Death Spa Page #4

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We take a drive by the club

so I can pick up my things.

See you, have fun.

What are you doing tonight?

You want to come with us?

- Yeah.

- Goodnight.

- What time?

- Oh, about an hour or so.

See you later.

I'll come over

and pick you up.

- I'll meet you.

- Okay, great.

- See you. Bye-bye.

- See you later.

They're going to

lock you in, Marci.

Don't worry about me.

I'll get out.

Ah!

Ow...

I'm not much help

to you, am I?

Do you see the one with

number 22 on the door?

Oh yes, here.

Okay.

Give me a minute

to get to my office

so I can turn the

security lock off

and then you can open.

I'm not going anywhere.

Michael?

Who is it?

Michael?

Hi, Michael.

How do you like my costume?

Bad taste, Darla.

Whenever I'm in the club

and even sometimes

when I'm in this house,

I feel a presence.

It's Catherine.

Even in death,

she still has a hold on you.

I feel like she's

reaching out somehow

and causing all this trouble.

It's the dreams,

the accidents,

and those messages

on my computer.

I don't know.

Goodnight, sweetheart.

This cigarette case

was found in the rubble

of the mansion

in upstate New York that

burnt to the ground

under mysterious circumstances

at the turn of the century.

It belonged to the

matriarch of the family

who had come over from Europe

in the middle 1 7th century

and built the first

house on the site.

Oh, she was murdered by

her youngest daughter,

beheaded with an ax.

Four subsequent houses

have burned to the ground.

There is no longer a house.

The present owner has tried to

farm the land on which it stood

but nothing will grow.

It is a barren,

dead piece of earth.

Cigarette?

I don't smoke.

What I've just demonstrated

is called psychometry,

the ability to acquire,

while in contact with an object,

paranormal knowledge

of its history

or facts about its present

or previous owners.

How does this all help me?

You did bring an object

belonging to your late wife,

Mr. Evans?

Ah, Catherine.

Ah, and a beautiful

marriage it was, too,

until she went into labor

with your child

and something happened

to her lower spine,

a cripple growing

progressively more bitter

and depressed.

Jealous, too. Of you?

Without justification.

After she lost the baby,

I couldn't reason with her.

And then, one day,

she went into the garden,

doused herself with gasoline

and set herself on fire,

burned to unrecognizable ashes.

All of which was in

the news a year ago.

You're going to have to do

better than that, Dr. Moray.

Ah...

A bird's nest.

That's what she thought

of your family,

like a bird building its nest,

the mama bird,

the papa bird,

and the baby.

Then why would

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