“Sounds like she turned the power back on,” Findlay observed. “Perhaps she plans to fix the place up and sell it.”
“The power company says not. That’s one of the interestin’ things. I went over there to have a look. The red tag’s still on the meter, and the dust and cobwebs look real undisturbed. What do you think of that?”
“I think the town is going to have a field day talking about this,” was Findlay’s only comment.
It did. Most residents found it pleasantly titillating, but some of the less sophisticated were openly nervous. On Tuesday, a deputation from this group called upon Chief Merrill to demand action. Although Merrill listened sympathetically, and assured them he was on top of things, he privately felt the matter could safely ride for another week. As far as he could see, there was no danger to persons or property; Lilac Cottage had remained dark since Friday and might very well stay that way. He did continue his efforts to contact the owner of Lilac Cottage, and finally learned that Edna Waltham was on a Caribbean cruise and wasn’t due home for ten days.
The following Friday evening Findlay went with the chief to see if the phenomenon would be repeated. A crowd of about two hundred people from Blue Hill and surrounding towns assembled in a vacant lot across from Lilac Cottage, alternately expectant and sheepish.
They didn’t have to wait long. The evening gloom had barely settled in when the dining room chandelier burst into a hundred lights. Expectant or not, everyone jumped, then broke into satisfied exclamations of fright. Just before the dining room went dark, a green lamp in an upstairs window began to flash on and off. Tonight several Morse code readers were present, and their voices could be heard in the darkness spelling out the words. The message was the same as before, “Charles, where are you?” For thirty minutes rooms lit up, and the green lamp repeated its code several times. Just as a few were becoming restive, screams erupted from the vicinity of the house. Real fear gripped some until two nearly hysterical youngsters, who had ventured to the windows for a better look, pounded into view. Gasping, they reported bodies floating in the living room. Several men started across to investigate but turned back when the house went suddenly dark. The crowd, subdued now, milled about for a while and finally dispersed.
Findlay and the chief were thoughtful as they walked down the hill. “I don’t believe in spirits,” Findlay declared, “especially ones that use Morse code, but that was pretty impressive for a house without electricity. Someone’s playing an elaborate joke; the question is, why?”
Merrill’s voice held a new note of determination. “That’s what I’d better find out. Last week folks were after me to explain it. Think what this week’s gonna be like.”
“There is an explanation,” Findlay said. He was, after all, an engineering professor. “I’ll put my mind to it. In the meantime, since you can’t get a key, you might consider getting a search warrant.”
Lilac Cottage, imprisoned by its namesake shrubbery, was one of three houses at the top of High Street. The next morning, looking up at its gabled roof, sagging shutters, and cobweb-draped windows, Findlay had to admit it was perfect for a haunting. Smears on the glass showed where the children had been, so he thrust himself through the stiff branches to the window, grateful he had no wife to complain about what he was doing to his clothes, and looked inside. Merrill was right. The dust of years lay heavy in the room. The floor was covered with it, thick and undisturbed. If there had been bodies in the room last night, they had indeed floated.
Perplexed, he searched the grounds for the alternate electrical source he was certain must be there. He was on the west side of the house, peering under a large rhododendron, when he heard a stealthy movement nearby. Whoever or whatever it was crept steadily toward him until he could hear its labored breathing. Then it stopped. Findlay figured his own breathing was equally loud, for he was having trouble getting enough oxygen. Nothing further happened for at least a minute until finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. Estimating the breather was less than two feet away, he collected himself, took aim on the sound, and swiftly parted two thick branches. A man stared out at him, his pale face almost obscured by a bushy black beard and unkempt hair.
“Who are you?” Findlay croaked.
“Who are you?” the man retorted.
Findlay could see the fellow wasn’t one to seize the initiative, so he introduced himself. “I’m Professor Hamilton,” he said, in a steadier voice. “The police chief asked me to look things over.”
“Oh. Uh...” the man stammered, not meeting Findlay’s eyes. “I’m George Stevens. I work for Mr. Daley next door.” He motioned behind him. “I heard you moving around and came to see what was going on.”
Findlay’s heartbeat resumed a more normal rhythm, but he felt foolish. For a man who didn’t believe in ghosts, he’d wasted an absurd amount of adrenaline.
When Stevens returned to his work, Findlay decided it was time he talked with the neighbors. The Episcopal vicar, John Witter, who lived on the east side of Lilac Cottage, welcomed him with a cup of well-brewed tea, but on the subject of the ghostly lights he was both disapproving and uncommunicative. He had known the Waltham family, however, and Findlay learned that their only child, a daughter, had been killed in an automobile accident with her husband some years before. A grandson, then about fifteen, had come to live at Lilac Cottage for a short while. The vicar didn’t know what had become of him.
Back in the village Findlay called at Jim Daley’s jewelry store. A sign on the dingy door advised shoppers to watch for the upcoming end-of-summer diamond sale. From the unprosperous appearance of the store, Findlay hoped the sale would be a success. Daley was working at his computer when Findlay entered but seemed willing to stop and talk. He laughed when Findlay described his meeting with Stevens, and commented that, despite his wild appearance, the man was a good worker. A graduate student at a small West Virginia college, Stevens had shown up on Daley’s doorstep in June looking for work in exchange for room and board. He was living in Daley’s attic, working on some new computer programs for his degree. This led to a discussion of computers which, although way over Findlay’s head, did start him on a new train of thought. When he left the store, he hurried home to place a call.
Merrill leaned back and put his feet up on Findlay’s coffee table.
“Interesting about that grandson,” he said. “I wonder why the niece inherited instead of him?”
“Maybe they didn’t like him, or left him money instead,” Findlay said impatiently. “The important thing is, did you get the warrant?”
“Hah. The D.A.’s office almost laughed out loud. They’re all tied up with that big drug case in Bangor. Told me to call back when I had some evidence of a crime.”
“We may have some for them soon,” Findlay smirked. “First, though, tell me what you know about Jim Daley.”
“Not much. Single. No trouble. He came here a coupla three years ago from New York.”
“I thought the store looked a bit seedy,” Findlay commented. “Yeah. People told him there wasn’t much business here, but he said he just wanted the quiet life.” Then, “What’d you mean, we might have some evidence soon?”
“I’ve figured out how it could be done and I’ve an idea Daley is behind it,” Findlay said. Merrill sat up straighter. “Something he said today gave me the idea. I called a student of mine who’s into computers, and he said you can remotely operate lights, appliances, doorbells — anything electrical, in fact — by computer. You don’t even have to be at the keyboard. It can all be programmed, like a VCR. Those floating bodies probably came straight out of a projector hidden in the living room at Lilac Cottage.”