Murder Out By Caster Bridge

Chapter twenty-one

When I got to the building, a sense of nostalgia overcame me. I did miss this place a bit. I think I even missed my mom. I wish she would call or something that way I knew she was okay. But it was hopeless. I was, after all, a disappointment. As I walked in, a black-and-white photo from the 1960s caught my attention. I was shocked to see that it was the same people I had seen on the elevator on my birthday. The young man with the little girl and the woman, but there was no elderly woman.

"Ah, I see you're fascinated with that photo."

"Who are they?"

"The man used to be a big-time businessman with his four-year-old beautiful girl. And that woman, well, she was really popular. She was a movie star."

"I see." I turned and found Jessica holding a box. "Is that mine?"

"Oh. Yes." She handed it to me and smiled. "We miss you around here, Weston."

"I'm... I miss it here a little as well. But it is what it is."

"True. I hope to see you around at least."

"I'll try." After walking back out to my Jeep, I placed the box in the passenger after I got in on the driver's side. Instead of driving home, I decided to check out what was inside the box.

Pulling back the cardboard tabs, I peered in. Inside there was one of my mother's favorite Dean Koontz novels.

Ignoring that, I found a strange ring. It was silver and black and the inside was electric blue. It couldn't be my mom's. She rarely wore any rings. Was it Dad's?

There was also a weird sterling silver pocket watch with a yin-yang on the front. I also found a pouch. But I didn't know what was in it. Grabbing my hoodie from the floor, I used it to move the items so I didn't touch them. I didn't want to hear memories or feel impressions. Besides, I still didn't know how this power even worked. As I moved stuff around, I found a strange wooden box with a pentagram on the front of it. What was inside?

Before I could do anything, my phone started vibrating in my pocket.

Startled, I took it out and slide the green call button, and then answered, "Hello?"

"Where are you?" yelled Norman.

Not wanting to damage my eardrums, I moved the phone away a little. "What do you mean?"

"You were supposed to be at the museum," he said. "Don't you remember?"

Oh, shoot. I had forgotten about that.

"Weston?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm on my way now," I said. "Be there in a couple of minutes."

I made it to the museum within ten minutes. I hopped out after turning off my Jeep and then ran inside.

"There you are," said Norman, holding up a folder. "We've been waiting for you. What were you doing?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Uh, well, I kind of forgot. Things haven't been going great today. But it's not important. Where is Mr. Newman?"

"He got a call from his office. Anyway, come check this out."

"What it is?"

"Well, I was just about to start on the information in this folder. It's police files. Yes, before you ask, I stole my dad's files and copied them for myself. He never suspects anything cause I do it late at night. I keep the copied files for myself. Anyway, check it out and see if anything stands out."

After walking over to him, I leaned over and glanced over the files. Not much stood out. Except for the fact that all of them were males. Different names. Different races. Different ethnicity. Different churches. Different jobs. They didn't seem to have any connection until I looked at the names again.

"This is weird," I said.

Norman's emotions flared with a strange sense of pride. Before I could question him, Mr. Newman was walking over to us. He was dressed in a suit and had on a jacket. His silver eyes locked onto me.

"Ah, Weston, we were wondering when you would show up."

"Yeah, sorry," I said. There was something in Mr. Newman's emotions that had me looking at him worried. "Is something wrong?"

"I just received a call. A colleague of mine just passed away. So, I sadly can't stay and chat."

"Who was it?"

"Harley Hunter," he said.

Amusement from Norman made me look at him. He was standing there with his arms crossed and a giant grin on his face. "You noticed a pattern, too, haven't you?"

"Whoever it is behind everything seems to be going after people with the same first and last initials."

"Correct. And I suggest we follow after Curator Newman. He might be the only person who can answer important questions."

"Did you just figure that out?"

Norman glared at me. "Hey, I hit my head. No telling what damage that did to me. I was pretty much out of it."

"You never did tell me what happened to you once we went through that portal."

Norman shrugged. "Nothing spectacular. Just met a strange kid. Maxwell. He helped me out. I'm more interested in your story. But let's save it for another time. We have more pressing matters," he said as we walked out of the museum with Mr. Newman closing up early

"What do you mean?" I asked as I got to my Jeep.

Norman walked over. "What do you say we follow behind Mr. Newman?"

"No way. He will know for sure," I said.

"Come on. I doubt he will suspect anything."

"And what if he does? Besides, didn't you bike here?"

"Nope. I got a ride earlier. My bike has a flat. My motorcycle can't be fixed with Mikey out of commission."

"Out of commission?"

"Oh, yeah, he got pretty ill, I heard."

"Is he...?"

"In the hospital?" Norman asked, finishing my sentence. "Yeah, he is. Don't know when he will get out."

A terrible sadness overcame me. I assumed it was from Norman as I had hardly known Mikey. The man was incredibly nice when I met him and I knew I didn't want anything to happen to the man.

Norman then walked over to the passenger side of my Jeep and opened the door. "What do you want me to do with this box?"

"Put it in the back seat." I climbed into the driver's side as Norman placed the box in the back seat.

As soon as I started following behind Mr. Newman's blue Sudan, Norman started droning on about the strange bizarre deaths. And I was only paying half attention as I drove.

"What's in the box?" asked Norman as he turned to the box in the backseat.

"I don't know exactly. Jessica, the receptionist at the apartment I lived in with my mom, said the people who moved in found the box. She asked me to pick it up which I did. I didn't have time to look through it before you called me."

"Oh, so, that is why you didn't show up?"

"Well, partially. I honestly did forget about it. My head hasn't been too focused today."

"Oh. Was it because of your grandmother? Is she mad at you?"

I sighed. "Not exactly. I don't want to talk about it right now if that's okay."

"Of course, Weston." He smiled and then reached into the back and grabbed the box. "What's in here anyway?"

"Come on. Don't go through it. I haven't had the chance to do it."

"But there might be something interesting in here," he said as he picked up the ring. "Like this. Interesting."

As soon as we were at a stop sign, I reached over. "Come on, Norman. Hand it over." As soon as I touched the ring and Norman's handI was bombarded with all sorts of feelings from extreme happiness and love as I could hear what sounded like my mom and a voice that sounded like my dad giving what I could only decipher as wedding vows. I couldn't see anything though.

Then suddenly I was hearing what sounded like Norman and his father in a heated argument over what sounded like something to do with the case...

Just then I was yanked back and ended up colliding my head into the window. "Ow!" I said as I rubbed the back of my head. I already had a headache rearing its ugly head and now I clonked my head into the window. Not only that, but my energy was draining.

"Weston!" a voice said and panic was seeping into my head.

Something made of paper was pressed into my hand. I fought the urge to scream out at whatever or whoever not to touch me, but soon the voice returned. As the confusion faded, I realized it was Norman.

"Eat that, Weston."

I looked at what was in my hand. It was a chocolate bar that was half-open. I took a bite out of the bar, tasting milk and nuts.

I closed my eyes as the pounding in my head slowly faded and rested my aching head on the steering wheel.

"What was that?"

"What?" I asked groggily.

"That," he said. "You zoned out on me for a good five minutes and then acted like you were having some kind of fit. I know the symptoms of low blood sugar. What caused that?"

I shook my head. "I can't tell." Just then, I realized what we were doing. "Wait. Where is Mr. Newman? Did we lose him?"

"Unfortunately, yes," he said as he got out of the car and looked in the four directions. "I saw him take a right turn and after that, I lost track because you nearly fainted at the wheel. If you were unwell you could have told me."

Even with him out of the car, I could feel his irritation behind the thick layer of calmness he was trying to keep contained.

I got out and leaned on the side of my vehicle. "I'm sorry, Norman." What else could I say? I was such an idiot.

"Tell me what happened then," he demanded.

I was left staring at him. I couldn't tell him what was going on, could I?

Just before I could open my mouth and say something, a gentle yet freezing breath breezed across my neck and caused me to shiver.

"Weston," a voice whispered in my ear.

I turned around to see an older gentleman in a gray and blue plaid sweater vest and jeans with brown dress shoes. His eyes were hazel and his short hair was curly with gray streaks.

"Who are you?"

The man didn't respond with words. Instead, he grabbed my hand. I felt all sorts of emotions from tiredness to a spike of anxiety to extreme panic and then a smidge of anger, but then there was the sensation of choking.

I yanked my hand back and coughed as I placed a hand to my throat. "What...was...that?" I managed to hack out.

"You must put a stop to her."

"Who is she?" I asked hoarsely. This was a ghost, and the second one to ask me to stop some woman. But without any specific information, I couldn't stop anyone.

The man flickered a few times before he vanished.

Just when I thought it was over, I was suddenly surrounded by several ghostly people.

As if my head wasn't already pounding insanely. The emotions these ghosts were feeling were intense and I had no mental block to block them out.

Putting my hands on my head, I collapsed to my knees on the asphalt.

A familiar voice called out to me as my vision darkened.

"Hayden," I called out just as blackness took over my sight, and succumbed to it.