Jackal Read online

  Sarah examined the book. She ran her fingers over the leather binding. It had a texture both soft and grainy to the touch. The spine only bore the title Poems For My Love. She opened the book to the first page, which showed the title. She turned to the next page and found no date, no identifying numbers, only the name of the publisher. The following page showed the first poem.

  The man returned and took his place behind the desk. “I was right; we don’t have any record of acquiring this book. Are you sure you found it here?”

  “Yes, of course, in the back corner. On the poetry bookshelf.”

  “Well, we have no idea how it came to be there or how long we’ve had it.”

  “May I buy it?”

  “The owner says it doesn’t belong to the Booklegger so, technically, it’s not ours to sell. Someone must’ve placed it on the bookshelf. Let me take a look.” He took the book from Sarah and studied it. “The binding is unusual but typical of the press that issued it, and it has no real defects. It’s been read, but with care. There are some handwritten notations in the back, but that hasn’t damaged the book. I can’t find any flaws. Here,” he gingerly handed the book back to Sarah. “This book certainly doesn’t like being handled by me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that.”

  After a brief awkward silence, Sarah smiled nervously and shrugged. “This may sound strange, but I have the opposite feeling.” She hesitated. “The book—how should I say this—won’t let me go. It demands to be with me. Odd, isn’t it?” She felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  The man chuckled. “Darling, in this town that statement isn’t strange at all. I’ve witnessed and experienced many unusual things in my lifetime.” He stretched out his hand. “I’m James Horton.” He shook Sarah’s hand vigorously. “Born and bred in Eureka with a long line of peculiar ancestors and enough paranormal stories to bore you to death.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Sarah Thompson.”

  With her hand still in his, he raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “A psychic?”

  Surprised, Sarah mumbled, “Yes.”

  James squinted as he studied her. “And a medium too, I’d venture. Clairvoyant for sure.”

  “Wow. How can—”

  “Been there, done that.” He released her hand.

  “Really?”

  “You doubt me?”

  “No, no. It’s just that I’ve never been around someone who spoke so freely about it.”

  “Ah, you’ve only recently come to terms with it.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Yet I sense a very strong energy from you. You may have accepted your gift recently, but you must’ve been born with it. It’s quite powerful.”

  “I hid it and denied it most of my life.”

  “Your parents?”

  Sarah looked down. “They meant well.”

  “Yes, I can sense you loved them. Your nana as well.”

  Sarah was so stunned she stepped back from the counter. “My goodness, that’s extraordinary. How on earth can you deduce all of that?”

  “Same way you do. I sense it.”

  “I can’t sense anything about you.”

  “Sure you can, only you’re not focused on me right at this moment. This book gave you a heck of a jolt.”

  “You saw that?”

  “No,” he smiled. “I heard you.”

  “That’s embarrassing.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I told you, there’s no need to apologize. I can see that whatever the book showed you really shook you up.”

  “I’d say. The worst part is that I’m clueless as to why it showed me what it did. Any ideas?”

  “That’s not for me to understand – otherwise the book would’ve revealed itself to me. I’ve been coming to this bookstore since I was a kid, and that’s about seventy years. No telling how long it’s been here, but I never sensed its presence. Lots of other psychics and the like have been through here, too, and never found the book.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Entities that are attached to earth-bound objects—in this case the book in your hands—are highly protective of those objects, and can create powerful energy barriers to shield them. That book may have been here for years, or days, or hours. Hard to tell, but it waited specifically for you.”

  Sarah furrowed her brow as she examined the book. “What should I do?”

  “I can’t help there, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Take the book.”

  “Okay, but I must pay you something.”

  “No, you don’t. Owner said we couldn’t charge you for something we didn’t buy. The fact is that however it got here, the book was meant for you, and only you. That means the book is yours.”

  “But you can’t simply give it to me.”

  James shook his head. “I’m not the one giving it to you. Whoever placed it on that shelf is the one who gave it you. I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough what that’s all about.”

  Sarah stared at James, feeling she had known him forever. Kindness emanated from him, and his good looks no doubt contributed to the overall impression of affability. Deep blue eyes danced with joy, an effusive grin enhanced the wrinkles in his face, and loose, wavy gray hair perfectly framed his face, neck, and shoulders. He looked rugged, yet refined. His stylish white goatee, peppered with black, added a look of distinction.

  She snapped herself back to reality and cleared her throat. “But, what if someone else—”

  “C’mon Sarah, trust your instincts. Take it away from here, and give it time to acquaint itself with you. If anyone comes looking for it, I’ll call you. But I guarantee they won’t.”

  “James, you’re something else,” she said with a smile. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d like to visit with you while I’m here, if that’s okay. I can learn a great deal from you.”

  He placed his hands on the desk and leaned toward her. “Darling Sarah, given what I’m sensing, I’m the one who can learn from you.” He placed the book in a small bag and wrote his address and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “I’m here off and on most days, but you can reach me at home or leave a message in either place.”

  Sarah jotted down her cell number and handed it to him. “I’m here for the next four days.”

  He stepped around the desk and gave Sarah a warm embrace. “It’s been a real pleasure to meet you, Sarah Thompson.”

  “Delighted to meet you, James Horton.”

  2

  The Story

  “Extraordinary,” said Conrad. “This James fellow sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”

  “Peculiar, for sure, but he knows what he’s talking about.” Sarah took a sip of wine and set the glass on the table near the fireplace. “I’ll have loads to tell you tomorrow once I walk around this city. Hopefully I’ll find out why it’s so open to the paranormal.”

  Her room in the Carter House Hotel featured exquisite antique furnishings, a grand four-poster bed and a marble fireplace, the very one she now sat beside in her nightgown. The hotel, one of four beautifully renovated Queen Ann style properties that constituted the Carter House Inns, was perched above Humboldt Bay, a slice of which she could see out the window.

  “I expect detailed reports. But what are you going to do about the book?”

  “Follow James’s advice and allow the book to become acquainted with me. I know that sounds like an odd thing to do, but…”

  “Not for you.”

  “C’mon, I’m not exactly—”

  “Wait. What have you done with my wife, the woman who talks to our attic?”

  She snickered.

  He laughed. “Well, it’s true. Telling me that the book needs to become acquainted with you is not that far-fetched, for you. So, how
are you going to do it?”

  She sighed. “No clue. On the one hand, I’m reluctant to open the darn book and find the pages of that terrifying Jackal in The Mirror staring back at me. On the other hand, I’m curious. The first poem is beautiful and I imagine the rest might be as well, but the other stuff is simply…unsettling. Yet, I’m intrigued about what that story is all about. How could such a bizarre set of events and the death of that poor woman be part of a book of love poems?”

  “No idea, but let’s face it, stranger things have happened to you, so don’t shut it out.”

  “Stranger? C’mon, that’s not—”

  “Strange in the sense that in the past you’ve attracted entities that—”

  “Whoa! Entities? Since when did you start using words like that?”

  “Um, since I started reading about psychics and mediums.”

  “You’ve been reading about psychics?”

  “I’d planned to surprise you when you got back. The point is, if I’m going to be your sidekick, I should study what this whole phenomenon is about beyond simply accepting that it happens,.”

  “Sidekick?”

  “Sure thing, Sherlock. I probably should’ve learned about it long ago, but I wasn’t curious. When I was young and saw my grandmother and aunties do the kinds of things you do all the time, I took it all for granted. Never wondered why or how. But with you, so far it’s been an unexpected rollercoaster of intrigue and plot twists. I need to be up to speed.”

  “So, tell me, my dear Dr. Watson, what have you learned?”

  “You apparently attract entities that share their stories in bits and pieces. They have an agenda, a purpose. They take you on a journey of discovery. They need you to do things for them in a way that explains or forgives their actions. They need you to uncover a wrong and set it right for them.”

  “Wow! I’m impressed.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head, Watson.”

  “Not with me, I’m impressed with you. The more I read, the more I realize how incredibly special your talent is.”

  “Gosh, Watson, what a compliment. So, my darling sidekick, what do you recommend I do about this book?”

  “Open it up, and let it guide you. Even though it’s a book, whoever is using it to get to you has a plan.”

  Sarah heaved a deep sigh. “I wish you were here.”

  “I miss you, too. But you’ll enjoy spending time with your friends. In fact, I demand it. In the meantime, I’ll be diligently reading and preparing myself to be the best Watson ever. Stay grounded, and don’t forget how much I love you.”

  “I love you too. Good night, darling.”

  “Good night, my love.”

  Sarah pressed the cell phone to her chest and sighed. She set the phone down, nibbled on a piece of cheese from the platter on the table next to her, took a sip of wine, and gazed at the flames in the fireplace. The book rested silently on the table next to the platter and wine. She turned to it, hoping for a hint of what she would find if she opened it. But it offered nothing.

  She picked up her glass. “All right, Book, let’s get acquainted. We’ll start with a bit about me. I’m a psychic, but you’ve already detected that. Although I dislike that label because it comes with too much negative baggage, and hatred from folks who don’t understand people like me.” She stared at the book as she sipped her wine. “If I avoid the label, I can describe what I do and you can decide if I am indeed the one to help you. So here goes. I can perceive, at times witness, or even be present with individuals who have departed this world.

  “These beings—or entities as Conrad calls them—reside in alternate realities, in their own time, which can be either past or present, or both. Like you, I assume, whoever you are.” After another sip of wine, she went on. “What you must understand is that I cannot will these connections to happen. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’m the recipient, not the initiator. So it’s up to you to communicate with me.”

  Not a sound from the book. She put down her glass, and leaned back with a sigh.

  After a long silence, she continued. “When I was little, I could see the future. I haven’t sensed the future in a long time, but it wouldn’t surprise me if one day my ability to do that should pop up again.” She leaned forward and grabbed the book. “I have no idea why I can do these things. It simply happens. For many years I stifled these abilities. I’m only now learning how to navigate in these realms, Book, so don’t expect too much of me unless you’re willing to help. After all, you picked me.”

  She shook the book. “C’mon, talk to me!” Frustrated, she set it down, nibbled on her cheese with crackers, then sipped her wine. “You could at least give me a sign.”

  She waited.

  Nothing.

  “When I started talking to my attic at least it cricked and creaked. It communicated with me—at least, I chose to interpret it as such. The attic opened the communications. It worked. And trust me, talking to an attic isn’t any crazier than talking to a book, so you need to find a way to get to me.”

  Silence.

  “Are you uneasy? After all, I took you away from your shelf in the bookstore. My attic was comfortable and at ease in its familiar environment. Is that it? Do I need to tell you where we are? Acquaint you with your new surroundings?” She stood and looked around the room. “Okay, so, we’re in the Carter House Inn.” She picked up the hotel’s information packet and read. “It says here the house was originally built in 1884 in San Francisco and was called the Murphy House. The original structure was destroyed in the San Francisco earthquake and fire of 1906. In 1978, Mark Carter found the plans for the house in a Eureka antique store.”

  She returned to the table, gently stroked the book, and waited to see if it reacted.

  When it didn’t, she took her seat by the fireplace again and placed the book on her lap. She stared down at the cover, tan leather with rust tones forming a narrow frame around it, and at the center, in gold letters, Poems For My Love.

  “Why were you waiting for me?”

  She flipped the book over and examined the back. The surface mirrored the front cover. The spine was entirely tan with the title in gold.

  “How did you predict I’d come to Eureka?” She placed the book back on her lap. “I’ve never been here before, and I know next to nothing about this part of California. My information is limited to a handful of facts I read before I came on this trip. Other than Old Town Eureka, the rest is unremarkable—a small town that happens to be on the famous U.S. Route 101, north of San Francisco, and south of the border with Oregon.” She paused and sipped her wine. “The thing I find most interesting about this place is it’s said to be open to paranormal activity.”

  She stared at the book and shook her head. “C’mon, Book. I’m running out of things to say here, and if I continue to sip this wine, I’ll get tipsy and be of no use to you.”

  Silence.

  She set her wine glass down and ate a few grapes. “What else can I tell you about this place?” She looked around the room searching for ideas, and noticed a painting depicting the original settlers and the indigenous peoples that lived in the area. “Could that be a connection with you? What’s the tribe’s name? I read it somewhere.”

  She opened her iPad, and clicked on her bookmarks. “Aha. Here it is. They were the Wiyot people and they called this place Jaroujiji, which means ‘Where you Sit and Rest.’ What a splendid name, isn’t it?” She read on. “Says here that the gold rush miners renamed it Eureka, a Greek word meaning ‘I Have Found It.’” She chuckled. “They most certainly found it, and they lined their pockets with the riches from mines and lumber.”

  You must help me.

  The whisper traveled through Sarah’s loose hair as it swirled around her shoulders.

  “At last. You sure took your time. Are you ready to share?
”

  Silence.

  Sarah closed her iPad. She picked up the book, set it on her lap, closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and slowly breathed out. “Okay, here goes nothing.” She opened the book and gasped.

  Young Love

  The girl dove into the lake, and swam effortlessly to a powerboat that drifted a few yards from the shore. A young man helped her climb in. Once she was safely on board, he shot her a disapproving look, then turned to the controls and sped away, leaving a trail of churning water in his wake.

  They raced the length of the lake in silence until they reached a secluded cove. With a dexterity born from years of experience, he slowed down and steered the boat under some overhanging branches to hide it from sight. He dropped anchor while she dove into the water and swam ashore. As soon as the boat was secured he stripped down to his trunks and followed her.

  They sat side by side in silence on the small beach, their feet mere inches from the water. After several tense seconds, the young man ventured to speak. “How did it happen?”

  She looked into his pained eyes. “He asked my father.”

  “And he said yes without even asking you?”

  She closed her eyes and lowered her head.

  “I see.”

  She reached for his hand. “No one knows about us, so how could anyone guess? Why would my father even doubt that I’d be thrilled about the match?”

  “You encouraged him?”

  She yanked her hand away. “How could you ask me that?”

  He reached toward her, but she rejected his touch.

  “I’m sorry. Please understand…it hurts, it really hurts,” he whispered.

  She turned to find his eyes flooded with tears. She caressed them away. “If only you had asked before he did.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  She shook her head. “You wouldn’t.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes, realizing that the distance between them was quickly becoming a chasm.