Haunting in Old Tailem (Haunting Clarisse Series Book 3)

Chapter One

The church door thumped behind her, closing unexpectedly. Then an ominous breeze of icy cold air swept through the center aisle. Clarisse shivered and jolted from the impromptu echoes around her. A tingling up her spine accentuated the goosebumps on both arms.
Wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt on a cold night showed her lack of preparedness in these parts. It got cold at night, despite the warmth during the day. It made no difference in Old Tailem Town, an uninhabited, pioneering ghost town that drew in tourists passing through on the main highway.
A group of people could be heard on the steps of the church while Clarisse was locked inside the pitch black house of God, used for paranormal tours and occasional church services. The church’s interior accentuated an uncanny, creepy sensation. The only light visible came from the full moon filtering through the ornamental windows, creating an illusion of yellow and green haze that seeped from the custom-made stained glass, not enough to navigate her way around. Luckily, Clarisse carried a flashlight for the tour as a standard article to see through the pitch-black town with only one streetlight.
Clarisse could not understand where the breeze originated. Everything is shut, she thought. Unless a window had flung open at the back of the church. It felt synonymous with a ghost spirit. Oh yes, Clarisse had felt this type of intrusion before from the dark spirit world. A message, their way of introduction in the first instance—a warning.
It was not your typical evening breeze, it carried a fouled, caustic stench that distinguished it from the natural environment. Experienced spirit hunters who connected to the dark world knew all about it, recognized it. It was what set the warning bells ringing. Something was out there.
Clarisse waved her flashlight around the room to find nothing out of the ordinary then took a step forward. Underneath her boots, an uneven surface shifted slightly from one side to the other. If she hadn’t been paying attention, she would have missed it. But that was what differentiated her from the others. She could sense and feel things that most people dismissed altogether, making nothing of it.
She tapped her boots again, like a Spanish dancer, discovering a trapdoor leading underneath the church. The trapdoor was constructed to blend into the hardwood panels that formed the flooring, located in a dark place at the back of the center aisle and to one side. Not a place tourists would gravitate toward but ideally designed to be hidden from view.
There was a fast flash of light that lasted a millisecond, followed by another. There was no storm outside, no lightning, for it to have been caused by the elements.
She squinted more than once as the strength of the light momentarily blinded her, like a camera’s flash. A smell of magnesium and potassium filled the air instantly, typical of the illuminations used by late eighteenth-century photographers. Clarisse shook her head as her vision returned quickly. Someone was in the room and not from this world—she sensed its presence.
There was another bright flash of light, but this time followed by a child’s giggle.
She folded her arms and put her fingertips on her chin, concentrating. This was not a new sound to her. It belonged to someone who she had associated with before.
There was another giggle, accompanied by little footsteps racing across the timber floor panels as they creaked and tapped audaciously, like a rhythmic tap dancer.
Most people would be running for the doors screaming, but not Clarisse. Although she was apprehensive, which raised her awareness and heightened her senses, she was not frightened.
“I know it’s you, Little Charlie … So, you followed me here to Old Tailem Town?” Clarisse placed her hands on her hips and waited for him to react. He was still a child, merely seeking the attention of an adult.
There was another giggle but louder and more pronounced this time. He was responding in the only way he knew how.
“You don’t need to stay in this transient world. I know how to release your spirit,” said Clarisse.
A loud bang came from the ceiling that she could not distinguish. She thought it sounded like something had collided with the church beam, so Clarisse directed her flashlight instantly to the roof, to her horror.
Little Charlie had thrown a rope over the beam with the noose around his neck. He hung on to the beam like a monkey then jumped from it like a bungee jumper. He hung himself, gasping for air, while his legs dangled and kicked underneath him.
Clarisse watched in trepidation as the hideous image of Little Charlie played out in front of her in a gruesome display of evil. He moaned until his lungs were emptied of air, and his head tilted to the side, lifeless and devoid of any pain.
There was another flash of light and the smell of magnesium again. She blinked momentarily to maintain her focus on him, bizarre as it might seem.
He hung with the rope around his neck, his tongue sticking out of a red face starved of oxygen. At the same time, he was smiling as though he was only having fun. Death was a reenactment that he had become accustomed to, to the point he thought it funny, a way of horrifying others and making them pay attention. He had a young mind—innocent and conditioned to get the attention of others. Little Charlie didn’t know whether he was dead or alive; he was far too young to understand. As far as he was concerned, tying a loop around his neck, jumping, and choking to death made him realize he felt no pain. He could do it over and over again.
Clarisse knew from her encounter in Hartley that Little Charlie was an attention seeker and someone who liked to cling on to you. That could explain how he had ended up in Old Tailem Town. Running away from evil might seem like a good idea at the time, but you could not hide.
“Come over here, Little Charlie. There is nothing to be afraid of,” she said.
He replied with a cheeky grin on his boyish face. His mousy brown hair thrown from side to side, he signaled with his right index finger, waving it left to right many times.
“Nuh-uh,” he mimed, his way of saying no.