Case One ~ The Deceit (Trudy Hicks Ghost Hunter Book 1) Read online

  Case One:

  the deceit

  Trudy Hicks Ghost Hunter Series

  By Lori Zaremba

  Case One: The Deceit

  Copyright © 2019 by Lori Zaremba.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: February 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-521-8

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-521-3

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my dad, who recently passed away.

  I love you to the moon, Dad, but if you are planning on reading this with the big guy, I respectfully ask that you skip over the sex parts.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Prologue

  From: Beverly Johnson

  To: Gertrude Hicks

  Sent: Monday, February 13, 2016

  Subject: Please Help! Desperate!

  Dear Ms. Hicks,

  My name is Beverly Johnson. My husband, Paul, and I are desperately in need of your services, as we know for a fact that we have ghosts in our home.

  I got your name from a fellow police officer, Detective Ryan Burkett. He says you have left the Pittsburgh Police Department and now are pursuing clients who need help with paranormal situations. Well, I have a great big situation for you!

  We bought a house in a lovely neighborhood on the north side of Chicago.

  The home was constructed in 1890 by a wealthy lumber baron, Harold B. Wilcox. Local history states that Harold built the mansion for his mother, Anne, who resided here until her death in 1918. Mr. Wilcox later gave the home to his daughter, Vanessa, as a wedding gift. She married in 1922 to Mr. Carlson Holland.

  Vanessa’s husband was involved in some kind of scandal and murdered a short year later. Vanessa remained in the home until her untimely death in 1927. Records state that Vanessa’s son, Chase, went to live with the Hollands upstate, and her mammy, Constance Lavolier Vilemont, resided in the house for a few months before moving to New Orleans to live with her sister until she passed away. The family must have suffered financial hardship, as the house was boarded up and sold at auction in 1932. From this point, the house has had over eighteen owners, never staying longer than a year or two. The house has been left in ruin until my husband and I bought it three years ago. We have been restoring every inch to its original splendor, and most of the work is being done by us, since we can’t keep a contractor on the job longer than a month or two.

  The many contractors and their employees have given us numerous stories of events that took place while they were working in the house. The most common is that they hear a woman sobbing, and they see an elderly lady kneeling at the bottom of the stairs. Others will detect a ball bouncing down those same stairs. They also hear footsteps up the back corridor and ragtime music playing in the parlor. My husband and I have seen someone who we think is Vanessa Wilcox standing on the stairs or looking out the master bedroom window.

  I have felt a dog brush past me at least three times a day and have heard it barking and yelping. My husband hears a tortured voice yell for help from the basement. That damn basement is so bleak and dark I am terrified to go down there. In fact, my husband was working in the coal cellar this past week and felt like something was holding him. He couldn’t move his arms or his legs. Once he was free of whatever was assaulting him, he ran up the steps, locked the door, and hasn’t been back down there since. I could go on and on about the things we have seen, heard, smelled, and felt, but it is just too exhausting.

  Ms. Hicks, we need your help desperately. I love this house, but I do not want to put my family in danger. My five children plus the in-laws haven’t spent a night in the home yet, as we haven’t been brave enough to move in.

  Please consider this case. We need help!

  Sincerely,

  Beverly Johnson

  Chapter 1

  Trudy

  “Well, this is unexpected.”

  Gertrude Jo Hicks, or Trudy as her friends called her, grasped the cold knob in her hand and yanked. The damn door wasn’t budging. Dread sent its slimy fingers slowly down her spine as the hair on the back of her neck rose.

  She was locked in a room upstairs of an abandoned house, where a strange anomaly was occurring. The pressure in the space had intensified, and the crack and flash of static electricity accompanied every simple movement.

  She crouched between a dilapidated dresser and a wall decorated with exaggerated drawings of the male anatomy and the names and dates of the many people who’d been here. A whine could be heard in the eaves of the structure, low and faint, but loud enough over the rustle of paper and the scraping of furniture on the scarred wood floor.

  Trudy closed her eyes to block out her current predicament. She looked at her cell phone again with the same result. Because of the electromagnetic draw in the room, the battery was dead.

  “This is the last thing I needed today.” Rubbing her forehead to ease the tension, she closed her eyes, ignoring the movement all around her.

  It was the eve of her first official case as a paranormal investigator, and just her luck to be locked in this old house on the north side of Pittsburgh, with a pissed off, unearthly attacker.

  Trudy had thought it would be a great idea to bring former police psychic Dana McCoy and test some of the new ghost hunting equipment. This place was rumored to be haunted.

  The two searched the dilapidated house for hours but caught nothing unusual on either the brand-new night vision camera or the infrared portable.

  Because of the late hour, Trudy and Dana had decided to call it quits, and knowing the criminal element in this neighborhood, they didn’t want any problems.

  They packed the equipment in the van, and if Dana hadn’t lost her phone somewhere inside the house, they would have been home by now.

  She let out a long, irritated sigh and crawled out from behind the dresser, avoiding the broken remains of a hanging light fixture that was swinging rapidly above her.

  Trudy shook her head in exasperation, knowing she still had errands to run for Aaron, her fourteen-year-old son, who was going to stay with his dad while she was away. Apparently, her ex was incapable of providing a week’s worth of proper snacks for their picky son.

  Trudy then worried over the equipment she still had to pack, not to mention her clothes, and—damn it—she needed to color her hair tonight…no ma
tter what. With a teenage son, the annoying gray hairs seemed to spring up like dandelions on a freshly mowed lawn.

  “Dana?” she bellowed, knowing the psychic was somewhere in the room, hiding among the chaos.

  “I’m here!” Dana squeaked from behind an old panel door leaning against the adjacent wall.

  “What are we dealing with?” Trudy’s eyes searched through the darkness and disorder to locate her.

  “Poltergeist and some really crappy dark energy.” Dana spoke with what sounded like a mouthful of marbles.

  A strange vibration started, and Trudy was unsure if it was coming from above them or below at the foundation of the house. Her voice raised above the din. “Tell me again what the hell a poltergeist is.”

  When the psychic didn’t answer, Trudy became alarmed and quickly picked her way through the debris to where Dana was hiding. The psychic was looking down guiltily and chewing when Trudy approached.

  “Are you eating something?” Trudy was usually pretty cool, but she could feel the irritation building inside her.

  “Relax, it’s just a Tootsie Roll.” Dana paused to swallow. “I found it in my pocket.” She stuffed the crinkled wrapper back into the pocket of her flannel coat.

  Trudy steadily pounded her forehead against the wall while Dana explained.

  “A poltergeist is a spirit in distress, and it becomes active when triggered by negative or unsettled energy. So, calm the hell down and stop agitating it,” Dana teased, apparently sensing Trudy’s frustration as she paced restlessly around the small space.

  “We gotta get out of here.” Dashing to the boarded-up windows, Trudy looked for something to pry them open with, earning a thump on the side of her head from a lone tennis shoe.

  The attacking Nike threw her off guard, and pivoting as another unseen object struck her, she yelped at the searing pain that took her breath and rubbed her hand over her injured shoulder.

  “Trudy, a man is coming in through the front door.” Dana closed her eyes and put her fingers to her temple as she tried to concentrate.

  “What?” Trudy, her pain now forgotten, tiptoed back over to where Dana stood swaying a bit. “Is he friend or foe?”

  After a few moments of deliberation, Dana finally offered, “I’m thinking foe.”

  “You think?” Trudy hissed at the psychic then jumped when a brick bounced off the wall inches from where they stood and thudded loudly on the floor.

  Trudy’s eyes met Dana’s. She knew whoever was downstairs had to hear it land.

  “Trudy,” Dana warned, “he’s coming. Hide!” Dana squeezed behind the panel door once again.

  Trudy ducked into the closet, where the smell of mildew and decay stole her breath.

  In the eerie light, she saw a spider weaving its web in the peeling wallpaper next to her arm.

  Amazingly, the unusual activity in the room came to a complete halt.

  The silence was deafening now. The only sound interrupting the quiet was the thud of footsteps, slow and even, coming up the stairs. The unknown man continued, coming closer and closer, stopping right outside the entrance to the room.

  The doorknob squeaked as it turned slowly, and Trudy held her breath.

  The door that was stuck shut a moment ago groaned in protest when it was pushed gradually open. Trudy’s legs burned as she squatted low in the tiny closet. The moments ticked by in agony, until she heard the unknown man pivoting before walking quickly down the stairs and slamming out the front door.

  Relief flooded her. She stood and stretched her legs as she counted to ten, finally calling out to Dana, “Let’s go!” Trudy picked up a thick spindle from a dismantled rocking chair that had been lying on the dirty floor. She figured it was a good weapon in case the man returned.

  She and Dana made their way carefully down the squeaky stairs, every step on the worn treads an alert to whoever or whatever might be hiding in the dark corners.

  Trudy wondered about the man, if he was one of the squatters or addicts who had taken up residence here. When they searched the house earlier, they found evidence of someone sleeping in a room in the back and discarded drug paraphernalia behind the stairs. She was glad to be out of there, knowing the owners of these items would more than likely return after dark.

  Trudy turned. “Did you find your damn cell phone?” Dana didn’t answer, instead grabbing Trudy’s shoulder as she reached the bottom step.

  Dana whispered, “He’s back.” A second later, the front door burst open, and three men stood in the doorway, hostility replacing the look of surprise on their faces.

  “And the night keeps getting better and better.” Mumbling to herself, Trudy looked wearily at the men. The corruption in their eyes clearly indicated they were up to no damn good.

  “I thought you said there was one man,” she whispered to the psychic, who was on the step behind her and peering over her shoulder.

  “Yeah, well, even bad guys have friends,” Dana murmured and moved even closer behind Trudy.

  “What do we have here, trespassers?” The small, wiry actor on the right chuckled. Appearing to be the ringleader, he sauntered through the doorway. The other two followed and loudly slammed the door shut behind them. The room was cast back into shadows. The only other source of light came through the transom window above the door.

  Trudy’s eyes adjusted to the dimness as she studied the trio. She slipped the van keys to Dana, who was now pressed up against her back.

  The biggest of the three was also the youngest. He nervously pushed his stringy, brown, shoulder-length hair back from a broad forehead full of acne. He wore a too-small gray hoodie that constricted his arms and a pair of baggy jeans that he kept pulling up and fidgeting with as he moved closer.

  If the situation went south, he would be the easiest to take down.

  Still gripping the spindle in her left hand and testing its weight, Trudy kept it tucked behind her back and securely out of sight.

  Beside him was a crazy-looking character, with swarthy skin, shifty eyes, and a bright yellow Mohawk hairstyle. His hands tightened into fists, and his rangy frame exuded the nervous kind of energy that would be challenging to match. Trudy recognized that he was going to be a real problem.

  Ringleader, who was berating Big Boy for not seeing two women when he searched upstairs, was the smallest. Standing somewhere around five feet and rail thin, he hunched over a bit with his arms crossed over his chest. His face looked unnaturally pale.

  “We’re leaving.” Trudy took a step toward the door. Big Boy blocked her exit, bumping her back with his girth. The smell of body odor and stale cigarettes assaulted her nostrils.

  “Not so fast.” Ringleader sneered as he looked her over from head to toe and slowly back up again. “You came to visit. Maybe we can have some fun.” He licked his cracked lips, causing the bile to rise in her throat.

  Trudy raised her free hand in an attempt to diffuse the situation. “Listen, we don’t want any trouble. We heard the house was abandoned and came looking for antique fixtures.”

  “Antique fixtures, you say?” Ringleader cackled and took a step toward her, trying to intimidate.

  His eyes were now stone cold, his pupils dilated, and she could see the layer of sweat that clung to his pasty skin. Trudy recognized that he wasn’t sick. He was coming down off a narcotic high.

  “Why are you here? Are you cops?” His voice was so devoid of emotion, Trudy’s stomach pitched.

  Realization dawned on her. They were in serious jeopardy.

  Dana knew it too, squeezing the back of Trudy’s arm, letting her know she was ready.

  Trudy hoped she was ready as well. Retired from the police force for over six months, she didn’t work out as much these days and, quite honestly, never expected a human altercation in her new line of work.

  When Ringleader came forward, he suddenly reached out to put his hands on her, and Trudy didn’t think twice. She shoved him hard, sending him tumbling over a stack of boxes in the hallway an
d landing with a thud against the wall.

  His eyes wide with surprise. “Get that bitch!” he called out with the whine of a wounded animal.

  Big Boy came toward her, grabbing the sleeve of her coat with a meaty paw. Trudy ripped her left arm away from him before thrusting up with the spindle she still held in her right hand. She aimed for his Adam’s apple, and while he bent over desperately gasping for air, she swung the thick rod like an ax, hitting him hard and cleanly on the top of the head, breaking the wood in half. He dropped like a ton of bricks.

  “Go!” She faced off with Mohawk Guy, preparing to block him, while Dana leaped over Big Boy’s prone body to escape out the front door.

  Ringleader was up on his feet again and charging toward her. He ran straight into the sharp elbow she jabbed him with, breaking his nose. He staggered back then retreated to the corner where he used old rags to stop the flow of blood.

  Mohawk Guy made some fancy ninja moves, and she watched him warily and ducked out of the way of his quick overhand right. He backed away, seemingly unfazed by the uppercut she landed on his unsuspecting jaw.

  The strange vibration she heard earlier started once again below her feet. She ducked out of the way as a milk crate came crashing down the steps, dispersing its contents as it descended.

  Books and miscellaneous paraphernalia scattered about the space as the energy in the room became charged with a powerful electric current. Trudy could feel a tingling as her curls lifted and tightened about her head.

  Mohawk Guy seemed oblivious to the activity and kept his eyes trained on her, while his hair stood in straight yellow spikes.

  He surprised her with a swift spinning kick that missed its mark but grazed her already tender shoulder. She stumbled back at the piercing pain, and feeling lightheaded, she careened onto the bottom steps. Staying where she landed, Trudy anticipated he would make a run at her, and her feet were already up and prepared to kick.