The Thirteen Bends

  THE THIRTEEN

  BENDS

  A Madison Meyer Mystery

  -Book 3-

  SHANNON REBER

  Copyright © 2017 by Shannon Reber

  First Edition

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Published by Magic Fire Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters, and places are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. Resemblances to actual locales or events or persons living or dead, is coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Table of Contents

  ONE 4

  TWO 14

  THREE 17

  FOUR 24

  FIVE 33

  SIX 41

  SEVEN 51

  EIGHT 55

  NINE 63

  TEN 72

  ELEVEN 78

  TWELVE 85

  THIRTEEN 92

  FOURTEEN 95

  FIFTEEN 106

  SIXTEEN 111

  SEVENTEEN 120

  EIGHTEEN 127

  NINETEEN 131

  TWENTY 135

  TWENTY-ONE 140

  TWENTY-TWO 146

  TWENTY-THREE 152

  TWENTY-FOUR 159

  TWENTY-FIVE 163

  EPILOGUE 167

  Author’s Note 171

  About the Author 175

  “I look for ghosts; but none will force

  Their way to me. ‘Tis falsely said

  That there was never intercourse

  Between the living and the dead.”

  —William Wordsworth

  ONE

  I used to spend my days buried under a pile of dusty old books, researching the paranormal world. Sometimes, I missed those days. The upswing in supernatural awareness was good for business. What wasn’t good was how many people thought a paranormal investigator was there for entertainment purposes.

  I had gotten so tired of having the ‘Ghost Busters’ theme song sung to me, I had stopped answering the phone. My new way of spending my days consisted of sorting through voicemails to see which were prank calls and which were genuine cases.

  Since our little ordeal a few months before, a lot more people had become aware that things really did go bump in the night. Because of that, the city of Pittsburgh lived with a feeling of foreboding.

  The average citizen had no idea anything was unusual. There were a lot of non-average people in the city. I had seen one woman just the other day selling what she claimed were protective charms on a street corner.

  At a glance, I could see that not one of them would have protected anyone from anything. She had probably read one of the articles Keats Driscoll had put out and chosen to make a buck off the few who might have believed.

  Most of the city remained oblivious. That was a good thing, in my opinion. Indoctrinating people into a belief in the paranormal would be cruel. Allowing them to live in blissful ignorance was the best way.

  I flopped back in Erkens’ chair, amused when the cat took that opportunity to turn my lap into his bed. He was a gigantic, black cat whose paws were as large as my palm. Twitter had shown up at the office a couple of months ago and had chosen to stick around. I hadn’t regretted the decision to let him stay for even one moment.

  He had become something like a mascot. I had tried to convince Erkens that a picture of Twitter on a business card would be very good for business. For some reason, he hadn’t agreed.

  I looked around as the cat settled himself more comfortably on my lap. The office had gone through as big a change as I had in the last few months. It was far cleaner than it used to be, though there was still a thick layer of salt and iron shavings over everything, that protected us from anything paranormal. There were now bookcases and filing cabinets with locks and wards all around the room. The piles of files that used to be scattered around were in those cabinets so no one would be able to look at them unless we allowed them to.

  The other wards on the floor were covered by an area rug. The office looked far more professional than it used to. Again, for some weird reason, I missed the old place.

  I blew out a breath and rubbed at Twitter’s chin as I deleted what felt like the hundredth message that day. I was pleased that the Cintamani case was over but I kind of missed the excitement. It felt like asking for trouble to hope for a case. Sometimes, my mind just lived dangerously.

  I pushed my dark hair behind my ear, my eyes fixed on the screen of my laptop. My pale, freckled skin was less pasty than it had been a few months ago but I still felt hollowed out. So much had happened in such a short amount of time. I wondered if I’d ever get used to the ups and downs of my new life.

  A relieved sigh escaped me when my phone beeped, indicating one of my searches for paranormal activity in the city had gotten a hit. I wanted a distraction from the boredom that had plagued me recently.

  Right when I picked up the phone, someone knocked on the door. There was no way that was a coincidence. I could have jumped for joy at the idea of having something to focus on other than the memorization of every mythological creature and the ways to deal with them.

  Twitter hissed and dashed back into the bathroom, hiding behind the door as much as his big body would allow. If that was his reaction to our possible new client, there was a virus in the system.

  I walked over to one of the cabinets along the wall and unlocked the door, taking out a vial of salt and one of the silver knives.

  I stuck them in my pocket before turning to the door. Erkens didn’t like it when I dealt with client interviews without him but he wasn’t there. I couldn’t ignore the knock. That was all there was to it.

  I pulled the door open, almost falling back at the sight of the woman on the other side. She was a big girl in her late twenties or early thirties, with hard, blunt features, and eyes that were glassy and bloodshot. It was the smell that really hit me. She smelled like a bottle of whiskey . . . at ten o’clock in the morning.

  The woman’s glassy eyes met mine and I knew something was wrong. There was no doubt in my mind. Even without Twitter’s reaction to her knock on the door, I would have noticed the haunted look about her.

  “I’m looking for TC Erkens,” she said in a weak voice. It wasn’t slurred in the least, so maybe she wasn’t drunk after all.

  “Erkens isn’t here. I’m Madison Meyer, his assistant.”

  “You’re the one in the articles,” she said, barely moving her mouth as she spoke. “You’re a lot younger than I expected.”

  I didn’t respond to her mention of those stupid articles. I was still annoyed with Keats for all the information he’d given out. “If you’d rather wait for Erkens, that’s fine. I’m not sure how long he’ll be, though.”

  She shook her head, apparently okay with the idea of dealing with me.

  “Would you like to come in? I’ve got some fresh coffee on.”

  She sniffed and turned her head down. “Are you sure? I mean . . . l’m a mess,” she said, motioning to the state she was in.

  I stepped back and waved my hand toward the chairs. “Come on. You look like you need the coffee. I’m not licensed as a PI but I have worked several cases with Erkens. I’m no novice.”

  She sniffed again and stepped into the office, moving to sit in the chair Twitter usually took as his own. “Um . . . that would be great,” she almost whispered.

  I walked to the tiny
kitchenette and took down a mug, pouring her some coffee as I refilled my own cup. “What’s your name?” I asked, bringing the mug as well as the box of donuts that Erkens had brought in that morning.

  She took the mug with a nod of thanks and wrapped both of her hands around it, staring into the depths of the coffee inside. “I’m Gina Vaso,” she said, flicking her eyes around the office nervously.

  I brought my own mug over and sat in the chair next to hers, lifting the box of donuts to offer her one. “What happened, Gina?” I asked, sure that whatever it was, she needed to talk more than anything.

  She declined a pastry and tears began to slide down her cheeks. “It was my idea,” she said, shaking her head wildly. “I didn’t think any of it was real.”

  I set the box back on the desk and waited, hoping silence was the best way to get her to tell me what had happened.

  She sniffled for a few seconds before she turned her red-rimmed eyes to meet mine. “Have you heard the thirteen bends legend?” she asked, still not drinking her coffee. All she did was hold the cup, her eyes panning the room.

  “I have,” I said, going on to give her a minute to collect herself. “There’s several versions of the story. One says there was an orphanage that burned down, killing thirteen children. Another says that thirteen girls from a Catholic school were killed and buried on the thirteen bends in the road. Another one just says that if you drive up the road, there’ll be thirteen bends but if you drive back, there’ll be only twelve.”

  Gina nodded. “I heard the one about the orphanage. They say that if you put baby powder on the hood of your car and drive slow along the road, you’ll hear the children screaming and there’ll be handprints in the powder when you leave.”

  I tipped my head to the side. “What happened, Gina?” I asked, sure she wasn’t there to prank me but not sure what her story was.

  She set the mug down on the desk and folded her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on her fingers. “My girlfriend and I . . . we thought it would be fun. We thought there was no way we’d see anything. I put the powder on the hood of the car and we started driving. Nothing happened. We didn’t hear anything and there were no handprints. So, we decided to go again. We got to the first bend . . . and . . . a guy just appeared right there. He appeared and all of a sudden it was morning and I was at home in bed. I don’t know what happened but my car is gone and I can’t find Tanya. She’s not answering her phone and she didn’t go to work or anything.” She sniffled again. “I thought it was a silly story. Nothing real.”

  Huh. That wasn’t what I had expected when she’d started talking. Maybe I should have waited for Erkens. But I had already begun the process. I needed to finish the job.

  “How much have you had to drink, Gina?” I asked in a way I hoped wouldn’t sound judgmental, handing her a tissue from the box on the desk.

  She took it and dabbed at her eyes. “We had wine with our dinner last night but nothing else. When I woke up this morning, I smelled like I’d been bathing in moonshine.” She looked me straight in the eye as a tear rolled its way down her cheek. “Please, help me figure this out. Tanya is my world. I have a bad feeling and . . . the ghost just appeared on the first bend in the road.”

  I considered it. A ghost was definitely in Erkens’ wheelhouse. I’d have to make sure he was okay with the idea before the contract was signed. But I would also have to check it out, see how much of the story was real and how much was the possibly drunken hallucination of the woman before me.

  “I have an idea,” I told her, wanting to give her some kind of reassurance. “Why don’t we drive out there now and see what we can see? That might be where your car is and maybe that’s where Tanya is as well. It’s daylight and every legend of that area I’ve read states that all the paranormal activity takes place at night.”

  It was part of the legends but it wasn’t actually true. There was no need to get into the science of when a spirit could and would show its face. There was science to it but the majority of it was emotional.

  When a spirit came back, strong emotions dictated their actions. Vengeful spirits became vengeful because of something wrong in their lives or something traumatic in their deaths.

  Spirits showing up in the dead of the night was a scary movie kind of thing. It didn’t matter what time of day it was. When a spirit was seen, it was for its own reason.

  Gina blinked several times before she gave a slow nod. It was the only answer she gave.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of anything she’d told me. Could she have been so drunk that she’d blacked out? She would have had to be very drunk to still smell so strongly of alcohol. So either she was lying about how much she’d had or there was something else going on. There hadn’t been any slurring in her words, so she was at least sober right then. That was something.

  She stayed quiet as I locked up the office and guided her out to my car. She just looked dazed.

  I toyed with my hair as we got into my car, for some reason nervous to have her in the passenger seat. I couldn’t explain the feeling. It was like a sense of impending doom.

  Neither of us spoke as I began to drive. I had never been there but already knew how to get to the road people claimed all those horrible things had happened on. I wasn’t good at idle chit-chat, so chose to allow Gina the quiet she apparently wanted.

  It didn’t take long to get out to Campbells Run Road near Harmarville. It was a totally normal looking place but I wouldn’t ever choose to go out there in the middle of the night, no matter what.

  I looked around as we drove, not seeing much other than people going about their daily routines. It was a small town set next to the Allegheny River, a place that had probably been bustling when the coal mine was in business. It was charming as it was, despite all the scary stories people liked to tell about the area.

  A shiver worked its way down my spine as we drove. The silence from Gina felt . . . odd. It made things even creepier than they were before.

  My heart started to pound as the strobes of police lights cut through the air. A young officer waved me to a stop in front of a barricade just down the road from a big group of cop cars. Something had happened. What was going on?

  I glanced at Gina, worried as her silence continued. Her eyes were fixed on the police cars and on an ambulance that had just pulled up.

  “No. It was only a dream,” she whispered.

  Her skin leached of all color and she dove out of my car, running toward the ambulance. A cop grabbed her to stop her right when I saw it.

  A woman’s obviously dead body was just being taken down from what looked like a stake in the ground. She was on the first bend of the road.

  TWO

  Tria Hewitt slumped back in her chair, exhausted from one of the longest days of her life. She had thought when she had taken the job that she would be doing a good thing. She had thought that her gift could be used to help people, as well as to save the life of her son.

  Tria had believed that for three years. She no longer believed. She was a prisoner, doing the bidding of people whose motivations . . . she had no idea what their motivations were.

  The trouble was, Tria knew she had a responsibility to help. Her gift had been used to draw the spirit out. The fact he had been released was not something she would let stand.

  She closed her eyes and concentrated, allowing her mind to see the pictures, to feel the emotions. She was connected to the other side in a way that few others were. Most of her life, she had been harassed for her difference from what was considered normal. The ability to speak with the dead was not something that was socially acceptable, at least not in the circles she’d moved in.

  Since she’d come to work for the PSA, she had thought she’d found her place in the world. Figuring out the truth had been a very difficult realization to come to. She had to fix the mistakes she’d made. It was her responsibility.

  A feeling of warmth passed over her as the scent of cinnamon filled her nostrils. It was th
e scent that always came just before her spirit guide arrived. Poston was the one who had come to her first, telling her that she was not crazy like everyone believed.

  She had always thought he was a handsome figure. He wore a tweed vest and bow tie that made her think of Indiana Jones in his professor persona. He gave her a kindly smile and raised his arm, guiding a spirit forward. It was not the spirit she had called to. It was one she had never spoken to before.

  The smell of roses filled the air as images floated through her mind. A fifteen-year-old girl. A prim, tea length dress. A flowery hat. Edith. The girl’s name was Edith.

  She smiled and raised her hand to beckon the girl forward. “Edith. Welcome. Please, will you speak to me?” she asked, unsure why Poston would bring the wrong spirit to her.

  She had learned not to question him. Poston had taught her everything she knew about spiritism, mediumship, and clairvoyance. Without him, she would still be in the institution where she had spent the majority of her teen years.

  The girl’s figure flickered into view, showing how distraught the spirit was, her eyes wide as she wrung her hands. “Death has come again,” Edith whispered and blood poured from the side of her head as it was caved in.

  Tria gasped, watching as Edith showed her the way she’d died. It was gruesome but there was more. Tria couldn’t see what it was. She could simply feel that there was far more to the story.

  “Edith, tell me. Tell me where death has come to. Let me fix this,” she pleaded, praying to whatever deity would pay attention to a medium like her.

  Edith’s eyes met hers. “St. Perpetua school . . . on the thirteen bends,” she said and a piercing scream of sheer terror came from her as she vanished back into the ether.

  THREE

  “A ghost?” Erkens asked in a skeptical tone, his brow furrowed as I finished telling him everything that had happened in the last few hours.