The Blackham Mansion Haunting (The Downwinders Book 4) Read Online Free Page B

many years Carma has used this tunnel, Winn
thought. Those light bulbs look very old.
    Lyman was standing near the solitary wooden table in the room
at the end of the tunnel, and Winn could see Lyman’s expression change as he caught
sight of Deem. That’s right, Deem reminds him of Sarah, Winn thought. Sarah,
the girl he was going to marry, a hundred and fifty years ago.
    Although Lyman appeared remarkably clear outside of the
River, Winn sensed Deem entering it in order to have an easier conversation
with him, so Winn dropped in as well. He also knew to leave the matter to Deem;
Lyman’s interest in her was all they’d need to get the information they
desired.
    Nice to see you again, Deem, Lyman greeted her.
    You as well, she replied.
    You taking to the house well, now that you’re living here?
    Were you behind that? Deem asked slyly.
    Carma’s idea, but I was wholeheartedly in favor of it. The
house has been too quiet with just her here.
    And it makes it easier for me to visit you! Deem replied.
    Yes, there’s that bonus, as well.
    We were wondering if you might feel inclined to share some of
your knowledge of the past with us, Deem asked.
    I’d be happy to impart my invaluable wisdom, Lyman replied, smiling. Winn had to
keep reminding himself that although Lyman looked like a sixteen-year-old, as a
ghost he was much, much older. He was also particularly ruthless in his fight
against local Mormon leaders.
    There’s a place in Paragonah, called the Blackham mansion, Deem said. It’s right next to the
town cemetery. Know anything about it?
    Lyman paused. I’m afraid I don’t. Why are you interested
in it?
    Winn listened as Deem filled Lyman in on their situation.
Lyman seemed to be listening intently. When she had finished, Lyman was looking
very intently at Deem.
    You need to be very careful right now, he said. What you’re describing
to me sounds extremely dangerous.
    Have you heard of something like it? Before? she asked.
    Not exactly, he replied. But the complexity of it reminds me of a
spider web, something designed to trap you in a way that makes it impossible to
get out.
    We just drop out of the River and we’re back, Deem said. It doesn’t appear to be
a trap.
    Those are the best traps, Deem — the ones that look innocuous.
All the more reason to be cautious. Promise me you’ll think twice before taking
any unnecessary risks.
    I promise, she replied, but we’ve got to do something about David.
    When a bug is trapped in a spider web it twists and turns,
trying to get free. It usually just makes things worse .
    Deem seemed surprised at Lyman’s reaction. Are you saying
we should abandon him? she asked. Because I won’t do that, Lyman.
    I’m just saying you need to tread lightly and be extremely
careful, or you’ll wind up like David. That’s all. I admire your loyalty to
your friend. One of the things I like most about you. He smiled at her.
    I give you my word I’ll be careful, she replied.
    Good. Lyman began to pace. The best direction I can send you is to Hobble
Creek, outside Springville. Thomas Cloward, Professor Emeritus of History from
the University of Utah. Grandson of Joseph Cloward, a friend of mine. He’s a
repressed gifted; higher education always beats it out of you. But he’s not
self-loathing, and he’s opened up to it a little since his retirement. To the
real world he always published scholarly pieces and made quite a name for
himself. Somehow he managed to stay on the good side of the church, which is
tough to do and be an honest historian. His latent gift has been eating at him
for years, though, and it drew him to study people and places that were a
little different, or odd; the kinds of things most people preferred to forget
about history. Go see him and ask him about the Blackham mansion. As long as he
thinks what he tells you will go no further than your ears, you may get a lot
out of him.
      We’ll do that, Deem replied. And thanks, Lyman. I
appreciate it. She turned