Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

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.”