The Ghost and The Haunted Mansion: A Haunted Bookshop Mystery

starting at around nine or ten P.M. and ending at midnight or later.
    “There’s a tape left in the machine, too.” I pointed.
    Seymour read the label. “It’s dated June 8.”
    “That’s the night before Miss Todd’s body was found.”
    We exchanged glances. Then, by silent consent, Seymour pressed Play.
    No sound greeted us. After a minute, my fingers spun up the volume control and we suddenly heard the whispered thoughts of a person now dead. This was far from a unique occurrence for me, but it clearly unnerved Seymour. He swallowed hard.
    “I am now inside the circle where the spirit cannot harm me.” Miss Todd’s voice was quiet, tremulous yet determined. “The candles burn and I am holding the sacred dagger in my hand. I am waiting for the spirit to make itself heard . . .”
    After a protracted silence, there was a shuffling sound as if the woman were repositioning the tape recorder. More silence. Then—
    “Still quiet, yes! But I know he will come because he hates me so. Hates me for what I’ve done. When he does come, I’ll record the noises he makes on this tape and play it for that dolt Bull McCoy. Then that oafish policeman will know I’m not just some delusional old woman!”
    “You tell ’em, Timothea!”
    “Shhh, Seymour.”
    But no sound followed. Once or twice, Miss Todd could be heard clearing her throat. Then came the sound of a car rolling by outside, followed by more silence.
    Impatient, Seymour grabbed the tape recorder and fast forwarded. When he hit Play again, we heard a loud rushing noise, like a high wind battering the walls.
    “Turn it down!” I shouted.
    Even after Seymour lowered the volume, the noise was obviously deafening. Miss Todd had to yell to be heard: “Eleven fifty-five P.M. and the spirit is attacking now! Listen to it roar!”
    The noise abruptly ceased. I heard Miss Todd’s gasp of surprise, and then: “You’re clever, but not clever enough! You realized I was recording you, but it’s too late. I have you on tape again!”
    Seymour rewound the tape and found the place where the weird sound began. “I can hear him now,” Miss Todd whispered. The rushing noise built slowly, becoming louder until it ceased. Seymour turned off the machine and his bugged-out eyes scanned the other tapes.
    My own head was spinning, and it wasn’t just the residual effects of those Long Island Iced Teas. Miss Todd had recorded evidence that this mansion was haunted. So—
    “Why in the world did she stay here?”
    Seymour exhaled. “You heard Mr. Stoddard. She had an emotional attachment to this house. The noises only started a few weeks ago. Seems to me she was trying to use magic to get rid of this spirit, or whatever it was. Or maybe there’s a logical explanation for these weird sounds.”
    I shook my head. “However you want to explain it, she had to be frightened, and to face that kind of fright alone for all those nights? Imagine the strain. It’s no wonder the poor woman’s body gave out.”
    “I wish she would have said something to me!”
    “Seymour, do you realize what we have here?” I held up one of the audiotapes. “This is proof that the strange sounds Miss Todd heard were real. Not some figment of her imagination.”
    Seymour nodded dumbly.
    “We have to call Eddie! We have to turn this over to the authorities—”
    “No!” Seymour grabbed the tape from my hand and threw it back into the box. “These tapes will only make things worse.”
    “What! How?”
    “Dr. Rubino claimed Miss Todd was suffering from dementia. He ruled her death to be from natural causes. But Chief Ciders is still convinced I frightened Miss Todd to death with fake noises. The only thing these tapes will prove is that Miss Todd wasn’t suffering from dementia! There really were noises.” Seymour grimaced. “I know Ciders is just waiting for some kind of evidence like this. If he gets hold of these tapes, he’ll just say I made the noises to kill Miss Todd so I could inherit her house. He’ll use these to frame me for murder!”
    Listen to the mailman, baby. The lettuce he’s handing you ain’t funny money.
    I closed my eyes. “My God, Seymour, you’re right. But we should at least listen to every one of these tapes.”
    “We will.” Seymour stifled a yawn. “Just not now. In the morning when the sun is up, and the house won’t seem so . . .”
    “Creepy?”
    Seymour nodded and returned the tape recorder to the hatbox. He put the lid on the box and