of woods?”

I nodded. An in-between place at an in-between time.

“And each time, you caught it out of the corner of your eye?”

“Is that important?”

“It could be.” He swiveled his chair and stared out into the garden. “I wonder if you might have experienced what some people refer to as a shadow being. A shapeless mass that can morph into human form.”

“You mean like…a ghost?”

“No. This is a different type of entity. Almost anyone who has ever witnessed a ghostly apparition describes the appearance as misty or vaporish, but distinctly humanlike, with discernible clothing and features. Shadow beings are…well, shadowlike and are often accompanied by a malevolent sensation that leads some researchers to speculate they may be demonic in nature.”

“Demonic?” An icy fear quilled my nerve-endings. What kind of door had I opened?

Dr. Shaw reached for a volume on his desk and leafed through the pages. “Here.” He handed me the book. “Did your entity look anything like this?”

I stared down at the rendering of a dark creature with a human form and red glowing eyes. “I don’t know about the eyes…” I studied it for a moment longer. “I guess it was kind of like that…”

“But in hindsight, you’re unable to give an accurate description because you didn’t get a very good look at it.”

“No, I guess not…” I sensed he was leading up to something. “What are you thinking?”

“I can give you a couple of possible explanations.”

“Besides a demonic entity? I’m all ears.”

“The shadow being you saw could have been a physical representation of an egregore.”

“I don’t have a clue what that is.”

“An egregore is the product of collective thought, sometimes created by events in which extreme physical or emotional stress has taken place.”

Like murder? I wondered.

“It can best be described as the psychic entity of a group. A thoughtform created when people consciously come together for a common purpose. Some mystical fraternities and organizations have learned how to create egregores through the use of ceremony and ritual. The danger being, of course, that the egregore can become more powerful than the sum of its parts.”

“This is real?” I’d never heard of such a thing.

He shrugged. “I personally have never seen one, but as I said, it’s a possible explanation.”

“You said there was another.”

“There are those who believe that shadow beings can only be summoned through black magic.”

I thought instantly of Essie’s amulet that I carried in my pocket.

Dr. Shaw sat forward and folded his arms on the desk. “Sadly for me, I don’t believe any of these theories account for what you saw.”

“You don’t? Then how do you explain it?”

He waved a hand. “Optical illusion.”

I stared at him in surprise. “Meaning, I didn’t actually see anything?”

“Are you familiar with the term pareidolia? It’s a condition in which the brain interprets random patterns of light and shadow as more familiar forms—like the human shape. This incorrect interpretation usually occurs with images seen in the peripheral areas of the vision and in low light conditions. Dusk, for example.”

I frowned. “So you think I imagined these silhouettes?”

“No, each time you saw something very real. Just not what you perceived.”

I sat back in my chair. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised by that explanation coming from you.”

His smile seemed weary. “It pains me to offer it. But in all the hundreds, perhaps thousands of psychic and paranormal cases I’ve studied over the years, only a handful remain without scientific or logical explanation.”

I wondered what he would think of all the ghosts I’d seen over the years.

Pulling Essie’s amulet from my pocket, I slid it across the desk. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

He picked up the tiny pouch, turned it over in his hand, then lifted it to his nose and sniffed. “Dirt and cinnamon,” he muttered. “In West Africa they call them sebeh or gris-gris. They’re used as protection against evil spirits. Where did you get it?”

“From a woman who claims to be a root doctor. I met her in Chedathy Cemetery down in Beaufort County.”

He looked up. “Before or after you saw the shadow being?”

“Before. I had a really strange episode at her house. I think she put something in my tea.” I pulled out the packet of herbs and handed it to him, as well. “She called this stuff Life Everlasting.”

“Been around forever. The leaves are harvested from a plant in the daisy family. It may have intoxicating properties when smoked, so it’s now illegal in South Carolina.” He lifted the packet to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Said to cure the common cold. Basically harmless.”

“Harmless? I passed out.”

“Not from this, you didn’t. I’ve had the tea myself to no ill effects. In fact, I found it quite invigorating. Rather like a B12 shot.”

“Then she must have put something else in my tea. Or maybe it was the cookies…except she and her granddaughter ate from the same batch and drank from the same pitcher. So I don’t know what happened, but it was very surreal. Like a dream. I heard her say some truly bizarre things about me.”

He glanced up, his eyes keenly alert. “What things?”

“She said I’ve been to the other side and now my spirit doesn’t know where it belongs.”

“Interesting.” He fingered the gris-gris thoughtfully. “Have you ever had a near-death experience?”

“No.”

“Not even as a child?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What else did she say?”

“She said someone is coming for me. Someone with a dark soul who walks with the dead. Then she gave me the amulet to put under my pillow to keep bad spirits away.”

He passed the amulet back to me and I returned it to my pocket.

“It’s certainly possible she slipped you a mild hallucinogenic as you suspect. It’s also possible you experienced a phenomenon known as hypnagogia—waking sleep. Interestingly enough, this may also account for your shadow beings. A person can be alert and aware of their surroundings, but also in a dreamlike state where the subconscious transmits certain stimuli that can be interpreted as moving shadows or even strange voices. This condition is often accompanied by some very dark feelings—dread and paranoia—and has been used to explain a number of paranormal experiences, including ghosts and alien abductions.”

I gave him a rueful smile as I stuffed the packet of Life Everlasting back into my bag and stood. “There you go again with your logical explanations.”

“Believe me, I would like nothing more than to be proven wrong.” He rose to see me out. “Those cases that remain without satisfactory explanation are what keep me plodding along day after day, year after year. Parapsychology can be a very frustrating, often lonely field of study.”

When he took my hand at the door, I noticed once again the onyx ring on his pinkie. “I’m still fascinated by your ring,” I said. “The symbol is so unusual and yet I feel as if I’ve seen it somewhere before. Maybe on a headstone.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. I don’t know the origin. It caught my eye at a flea market one day and I’ve been wearing it ever since.”

At a flea market.

I shook my head slightly at this latest account. “Thank you again for your help.”

“If you experience any more of these events, call me at once. There’s always a chance I could be wrong and you really are being visited by a demonic manifestation,” he said hopefully.