Death Theory Read online

  Jeff knew it was fatigue, it had to be. If not, Mr. Leach would have heard something.

  Jeff left Sunday morning frustrated. He sat in his truck and watched the last act unfold in what had been an all-night circus. Swoosie, her daughter, Mr. Leach, and a few other men sat in folding chairs arranged in a circle on the front lawn. They had asked Jeff to join them, but he respectfully declined. They burned sage while performing a cleansing ritual.

  “We can’t have any spirits following us home,” Swoosie’s daughter proclaimed. “This’ll keep ‘em put.”

  The obese Swoosie sat with her back to him. Her butt dangled on either side of the stressed chair as the legs sank into the soft and dewy sod. She swung a burning leaf around her head, making her resemble an elephant trying to douse the flames of a burning tree.

  Jeff realized the only way he would get anywhere is starting his own team. He turned the ignition, causing his lights to fall on the group. They turned and glowered as if he farted and belched in church. He smiled and waved as he shifted the truck into gear.

  Missouri Spirit Seekers,” Jeff muttered as he left the gate, “seems more like shit seekers.”

  Chapter 2

  IT WAS A SULTRY THURSDAY morning in late August. The school year was just getting started after a long, miserable summer. Debbie Gillerson awoke with a start. Wiping spittle from her chin, she rose from bed with significant effort. Opening her puffy, blue eyes; she peered at the clock radio on her night table. It was a quarter to eight.

  “Damn, I’m late!” she shrieked as she stumbled out of bed, tripping on a dog’s chew toy. She sprinted to the bathroom and removed her nightshirt and panties as if they were on fire.

  “No time for a shower,” she wailed before taking the world’s fastest sponge bath in the sink. Debbie pulled her long, chestnut hair back into a ponytail, and grabbed her makeup bag from the vanity.

  She flew back to the bedroom, dressed faster than you can say ‘fresh undies’, and bolted to the kitchen to find her car keys.

  Debbie was not a morning person. Most mornings of her working life resembled a forty-yard dash. This morning was worse. She had to be at work by eight o’clock.

  She drank too much the night before. She normally reserved the single lady persona for weekends. She was a young, beautiful, twenty-two-year-old who did frequent the occasional night club, but last night was not one of those nights. She had attended a friend’s wedding shower and the punch was a little more than advertised.

  Debbie grabbed her keys off the kitchen table and threw a scoop of Kibbles ‘n’ Bits into a bowl by the door labeled ‘Lily’. She then dashed for the car. Her border collie watched with confusion from the corner. ‘What about taking me out to pee?’ the pooch’s eyes asked.

  Fortunately, her school was only a five-minute drive from her modest rental house. She pulled into the teacher’s parking lot with two minutes to spare.

  The morning went as well as expected when dealing with third graders. Debbie endured a king-sized headache that a cocktail of Tylenol and aspirin did not stifle until almost lunchtime.

  She ate a sandwich in the teacher’s lounge and chased it with a Cherry Coke Zero. Debbie had not made many friends in her short tenure at Springfield’s Clemens Elementary. She usually sat in the corner, eating her lunch and reading the newspaper while the older teachers gabbed about students and politics. The last part of her lunchtime ritual involved scanning the personal and want ads.

  She was about to set the paper down when something caught her eye on the last page. Debbie decided that herding the little darlings back to class from their noontime sugar rush could wait a moment. She held the paper up and read the ad.

  “Scientific research group dedicated to paranormal studies forming in the Springfield area. If interested in studying the paranormal from a scientific perspective then please join me at 7:00 p.m. Friday night, American Pie Pizza, 1924 Salem Rd. Questions, contact Jeff at 417-555-2675.”

  Debbie never experienced anything paranormal in her life, but ghosts intrigued her. It was probably due to all the ghost stories her grandma used to tell her. Debbie also desperately craved some sort of social outlet. The occasional girlfriend shopping trips to Branson were getting old and boring. Her last single friend was getting married, so even those trips would not happen often.

  “Very cool,” she thought.

  She checked her mental rolodex to see if she had any plans on Friday. It seemed clear. Debbie tore the ad from the paper as one of the older teachers gave her a disapproving scowl. She tucked it in her pocket, and hurried down to her classroom as the bell sounded.

  WHILE DEBBIE GUIDED the munchkin lunch crowd back into class, another alarm went off in a home outside of town. Michael Pacheco rolled over in bed and killed the incessant buzzing with one quick swipe. He was not a morning person. Of course, it was no longer morning.

  “Son of a bitch,” he groaned, massaging his temples with his index fingers.

  Pacheco was a job hopper. He had changed jobs so many times in his life, his nickname may as well have been ‘Kermit’. His few friends referred to him as ‘Pac’.

  Pac did change jobs often, but it wasn’t because he got fired. He believed the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. He never considered the grass could be greener because of a metaphorical leaky septic tank. He was a smart enough guy, but he never could seem to grasp the concept of patience. Pac usually moved on to the next gig right before his own grass started to turn green.

  Pac’s most recent employment is as a manager trainee at Cornucopia Savers, a locally owned grocery store chain. They were another small fish in the vast ocean of corporate grocery stores. They offered to hire him on as a manager trainee with the promise of managing a store in two years.

  Pac rolled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom for his morning constitutional. He showered, shaved, and got dressed for work. After combing his stringy brown hair, he rubbed his bloodshot, brown eyes. Pac blinked and turned sideways in the mirror to observe his expanding waistline. He grinned and shrugged.

  “Not so bad,” he proclaimed. “I’ll start exercising tomorrow.”

  He had made himself this promise on numerous occasions, but working the night shift and sleeping late were not conducive to his vow.

  After nuking a plateful of Hot Pockets in the microwave, he retrieved the newspaper on the porch. He plopped down on his worn, plaid sofa and propped his feet on the coffee table while groping for the remote under the sofa cushions. He found the remote and clicked on the TV.

  Pac checked the local weather channel. They seemed to be rebroadcasting the same forecast every day for the last two weeks. It was going to be hot. He cursed under his breath, thinking how miserable it would be on the loading docks today. After complaining to himself, he turned off the news and went to his DVR playlist.

  Pac’s favorite show was there and ready for his review.

  “Ghost Crusaders” was one of the multitude of paranormal shows flooding the airwaves. Unlike the show that infatuated Jeff Granger, this show was more sass then science. Critics dubbed it: “Paranormal Jack Ass.”

  Whether Pac took everything on the show to heart or he just watched for the entertainment value was not clear, even to him. Pac wanted an outlet to break-up the monotony of the never-ending circle of work-home-sleep (repeat).

  As the show ended, the Goth attired star declared another location one hundred percent haunted. Of course, the building contained yet another gateway to the spirit world. Pac smiled with fascination and then opened the paper. He scanned the sports section first and lamented the St. Louis Cardinals’ pitching deficiencies. Setting the sports section aside, he turned to the want ads. Pac was not above taking an occasional peek at the SWF postings.

  He picked up a pen from the table beside the sofa and circled a couple of interesting entries in his age range. He was about to set the paper down when he saw:

  ‘Scientific research group dedicated to paranormal studies form
ing in the Springfield area ...Questions, contact Jeff at ....’

  “The paranormal at a pizza place!” Pac chuckled.

  A beautiful mosaic formed in his mind’s eye of doing paranormal research as they did on TV while eating pizza, and hanging out with hot chicks. There were always hot chicks in the paranormal. Well, there were a lot of them on TV.

  Pac took his trusty pen and made several rings around the ad with dramatic swoops. He would be there, yes indeed.

  Pac tossed the paper on the end table, and folded it so Jeff’s ad faced up. He found a stray Twinkie in the back of the kitchen cabinet before grabbing a Yoo-Hoo from the fridge. He opened the top, took a long swig, and then headed out the door.

  Pac owned and lived in one side of a duplex on a gravel county road outside of Springfield. Tenants for the other side had been rare. The duplex was not in the greatest location. It was a twenty-minute drive into town and the nearest neighbor lived a mile down the road. It was an odd location for a duplex. Pac built it thinking it would be a sound investment. The town was expected to grow in his direction, instead it grew further south. He had not had a tenant for over six months. It didn’t matter to Pac, he enjoyed the solitude and didn’t need the rent money. His grandfather left him a sizeable inheritance.

  Stepping onto the porch, he took out his key to the other side and opened the door. It was time for his perfunctory daily inspection. His blood boiled every time his eyes fell on the torn patch of carpet in the living room. The previous tenants owned a dog he had grudgingly allowed. The dog decided one day to check the carpet padding for hidden squirrels. The tenants had managed to disguise this canine excavation until they were gone with deposit in hand.

  Pac scanned the room, inhaling the musty aroma of a vacated dwelling. He locked the door, placed the key in his pocket, and then strolled to his dusty, white sedan. Pac drove away kicking up a cloud on the gravel road. The dirty mist obscured the view of his bumper stickers. The peeling decals read: ‘Romney/Ryan 2012’ and ‘Smile: Your mom chose life’.

  Chapter 3

  AMERICAN PIE PIZZA is a happening place on Friday nights. Pee Wee football players in grass stained uniforms bounced between gorging on pizza and video games.

  An antique jukebox sitting in the corner thumped out tunes on antique phonograph forty-fives. The music kept a steady beat under the tapestry of conversations. Duran Duran sang ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ as Jeff entered the front door. It seemed appropriate as he watched the ball-playing jackrabbits shove large slices of pepperoni pizza into their sauce-smeared mouths.

  Jeff was glad he reserved a small conference room away from the hustle and bustle. A blonde-haired waitress greeted him and escorted him down a corridor to a door with a hurriedly written sign: Reserved for Granger Party. She handed Jeff a stack of menus and asked how many would be in his party. Jeff shrugged; he had gotten no responses to his ad.

  “Maybe five or six,” he said, glancing at the empty seats surrounding the table.

  He thought this was an optimistic appraisal, but he had to tell her something. He would feel foolish if the room was reserved only for him.

  She smiled and said, “Can I get you something to drink, Hun?”

  “Iced tea, please... unsweet.”

  “Sure thing, suga’,” she said with a wink, and then scribbled on her pad. “My name’s Liz, give me a holler if you need anythin’.”

  She turned and left the room, shaking her posterior vigorously.

  Jeff glanced over the menu once. Pizza or salad? He reached down, opened his laptop case, and set his computer on the table in front of him.

  He did not have anything definite to talk about, only a few photos and EVP’s for perusal by the group, if anyone showed. His idea was to treat this as an informal meet and greet so he could get a feel for the attendees.

  At five after seven, Jeff started to wonder if he was going to have any guests at all. Liz brought him his iced tea and returned two more times to check. As he contemplated packing up and skulking out the emergency exit, someone peeked their head through the door.

  “Uh, hi...are you the paranormal guy?”

  Jeff glanced up to see a pretty, young woman with chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt.

  “Well,” Jeff began, smiling and rising to his feet. “I guess that’s one way of putting it. I’m Jeff, Jeff Granger.”

  She blushed and shook his hand.

  “I’m sorry; I should have remembered your name from the ad. My name is Debbie Gillerson.”

  Jeff invited her to sit and passed her a menu from the stack.

  “Go ahead and order,” Jeff said. “I was holding off until everyone shows.”

  She smiled, opened the menu for a few seconds and then closed it.

  “There’s only one thing to get here, pepperoni pizza with mushrooms!”

  “You know, pepperoni and mushrooms sounds pretty good,” Jeff said closing his menu. “I think I’ll order it when Liz comes back around.”

  “Liz? Is she another member of the group?”

  “Nope, she’s the waitress,” Jeff replied, holding up his ice tea to offer proof of her existence.

  “Oh, ... well...how many are comin’ tonight?” Debbie asked, studying the empty table.

  Jeff shrugged.

  “Don’t know yet, you’re the first.”

  Debbie was about to speak when someone knocked on the doorframe.

  “Are you the paranormal guy?” a chubby, middle-aged man asked.

  Jeff and Debbie exchanged grins; it seemed Jeff was now dubbed ‘the paranormal guy.’

  “You could say that,” Jeff said, shaking the man’s hand. “I’m Jeff Granger.”

  “Jeff, pleased to meet you, I’m Aaron Presley.”

  It took a second before the name dawned on him. Wasn’t Elvis’s middle name Aaron? Jeff took a long look at the fellow and noticed the resemblance to the King of Rock and Roll ... the older 1970’s version. Bushy black side burns framed his chunky face underneath an unkempt, salt and pepper, pompadour. With his piercing blue eyes and awkward walk, he could have passed for The King. He didn’t share the same flair for fashion though. Aaron Presley dressed in khaki Dickey pants and shirt - a far cry from sequined jumpsuits.

  “But don’t let the name fool ya, I can’t sing worth a darn,” Aaron announced.

  Jeff smiled.

  “Well, have a seat, Aaron, and order something,” Jeff said, handing him a menu.

  “Well let’s see...pizza or pizza,” Aaron said as he sat down. “By the way, call me Elvis, everyone else does.”

  Jeff excused himself to the restroom, chuckling about this interesting character who wanted to be known as Elvis. When he returned, Liz was taking orders. After sitting and placing his order, he noticed a newcomer hidden behind the large Elvis.

  Elvis scooted back and introduced him.

  “Jeff, this is Michael Pacheco.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Michael,” Jeff said, walking over and extending his hand.

  Michael studied him for a few moments before returning the handshake.

  “Likewise. So, you’re the paranormal guy?” Michael asked, frowning. Jeff was not like the guys he watched on TV; no sass.

  “Call me Jeff.”

  “You can call me Pac.”

  Everyone had the same impression about Elvis, a cuddly and somewhat dorky old guy. Elvis was only forty-nine, but to people in their early and mid-twenties, he was ready for the rocking chair. The knowledge Elvis brought to the table surprised everybody. He held a unique and plausible take on quite a few scientific-paranormal theories.

  After everyone finished eating, Jeff showed the group several unexplained pictures he had collected in his short tenure as a paranormal researcher. He also played a few EVP recordings, including the one he believed to be his mother. Of course, he did not tell the group who it was.

  Pac ate it up. He reverently ratified every piece of evidence with the same enthusiasm as h
is sassy TV paranormal heroes. Elvis was not as convinced. He disputed several of the ‘paranormal’ pictures with rational scientific assumptions.

  “These orb pictures are just dust,” Elvis said.

  He pointed to several pictures on the screen of luminous balls floating in midair.

  “Dust?” Pac huffed. “How the hell can it be dust?”

  Elvis opened his mouth to reply, but Pac cut him short.

  “Everyone knows digital cameras have a faster shutter speed than the old thirty-five millimeters! It’s what enables them to catch spirits!”

  “Fuji film did a study on the phenomenon a few years back,” Elvis replied, turning a little red in the cheeks. “People were complaining about the number of orbs showing up in their pictures. Fuji conducted a multimillion-dollar experiment to determine the reason. They discovered the faster shutter speed enables the camera to pick up the light reflected from the flash as it bounces off airborne particles. That is what causes it.”

  “Fuji smoogie,” said Pac. “I still say it’s spooks. Can they prove they aren’t?”

  Elvis’s face flushed even redder.

  Jeff decided it was time to jump in and play moderator.

  “Interesting takes on the subject from both of you. I agree ... Fuji has been able to prove a considerable number of orb photos are dust reflections, but it does not mean all of them are. This is the reason we are all here, to prove or disprove through science.”

  “I think y’all are crazy,” said Debbie playfully. “Everyone knows that orbs are really fairies!”

  Everyone laughed.