48. Mediums and Spirit Ouija Boards

Dean and Alvin called out to Holden at the top of the stairs, inviting him down to the first-floor hall.

The three gathered in a circle around the sofa.

Holden listened as Dean recounted the clues he'd gathered from the neighbors, then spoke up,

"This matches what I've learned from the property management and the Henderson government departments. Over the past twenty years, almost every year, these two departments would receive property fees and tax checks from the resident of 369—Parnon—until five years ago, when Parnon stopped sending checks."

"The tax department tried to contact him, but failed. It's as if Parnon vanished from the face of the earth."

"Let me put it this way: the IRS is the most resourceful agency in the entire United States, and even they couldn't track down Parnon. Anyone else hoping to find him is grasping at straws." Holden said regretfully, "The Henderson government has now listed Parnon as a missing person. In another two or three years, he'll be declared dead."

"Parnon really disappeared?" Amir stared blankly at the floor, his complexion pale and bloodless.

Bang!

He slammed the table fiercely.

"It's my fault! All because of my selfish, indifferent stupidity! If only I'd come to visit Parnon sooner, if I'd cared for him, he wouldn't have disappeared."

Such an emotional fellow.

Dean hurried to comfort him,

"Don't be so upset. Back then, you'd gone bankrupt, your house was auctioned off, you were living on the streets, barely able to survive yourself. How could you have had the strength to help a relative hundreds of miles away? Not even God could blame you for that."

"No, you don't understand what I once did to Parnon... I... I wronged him..." Alvin buried his head in his hands, his shoulders trembling.

"Then tell us," Holden watched his tormented face, his voice gentle and persuasive, "Sharing your burden might help you feel better."

Amir gritted his teeth.

"Give me a little more time. When I'm ready, I'll tell you everything about Parnon and me. For now, please continue. Any other discoveries?"

"I heard something at the Henderson Police Department," Holden tapped his fingers lightly on the coffee table, "After your brother Parnon disappeared, a murder took place in this house."

Dean nodded, "The neighbors told us the same thing... The police sealed the place for a day and took out the body of a homeless man?"

"Not a homeless man," Holden gazed intently at the nearby window, his expression grave, "It was an elderly man, over sixty, and his identity was unusual—even extraordinary."

Dean and Alvin perked up.

"High social status?"

"Yes. The deceased was Alexander Raphael, a well-known medium in all of Nevada."

Holden pulled out a full-length photograph.

A medium-built old man in a black robe.

Slightly hunched, hair streaked with gray, skin unnaturally pale. His long horse face bore a prominent hooked nose, thin lips, and large, protruding eyes, exuding an air of constant agitation.

"A medium?"

Dean's eyelids twitched, a faint sense of foreboding clouding his heart.

"Mediums, also known as psychics. In Siberia, northern Asia, Alaska, they're called shamans," Holden recalled the information he'd found. "They claim to communicate with the spirits of the dead, to ask them for information from their former lives to help the living."

"So mediums can see ghosts?" Dean wondered if a medium could perceive his secret weapon—the Shadow of the Past.

"That's the legend. They're said to have special eyes that see spirits, and they help ordinary people overwhelmed by grief to contact lost loved ones, offering comfort."

When the conversation turned to the occult, Dean and Amir tacitly kept silent.

Only Holden's voice echoed in the room.

"In America, superstition and ignorance never run dry. Whether in city or countryside, there are always plenty who believe in mediums—mostly those who've lost loved ones, yearning to reconnect through these powers."

"There are also zealots who worship powerful mediums as a faith, imitate them, meditate and train, hoping someday to master the ability to speak with the dead themselves."

"As for Mr. Alexander Raphael, my investigation shows he performed séances for hundreds of clients, winning a following thanks to miraculous feats. He's highly respected in America's medium circles."

Holden's voice ceased, waiting quietly for his audience to digest the information.

...

"Holden, do you believe in the power of mediums?" Dean asked. He possessed the Shadow, so he knew the world held supernatural forces, and wanted to see how much the authorities understood.

"Surely the FBI has studied these metaphysical theories extensively? Any conclusions?"

Holden's expression was strange. The sharp, calm gaze atop his straight nose lost its composure, turning hesitant and confused.

After a long silence, he finally replied,

"There was once a department that invited a group of renowned mediums, gathered them together and conducted séances in front of the media many times. Ninety-nine percent were exposed on the spot. Their so-called séances were nothing but elaborate performances, based on skillful acting and thorough prior investigation."

"And the remaining one percent?" Dean pressed.

"Unexplainable. I dare not speculate."

...

"So, there are cases of successful séances?" Dean said.

"No. With current technology, we can't expose their clever tricks!" Holden clearly trusted science more than the supernatural. "Enough about superstition. Back to the point—Alexander Raphael, esteemed medium, died in this house, and his death was bizarre."

Holden stood, circled the sofa, and pointed to the dining table.

"The case files say he was found at the table, his neck broken."

"After he died, the killer gouged out both his eyes and took them, leaving two bloody holes."

"To commit such a heinous crime against a man in his sixties is monstrous," Alvin said, pale-faced. "Did they catch the killer?"

Holden shook his head.

"Do you think the killer could have been..." Dean looked at the other two meaningfully.

"Impossible. Parnon's health was poor—he couldn't possibly break someone's neck," Alvin said firmly. "He was introverted, but not malicious, he'd never harm anyone!"

"Alvin's right," Holden agreed. "Parnon disappeared five years ago; Alexander died two years ago—too much time between the cases. From what I've found, Parnon and Alexander had no obvious connection in life."

"Most importantly, the real killer cleaned the scene thoroughly, very professionally. Henderson police concluded only that Alexander was likely attacked by a professional hitman hired by a rival in the medium community."

...

The room fell quiet for a moment.

All three pondered unconsciously whether the two unsolved cases might be connected.

But there was too little evidence to draw any conclusions.

"One thing puzzles me," Dean asked, "Why would a famous medium like Alexander turn up in a run-down suburb's abandoned house? What was his purpose?"

"Who knows? Mediums are always mysterious," Holden joked. "Maybe he thought this place was a spiritual hotspot, perfect for meditation and practice."

...

A spiritual hotspot?

Alvin forced a bitter smile.

This place was steeped in memories of his bittersweet childhood.

Over twenty years ago, his father had died here in bed.

Five years ago, his brother vanished here.

Two years ago, an uninvited medium was murdered.

Yesterday, two Blood Gang killers met their end here.

It's cursed, that's for sure.

...

At this point, Holden's gaze fell beneath the table, suddenly drawn by the reddish-brown wooden box. Sunlight made it look even more exquisite and mysterious, especially the bluish-green pupil pattern on its surface, radiating a seductive, magical allure. "Where did you find this antique?"

"In the attic. It feels a bit sinister," Dean said gravely.

"It's just a box. It's not going to sprout a genie or a demon," Holden quipped.

He carried the box outside into the sunlight and opened it. A delicate, faint fragrance wafted out.

The glaring sunlight revealed two strange objects inside—

Two overlapping wooden boards.

One was rectangular, chessboard-sized, with YES, NO, HELLO boldly written at the top.

Below, all the letters of the alphabet were listed.

At the bottom, the numbers 0–9.

At a glance, this board looked like some kind of educational toy.

But a closer look showed the background of the letters and numbers as white as ash, sending chills down the spine.

The other board was much smaller, only palm-sized and shaped like a teardrop. Near its tip was a transparent glass pane, letting one see clearly through to the other side.

...

Holden took the teardrop board, stroked it, held it to his nose and sniffed.

"Sandalwood."

"What is this, exactly?" Dean asked.

"Never played Halloween Adventure? Around Halloween, thrill-seeking teenagers gather in abandoned houses and use this soul divination board to try and communicate with nearby ghosts."

"The chessboard-shaped board covered in letters is the Ouija board."

"The small teardrop-shaped board is the planchette."

"Together, they form a soul divination board."

Holden placed the planchette on the Ouija board, its glass lens covering the word 'NO.'

...

"Kids sit in a sealed room, summon ghosts, and ask them all sorts of questions. Then, the spirit will supposedly move the planchette's lens to cover numbers and letters on the Ouija board, spelling out its answers."

Dean realized—

He'd seen this in many movie scenes in his previous life.

But did it really work?

Dean silently asked the Shadow within him, but it remained unresponsive.

Holden smiled, shaking his head,

"The essence of this game is 'scaring yourself.' All those tales of summoning evil spirits are just made-up horror stories."

"But mediums like to use divination boards to amplify their abilities. So... nine times out of ten, these boards and the box are probably relics of Alexander Raphael, the medium murdered here."

Alvin's face fell in disappointment.

"Did Parnon ever use soul divination?" Dean checked the system progress. After a day of investigation and the discussions about mediums, he'd only gone from fifteen to twenty percent—still a long way off.

Alvin shook his head. "He was timid, never celebrated Halloween."

All three fell silent.

Holden began repeatedly checking the mahogany box, hoping to find a hidden compartment.

But nothing turned up, so he put the boards back in the box.

"Besides the box, there's a bed in the attic. Let's check it out again—bring more flashlights this time."

...

The narrow, dark attic was illuminated by the bright beams of three flashlights, revealing the black bed.

"It's so heavy—is it made of concrete?" Holden grabbed the corner and tried to lift it, but his face turned red and it wouldn't budge.

Dean carefully brushed his hand across it, picking up a clump of dust, hair, and skin fragments. He frowned.

"Put it here, pal. I'll have a friend analyze it and compare it to samples left by Alexander two years ago."

Holden pulled tweezers and a test tube from his coat pocket, carefully transferred the residue into the tube, sealed it, and placed it in a plastic bag.

"If nothing's amiss, this residue should come from the medium Alexander."

"Bed plus soul divination board, cramped and dark space—after Parnon disappeared, Alexander made this abandoned house his territory."

Holden analyzed,

"I believe he intended to settle in this attic, training his medium abilities day and night, but was assassinated unexpectedly."

"But so far, I see no connection between him and Parnon."

Dean nodded and looked to the other side.

"Alvin?"

"Alvin!"

"Ah! I'm here! I'm listening..." Alvin tore his gaze from the dark bed and made a strange request. "Mr. Holden, could you take my blood and compare it with this residue?"

Dean suddenly sensed Alvin was hiding something.

"Fortunately, I came prepared."

Holden nodded, took a blood collection needle from his briefcase, handed it to Alvin, and guided him to draw blood from a vein on the back of his hand. He quickly took a sample, storing it in the briefcase.

"I'll compare your blood, this residue, and Alexander's old samples. Maybe we'll find new clues. It's getting late—let's head back to the hotel and return tomorrow."

"I want to stay overnight," Alvin's words surprised the other two.

"Are you serious? Aren't you afraid the Blood Gang will come for revenge?" Holden was puzzled.

"Didn't you say you couldn't sleep well in this house?" Dean was equally baffled.

"Sorry, I have to stay and confirm a suspicion..."

Alvin looked at them pleadingly, his resolve unwavering.

Holden and Dean exchanged a glance.

"Dean, you're the tough one—stay here with Alvin and look after him."

"Fine... I'll make the sacrifice." Dean turned to Holden. "How long will the analysis take?"

His mission had only seven days.

And, notably, DNA testing in this world was a few years ahead of his previous one.

In 1980, the technology was still budding in his old world, but here, it was already fairly mature.

"I'll try to finish by tomorrow," Holden said. "I'll do my best to get the forensic guys to work overtime for us."