Free Fragile Spirits by Mary Lindsey Page B

further south.”
    Vivienne spun in the direction of his voice. “You start calling me names, Ethan, and you’ll be haunting this house forever, you hear me?”
    “Let me in! Let me do it!”
    “No. Freaking. Way.” She picked up the crowbar. “Which way is south, Mrs. Nelson?”
    The poor woman pointed toward the entrance to the living room, tears streaming down her face. “Is he here? Are you really talking to him?”
    Vivienne nodded.
    “Why is he doing this to me?”
    “It has nothing to do with you, really. He’s just trying to get something cleared up.” Vivienne shoved the end of the crowbar under the next plank closest to the living room and pulled up. After several tries, she had an end of the board loose. She reached under and yanked the board out.
    “There! Yes, there!”
The spirit yelled.
“Clear his name. Condemn me to hell where I belong.”
    Vivienne set the board against the wall. “Whoa, there, crazy dead guy. I don’t condemn anyone to anywhere. You’re on your own there. I’m just digging up floorboards and talking to you. That’s all.”
    Mrs. Nelson leaned over to pull out what looked like a rolled-up newspaper. When she tugged on the end, it unrolled and several items fell back into the empty space under the floor with a thud.
    “Crap,” Vivienne said, kneeling down. “What is it? That didn’t sound like a letter, Ethan.”
    Don’t touch it!
I shouted.
    “Don’t you start screaming too, Paul.”
    Mrs. Nelson huddled against the wall. “Who is Paul? Are there two of them?”
    Sorry. Just don’t touch anything until we know what it is,
I said.
    “It’s evidence!”
Ethan wailed.
“Proof I killed her.”
    “Oh, man,” Vivienne said. “Now what?”
    We need to see it.
    “Do you have a flashlight?”
    Mrs. Nelson nodded. “Yes, in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”
    Ethan continued to moan and wail about justice and exonerating someone named Wayne while Vivienne paced the hallway.
    Once we check it out, we need to have the homeowner call the cops. She needs to tell them she found it because she was suspicious of the loose floorboard. If it’s possible, she should not mention us. She should not mention the ghost at all, or she’ll come off as crazy.
    Mrs. Nelson shone the flashlight in the hollow in the floor and gasped. She covered her mouth and backed away, dropping the flashlight with a bang. It rolled under a bench against the wall.
    “What is it?” Vivienne asked, kneeling to retrieve the flashlight.
    Mrs. Nelson remained speechless, a look of wide-eyed horror frozen on her face.
    Through Vivienne’s eyes, I stared down into the gap between the bottom of the wooden floor and the concrete slab below. A hammer, a bloodstained piece of paper, and what appeared to be a shriveled, severed human finger lay in the flashlight’s beam.
    “Clear his name!”
Ethan shouted.
    “Oh, God. That’s hair and dried gunk on the hammer,” Vivienne gasped. “And that other thing is a . . . Is that a . . . ?” Because I had no physical sensation in a Speaker’s body, I could only feel her emotions—the panic and revulsion-but I could tell by her rapid breaths she was about to throw up.
    Stay together, Vivienne. I’m here. You’re okay. Keep calm and help Mrs. Nelson.
    “Clear his name. He didn’t do it. I did!”
    “You did this, Ethan? Why?”
    Why doesn’t matter, Vivienne. Find out what he needs done in order to release him.
    “Yes, I did it, but they blamed him.”
    “Who?”
    “My son! He’s innocent. I let him go down for something I did. Give me your body. I must make it right.”
    She stood and set the flashlight on the bench. “No way! You think I’m letting your sorry, murdering self into my body, you’ve got another thing coming.”
    Ethan howled, and the bench slid to the end of the hallway, crashing into the wall. Mrs. Nelson covered her ears, screamed, and flattened against the wall.
    He’s turning demonic,
I said.
You’ve got to help him