Spirits in the Night

The great man was dying. Thomas Alva Edison, inventor of the phonograph, motion picture camera and electrical light bulb laid in his bed in West Orange, New Jersey his life slowly flickering out. After years of failing health, he had recently slipped into a diabetic coma and at age eighty-three, the prognosis was grave. His son Charles stood by his bedside alongside Edison’s personal physician Dr. Hubert Howe. The two men watched in silence as the man known around the world as the “Wizard of Menlo Park” struggled to fill his lungs with air. His breath was faint and growing fainter. Outside Edison’s stately mansion Glenmont, a steady rain was falling and then, as if an homage from the God’s themselves, a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. It filled the bedroom with a bright flash that was followed by a thunderous boom. Downstairs the Grandfather clock in the parlor struck three times. It was 3 AM on October 15, 1931.

The last few years had not been kind to Edison. He had battled a series of illnesses that sapped him of his physical strength but his mind, that amazing, once in a millennium mind, had continued to stay sharp. The aging inventor loved nothing more than spending the day tinkering in his lab and had recently become obsessed with solving a riddle that had vexed him for years. Edison was determined to invent a machine that could talk to the dead. The man who, perhaps more than any other, was responsible for bringing mankind out of the shadows and into the modern era, was determined to crack life’s greatest mystery. What happens when we die?

Edison believed that at its very essence, a person’s soul was nothing more than energy. And who could manipulate energy more than he could? Rumor had it he was working on a “spirit phone” that would allow someone to talk with a dead relative as easy as it was to chat on the telephone. This obsession with the occult fascinated his good friends and fellow titans of industry Henry Ford and Harvey Firestone. The three would spend long weekends together camping in the woods, bouncing around ideas, formulating theories and scribbling their ideas into a leather bound notebook that Ford never let out of his sight. How close did Edison come to building a machine that would allow a person to talk with the dead? No one knows for sure. Declining health deprived him of any monumental breakthrough. At least as far as the general public knew.

Dr. Howe walked over to the bed and leaned down to listen to Edison’s breathing. He grabbed his frail wrist and checked for a pulse. Slowly he turned back to Charles and gave his grim assessment.
“It’s time,” the Doctor said solemnly.
Charles took a few steps closer to the bed and hovered for a moment. It was hard for him to fathom that his father, one of the greatest minds the world had ever known, was about to draw his last breath. Choking back tears he looked past the Doctor at a figure standing in the shadows. Charles nodded and a man stepped out of the darkness and towards the bed. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie and wore a black overcoat and wool felt fedora. His face bore no expression or emotion of any kind. The man pulled something out of his coat pocket then leaned over Edison and placed a test tube near his lips. The dying man took in one last gulp of air and then gasped his last breath into the glass tube. Quickly the mysterious stranger put his thumb over the opening of the tube and stepped away from the bed. With one hand he grabbed a paraffin sealer out of his coat pocket and quickly clamped it over the top of the test tube. He shot one last look at Charles, briefly glanced towards the Doctor and without saying a word strode purposefully out of the room as if he was late for an appointment.

As he exited the bedroom, the man passed a handful of servants lingering in the hallway anxiously waiting for news. He said nothing, dashed down the grand staircase then stopped in the foyer to confront a nervous looking gentlemen with slick backed hair and horned rimmed glasses. His name was Stephens and he was Edison’s personal assistant.
“Where is it?” the stranger asked.
Stephens stared at the floor and shook his head, “Best to leave it here,” he said in a hushed voice. “It should die with him.”
“Where is it?” the man asked again but this time in a far more menacing tone.
“Over there,” the assistant finally whispered, nodding towards a small wooden crate that was sitting in the hallway.

The man in the black coat rushed over and peeked inside. “What the hell is this?” he asked, somewhat confused. “It looks like the insides of a radio!”
“It may look like one but I can assure you it’s unlike any radio you’ve ever heard before,” Stephens said. “You should leave it here. It needs to be destroyed!”
“My boss wants it and I’m going to personally deliver it to him,” the other man replied grabbing the crate with two large hands.
“I’ve heard it myself. It’s not natural,” Stephens warned. The man in black pushed the assistant aside and rushed outside. A steady rain was falling as he loaded the crate into the passenger side of a sleek new Model A Roadster.
“Whatever you do, don’t listen to it,” Stephens pleaded as he stood in the rain getting drenched. “God never intended man to be able to…” the Model A’s engine roared to life, drowning out his last words. “Talk to the dead!”

The car sped away, down the long driveway, past the manicured hedges and into the dark and stormy night. It had a full tank of gas and the serious looking man behind the wheel knew he had a long drive ahead of him. His name was Flanagan and he had been up for the last 32 hours. He had flown from Detroit to New Jersey in a company tri-motor on explicit orders from the old man himself. The car was waiting for him at the Newark airfield and he had driven through the rain and got to Edison’s mansion first thing that morning. Or was it afternoon? It was all a blur. Flanagan shook off the brain fog and squeezed the steering wheel with both hands. No time to think about sleep now. The storm had cancelled his return flight and his new orders were to drive directly back once the items were in his hands. If all went well he would be home for dinner.

The rain was coming down in sheets and Flanagan strained to keep his eyes on the road as he barreled through the pitch black Jersey countryside. It wasn’t safe to be out driving on a night like tonight but what else could he do? He was known in the company as a man you could trust to get things done, no matter the danger. Besides, he would do anything for the old man. Hell, he would still be back in Corktown busting heads for a quarter a pop if it wasn’t for him. If he was honest, the boss was more of a father to him than his real old man. The mere thought of his drunk, no good dad, made Flanagan cringe. “You ain’t nuttin but a two-bit hood,” he could still hear him say. Two years in the ground and the man still drove him mad.

Flanagan turned on the radio hoping to find some music but the storm had other ideas. The airwaves were filled with static as he searched up and down the dial for a signal. Finally, persistance paid off and he was able to tune into KDKA out of Pittsburgh. Sometimes on stormy nights like this, a radio signal bounces around the atmosphere like a pool ball looking for a pocket. Thanks to the thunderstom, the distant station was coming in loud and clear and Flanagan was happy to have the music of Tommy Dorsey to keep him company. There were no other cars out tonight and he had the road all to himself.

The solitude suited Flanagan just fine. He did his best work alone. If he had a partner, he would be forced to sit through miles and miles of conversation. Small talk. Chit chat. No thank you. Actions speak louder than words, that’s what he was taught. Good advice when you grow up in a three room tenement apartment with nine brothers and sisters. You need more than talk to survive. The only words that meant anything to him growing up were his mother’s. Every night, after working a twelve hour day scrubbing floors, she found the energy to read her children a bedroom story in a brogue so thick you could cut it like soda bread. Flanagan’s eyes got moist thinking of his ma. A saint of a woman. He wished he could have been by her bedside when she passed to hear her tender voice one last time.

Flanagan caught himself getting mushy and tried to think of something besides his dear, dead mother. Like the big fat bonus check he would get when he got back to Detroit. The old man was obsessed with the occult and paid top dollar for strange and bizarre artifacts. He had recently shelled out a small fortune to obtain the chair Lincoln was sitting in at Ford’s Theatre the night he got shot, convinced it was haunted by the ghost of the dead President. Flanagan could only assume that Edison’s last breath and the so-called spirit phone woul be prized pieces to add to his collection. Even if the spirit phone was nothing more than a bunch of wires and tubes. To think Edison’s sniveling assistant Stephens actually thought that hunk of junk worked. What a…

A bolt of lightning suddenly streaked across the sky and struck a nearby oak tree. Sparks flew like fireworks and a large branch came crashing down onto the pavement. Flanagan swerved the car and narrowly missed hitting it. He turned his head to look back when he heard a faint voice say…”keep your eyes on the road!”
An icy shiver shot down Flanagan’s spine. He spun around thinking someone might have snuck into the backseat but there was no one there. It wasn’t the radio either. That’s when he heard a low humming sound coming from inside the crate. He glanced over at the wooden box, pulled off the top and took a look inside. Two cathode tubes on the back of the strange looking device were glowing orange. Somehow the spirit phone had come to life.

A man like Flanagan doesn’t scare easy. Not when you’ve seen and done the things he had in his life. Still, there was something about the strange looking contraption that was beginning to give him the creeps. It was the same breathless feeling he got as a kid when his Nana told her ghost stories. His grandmother was from the old country and held fast to it’s superstitions and folklore. She was convinced there were evil spirts in the night that would steal your soul if you were sinful.

Flanagan smirked at the thought. He didn’t believe in evil spirits. Dead is dead after all. Then again the damn thing was built by Edison himself. If anyone could bridge the astral plane it was him. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky followed by a crash of thunder.
Goosebumps appeared on Flanagan’s arms. “Who’s there?” he asked half-joking. Bracing for an answer, all he heard was rain bouncing off the Model A’s canvas roof. Now he was feeling foolish for letting his mind play tricks on him. He leaned over to put the top back on the crate when there was a sharp crackle of static and he heard a man’s voice say, “look out!”

Flanagan looked up just in time to see something standing in the middle of the road. He slammed on the brakes but it was too late. The Model A skidded across the wet pavement, hit the object head on, and then came to a screeching stop. It all happened in the blink of an eye and it took a moment for Flanagan to get his bearings. He slowly got out of the car and surveyed the damages. There was a dent in the hood and blood splattered on the grill.
“Dammit,” he cursed, sure he had hit a deer. That’s when he saw a body lying on the gravel shoulder. It was a young man, no more than twenty, most likely a drifter by the looks of his shabby clothes and worn out shoes.
“Help me,” the kid said gurgling up blood. “Please…help me.”
Flanagan wandered over hands in pocket. A cold rain was falling.
“What the hell were you doing in the middle of the road at this time of night?” he asked, angry by the sudden inconvience.
“What are you doing?” the Kid asked wincing in pain.

Flanagan stood still as a statue thinking about what to do next. He could help the young man but that would take time and would no doubt get complicated. Or he could drive away like nothing happened. There were no other cars coming or farmhouse in sight. They were on a desolate stretch of road in the dead of night. Flanagan looked over at the mangled body and came to his conclusion. The kid wouldn’t make it through the night.
“What are you doing?” the young man mumbled half delirious as Flanagan dragged him to the side of the road and nestled him in some wet grass hidden from view.
“I’m going to get help,” Flanagan lied.
“I’m bleeding, mister. At least put something on my wound,” the kid pleaded.
Flanagan made the sign of the cross and got back in his car.
“Damn you to hell, you bastard!” he heard the young man say before starting the engine and driving away.

Flanagan was no alter boy, and had done some bad things before but leaving the boy by the side of the road tore him up inside. He convinced himself he didn’t have a choice. The old man was counting on him and the sooner he made his delivery the better. Flanagan looked at the spirit phone out of the corner of his eye.
“You’re hearing things Flanagan,” he mumbled to himself.”
He took a flask out of his coat pocket and took a swig. The whiskey burned going down and sharpened his resolve. There was a job to do and he was damn well going to do it. After a few more miles, Flanagan began to relax. Just keep your eyes on the road and everything will be alright he thought to himself. That’s when he saw the flashing lights in the rear view mirror.

The New Jersey State Trooper got out of his cruiser, adjusted his wide brimmed hat to keep the rain out of his face and approached the Model A with caution.
“Kinda late for a drive isn’t it?” he asked when he got to the driver’s side window.
“Got a long way to go,” Flanagan replied.
The trooper took a step back and looked the car over. Flanagan thought he seemed a little too suspicious and reached for the pistol tucked under his seat.
“Sure is a beautiful car. It’s a Roadster, right?”
“Yessir,” Flanagan answered.
“Top speed?”
“The book says 65 mph but I’ve gone faster,” Flanagan bragged.
“Good thing, you’re not a bank robber,” the trooper joked as he walked around to the front of the car.“Your front left headlight is out,” he shouted. “There’s also a dent in the hood and you’ve got some blood on the grill.”
“Oh yeah, I hit a deer a ways back,” Flanagan said. “Damn thing jumped right out in front of me.”

The trooper came back and shined a light into the backseat as if he was looking for something. It wasn’t uncommon for bootleggers to make their runs at this time of night in fast cars just like this one.
“I’m gonna have to see some identification,” the trooper asked.
Flanagan reached inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet. He handed his license to the trooper who gave it the once over. “Michigan? You’re a long way from home Mr. Flanagan.”
“I’m on a work trip.”
“And who has you working this time of night?”

Flanagan grabbed another card out of his wallet and handed it over. It was gold with embossed lettering. The trooper looked at it and then back at Flanagan. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No sir,” Flanagan replied.
“Ford Motor Car Company,” the trooper read. “Special Assistant to Henry Ford. You’ve met Henry Ford?”
“He’s my boss.”
“Well I’ll be damned,” the trooper said impressed. “No wonder you’re driving a Roadster.”
Flanagan let the trooper in on a little secret. “Show that card to any Ford dealer and he’ll take care of you if you want to get one for yourself,”
“I wish. Not on my salary.”
“I said he’ll take care of you!” Flanagan snapped momentarily losing his patience.

The trooper nodded and put the card in his wallet. He contemplated what to do next when the rain picked up and made his decision easy. “Get that headlight fixed and you might want to look at the front wheel on the driver’s side. Looks a bit loose.” the trooper said. “There’s a 24-hour diner about three miles up the road. Right next to it is a garage run by a grumpy old Italian by the name of Al. Bang on the door and he’ll come out and fix your car. Have a nice night Mr. Flanagan.”
“You too, officer.”
The trooper was halfway back to his cruiser when another flash of lightning lit up the sky and he heard a young man’s voice yell out. “He left me to die!”
“What was that?” the trooper asked looking back.
“Nothing,” Flanagan said. “Just the radio.”

When the trooper was gone, Flanagan stared over at the spirit phone, the fear inside him bubbling up like a pot of his mother’s stew. That was the third time he heard voices coming from the damn thing. How was that even possible? There were no such things as ghosts or spirits or even leprecauns for that matter. It was all a bunch of mumbo jumbo. But the more Flanagan tried to convince himself there was nothing to worry about the more anxious he became. Suddenly he felt exhausted, put his head in his hands and for the first time in a long time, started to cry. His sobbing was soon interupted.
“There, there son, don’t you cry,” a woman’s soothing voice said in a thick Gaelic accent.
“Ma, is that you?” Flanagan asked. “Talk to me, ma. I miss you so much.” With tears in his eyes, he lifted the spirit phone out of the crate and set it in his lap. There was crackle of loud static, “what did you say, ma?”
Flanagan turned a large dial desperate to hear his sweet mother’s voice again. He honed in on a signal that sounded like it was coming from far, far away.
“You killed your mother with your Godless ways,” came another voice, one that Flanagan thought he’d never hear again. “And now you’re a murderer to boot! You’re a disgrace as a son,” his father shouted.

Flanagan threw the spirit phone down, flung open the door and stumbled out of the car. “This isn’t real,” he told himself. “This can’t be real.”
He took out a pack of Lucky Strikes from his coat pocket and lit up a smoke, his hands shaking like schoolboy on a first date.
“This is nuts,” he muttered, to himself.
The wind picked up and a chill rattled Flanagan to the bone. In the distance, a dog barked a long, lonely howl. There were spirits in the night.

“Emough of this,” Flanagan thought to himself. He was no coward. There was a job to do and he was going to do it. When he got back into the Model A, the spirit phone was on the floor in front of the passenger seat, it’s cathode tubes dark as night.
“If I hear one more thing coming out of you,” Flanagan warned, “I’m shooting you to pieces. Got that?”
There was only silence.

It was a little past four in the morning when Flanagan pulled into the parking lot of the Sunshine Diner. The spirit phone had been silent for the last ten minutes and he was convinced the voices he heard were all inside his head. A few years back he had met some doughboys who fought in the trenches over in France who swore they could still hear the sounds of battle. What he experienced was nothing more than auditory hallucinations brought on by fatigue. Nothing a good night’s sleep couldn’t cure. Now all he had to do was get the car repaired and he could be on his way.

A closed sign hung in the garage’s window but Flanagan banged loudly on the door anyways. After another couple of knocks, a light appeared in the second floor apartment and he heard the sound of heavy steps on the staircase. A moment later, the door swung open and a middle-aged man, wearing a bathrobe and looking half asleep stared at Flanagan. “It’s four in the morning, mister, we’re closed.”
“I need my wheel tightened and a new headlamp.”
“We open at eight. Come back then,” the man said. He went to shut the door but Flanagan blocked it with his foot. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks if you do it now.”
The sleepy man stared at Flanagan and then at the twenty dollar bill he was waving in his face. “Let me get my son. Give us an hour.”

The dusty and dim-lit diner was empty except for a bum sleeping in one of the booths and a tired looking waitress killing time behind the counter. “Sit where you want, hon. Coffee?”
“Please,” Flangan answered as he slumped into a booth near the window.
The waitress brought over a pot of coffee and poured a cup.
“Can I get you something to eat?” she asked. “Got some fresh bisquits coming out of the oven.”
Flanagan took a sip of the coffee. It tasted like dirt. “Give me a minute.”
The waitress nodded and drifted off leaving Flanagan alone with his thoughts.

The rain had stopped and a ground fog as thick as cotton balls was rolling through the parking lot. It was a welcome sight. Flanagan figured he would be in Pennsylvania, maybe even Ohio by the time the body by the side of the road was discovered. A transient like that wouldn’t be missed. He probably did the poor bastard a favor.
Flanagan looked at his watch. Not much longer now. He was anxious to get on the road, drive straight to Detroit, walk into Mr. Ford’s office and put that damn spirit phone right on his desk. Then he never wanted to see it again. Ever.
The waitress shuffled over with a hot pot of coffee.
“Warm it up, sweetie?” she asked in a tired voice.
“Please,” Flanagan said, “and give me some of those bisquits.”
“You got it,” the waitress replied stifling a yawn. “Kinda surprised you got old Al to work on your car this late.”
“That’s his job, right?” Flanagan replied. “Anyways, he said he was going to get his son to help him.”
“Good luck with that,” the waitress said with a laugh. “He snuck off to his girlfriend’s house about an hour ago.”
Flanagan stared at the waitress. “What’s that?”
“The boy snuck off to his girlfriend’s place. Trust me, it’s not the first time.”
“What kind of car was he driving?” Flanagan asked.
“He wasn’t driving,” the waitress said, “damn fool was on foot.”

Flanagan suddenly felt light-headed and the color flushed from his face.
“You okay, sweetie?”
“I’ll be fine, I think I just need some air.”
Flanagan got up from the booth and went outside, his heart beating double quick. The odds that the kid he hit with his car was the garage owner’s son were remote. And even if he was, the man would never know, unless…

Flanagan had butterflies in his stomach as he slowly crossed the parking lot. There was a light on in the garage and he could hear the muffled sounds of a conversation. He breathed a little easier. The son was helping his dad work on the car. As he got closer, he could see the Model A up on a lift with it’s wheel off. Something else caught his eye. The spirit phone was sitting on the work bench, it’s cathode rays glowing orange.
“How much longer?” Flanagan asked standing in the doorway.
The garage owner said nothing. Outside a flash of lightning lit up the sky followed by a crash of thunder. The storm had returned.

The hair on the back of Flanagan’s neck stood up and there was a tingle in his fingertips. “Hey buddy, I said how much longer?”
Another flash of lightning and the man spoke in a low hush.
“You left my son by the side of the road to die.”
“What’s that?”
“You hit him with your car and now he’s dead,” the owner said fighting back tears.
“That’s a lie,” Flangan protested. “Why do you think that?”
The man turned around and was pointing a shotgun at Flanagan’s chest.
“Because he just told me!”

Flanagan reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out his gun just as the garage owner was squeezing the trigger on his. There were two flashes of light followed by a couple of loud bangs. Flanagan stood motionless for a moment, then watched as the garage owner crumpled o the ground with a bullet in his forehead. He walked over to the man, knelt by his side and saw that he was dead.
“Damn fool,” Flanagan cursed. “Why did you have to go and do that!”

Suddenly there was a thunderous boom of thunder and the spirit phone roared to life. It’s signal stronger than ever. “What have ya done, dear?” his mother cried out from beyond the grave. “The son I know isn’t a killer.”
Flanagan put his hands over his ears, “Shut up, ma. Shut up!”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way boy” his father shouted. “You’re a bum and you broke your mother’s heart.”
“Be quiet the both of you,” Flanagan screamed. “I may not be a saint but I’m nobody’s fool either. I did what I had to do to put food on the table and money in my pocket,” he raved like a man gone mad. “I wanted to make something of myself, not like the two of you.”

The spirit phone crackled and hissed and Flanagan could hear his mother sobbing. Wherever she was, he had broken her heart once again. He pointed his gun at the spirit phone ready to blow it back to hell when there was a blast from another gun. Flanagan feel to his knees, blood spurting from the bullet hole in his back. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the waitress standing nearby, a smoking gun in her hand. She had heard the gun shots and rushed over to help the garage owner who also happened to be her husband. With life fading from his eyes, Flanagan reached out towards the spirit phone. “Sorry ma,” he muttered before collapsing face first onto the cold garage floor.

State Troopers descended on the diner shortly after the shooting. The distraught waitress described to authorities the nervous looking man who sat alone. “There was something a little off about him,” she said anxiously puffing on a cigarette, “like he had just seen a ghost or something.”
The Trooper that had stopped Flanagan earlier in the night, personally arranged for the Model A to be towed back to Detroit in care of Mr. Henry Ford. That included all personal affects found in the car including an envelope containing a sealed test tube. Nobody noticed the strange looking radio on the workbench. That is until Stephens arrived twenty minutes later. Edison’s assistant was able sneak off with it before anyone even knew it was gone.

Stephens was happy to have the device back in his hands, although this wasn’t exactly how he envisioned getting it. He never thought Flanagan would take it in the first place, especially after he tried to scare him with that phony bologna story about hearing it work. Truth was he had never heard anything but static come out of it. No one had. It was just another one of Edison’s failed inventions. The real reason he didn’t want Flanagan to take it was because he wanted to keep it for himself and sell it for a pretty penny. The one and only spirit phone created by the late, great Thomas Edison. What’s the saying? There’s a sucker born every minute.

Stephens was half-way back to Glenmont when the rain picked up again. A bolt of lightening tore across the sky followed by a crackle of thunder. The air was suddenly filled with static electricity. Inside the crate the cathode tubes on the spirit phone flickered orange.
“Nice night for a drive, isn’t it?” Flanagan asked.

Credit: MG Maddocks

Please note this author does NOT give permission for this story to be used for any podcasts or audio narrations.