Bump in the Night
Medium at Large Book 1
Meredith Spies
copyright © 2019 Meredith Spies
All Rights Reserved
All characters, locations, and incidents mentioned in this work of fiction are purely a figment of the author’s imagination, unless they’re not. Then they’re copyrighted and/or trademarked and/or otherwise property of their originating entity and are not property or creation of the author.
Cover Photo by Jen LeBlanc / Studio Smexy
Cover Design by Meredith Spies
CHAPTER ONE
Julian
“So you have to promise not to hate me...”
I shoved my phone between my ear and the pillow. I didn’t know what time it was, but if Cecily was calling, it had to be Oh God O'clock. Maybe half past. “Is someone dead?”
“You sound like shit, Julian.”
“Is that what you called to tell me? Because if it is, I’m definitely going to hate you.” The bedroom was ice cold. I burrowed deeper under my pile of blankets, wiggling until they were over my head and the chill started to seep away.
“Julian!” The way Cecily whined my name when she wanted something had gone unchanged for nearly thirty years. “This is serious! I’ve done something you might, might, think is a bad idea, but it’s really not, and I want you to promise you won’t hate me before I tell you what it is!” Loud voices and what sounded like an orchestra tuning up, but with rusty robotic cats instead of actual instruments, sounded in the background on Cecily’s end of the call. “Hold on!” She covered the phone but I could hear her muffled voice, snapping out orders in French. When she came back, the loud noises were down to a dull roar. “Sorry, this installation is going bonkers. Gio is insisting we suspend it from the ceiling using gold cables. It can’t be gold colored cables, but actual gold. He just can’t get it through his skull that gold cables would never support the weight of this monstrosity, and the gallery would skin me alive if I submitted an expense request for anything else on this exhibit, much less gold fucking cord.” She didn’t bother to cover the phone this time as she snapped off a series of instructions to someone named Laurent, telling them to distract Gio until she was done on the phone. “Sorry, sorry! Anyway… promise?”
It would be easiest to say yes, of course I promised. I could never hate her. Then I’d be on the hook for whatever favor she’d volunteered me for, whichever friend who needed a recommendation letter for their kid, a donation to the charity du jour… If I said no, though, I couldn’t promise that… I peeled one eye open and made out the blurry green numbers on my bedside clock. Quarter past three in the morning. If I said no, then I’d hear nothing but wailing and pleading till about five, then the calls from Mom would start. I hesitated for too long—I heard Cecily draw in a deep breath and knew the begging was about to start. “Okay,” I sighed. “What? But know this—I can retract my promise and decide to hate you if this is something indescribably awful.”
“Like murder?”
“Or dating one of Dad’s old coworkers.”
“Or one of Mom’s exes?”
We both made noises of disgust at that thought. Our mother had poor choosing skills in men. “So go on, what is it then? I’d like to get a few hours of sleep before I have to go in to work.”
“Funny you should mention work...”
My eyes snapped open. “What did you do, Cec?”
“Nothing!”
I rolled onto my back, taking my phone with me. It was still cold as a well digger’s ass in February outside of my covers, so I did my best to stay in my blanket burrito and still be able to talk. “The last time you tried to help me with a job, I got fired,” I reminded her. “And I hadn’t even asked for help!” I raked my fingers through my tangled hair, some part of me distantly noticing I needed to cut it, it was verging on an unprofessional length for a teacher, but the rest of me just wanted to tear it out. I had a bad idea about what Cecily had done.
“Holy shit, Jules! That was ten years ago! And I didn’t get you fired! The fact you couldn’t make a Blizzard without spraying ice cream everywhere got you fired! It just coincided with the fact I broke up with the supervisor and it was ten years ago!”
We both grunted at one another in annoyance before falling quiet for a long moment. “Fine, go on,” I finally sighed. “At this rate, I’m never getting back to sleep.”
“Look, I know this temp gig sucks and you want to go back to academia but that’s probably not going to happen any time soon.”
“...thanks.” I closed my eyes again. Just what I needed at nearly four in the morning: A reminder how my tenure track position blew up spectacularly and I was now reduced to substitute teaching at Sweet Briar Prep. Major in anthropology, kids, and you, too can end up sixty grand in debt with a job that barely keeps a roof over your head, wondering why you followed your heart instead of your mother’s nagging.
“You can’t get mad at me for telling the truth,” she reminded me, a favorite saying of hers. She sallied forth, ignoring my growl of annoyance. “Look, I know you don’t hate the whole high school teaching thing but I also know you miss being all smarty professor pants.”
“Cec, make it trot.” I hadn’t been lying—I knew I wasn’t going to get back to sleep now. Not when I had just had the scab ripped off about my colossal failure in academia and those lovely memories were pouring out of the wound to howl at me. Cecily inhaled deeply and I could practically see her face in that moment. I knew she’d be grinning, her perpetually red painted lips parted and her green eyes, so like mine, crinkling at the corners. She’d be bouncing on her heels, proud of whatever scheme she’d concocted.
“You know Jacob’s in New Orleans, working on that show for The UnReality Channel?”
“I don’t like where this is going,” I muttered. I gave up on my blanket burrito and tossed the covers aside, hissing as the cold air hit me.
“It’s a legitimate channel,” she protested. It really wasn’t. It seemed like it should be, and maybe had been at one time, but now all of its programming involved poorly researched urban legends, stock footage of interviews with actual scientists but culled from other channels, and several series about crytpids. You wouldn’t think there’d be enough material to have more than one show about cryptids, but you’d be surprised.
“There’s a reason it’s streaming and not on network.”
“Elitist.”
“Realist. Go on, then, tell me the rest of this plan that’s going to make me hate you.”
“You promised!”
I levered myself out of bed and absolutely did not tiptoe-run across the ice cold floor towards the blessedly carpeted hallway. “Cec,” I sighed. “I’m going to hang up as soon as I reach my coffee maker. You have less than two minutes.” Coffee coffee sweet sweet nectar of life… Cecily sighed again and muttered something about caffeine addiction, but the early hour and my frozen toes mandated a strong hit of coffee with far too much sugar and my fancy schmancy creamer.
“You really have no sense of the dramatic,” she groused. “Fine, Jacob wants you to be on Bump in the Night.”
I stopped just outside my tiny kitchen. “That… sounds like a porno,” I finally said. “And I don’t think I’m cool with being a porn my brother in law is producing.”
“Jesus, Julian! Come on, you know about this! It’s all he’s talked about since Christmas!”
Forcing myself to move again, I started turning on lights and making a beeline for my ancient coffee maker. “I’ve spoken with him three times since Aunt Sharon’s party,” I reminded her. “And one of those times, it was to ask him to get you to answer your damn texts.”
“Whatever. Okay, so Bump in the Night is all about historic
al murder mysteries.” Cecily paused until she realized there was no response forthcoming. With an agitated grunt, she continued. “It’s a limited run series right now, only six episodes ordered. The plan is to focus on three historically significant murders, but not like the huge ones everyone knows about. Things that slip under the radar but had profound, far-reaching effects on history. Three murders, two episodes per, and Jacob really wants you to come on board as a sort of resident expert in forensic anthropology.”
Damn it. This played right into my wheelhouse. It sounded not only interesting to me as a potential viewer but like it had the potential to elevate some little known research if they did things right. Research like mine. Still, this was for The UnReality Channel, home of Bigfoot Autopsy and Alien Probes Rated Best to Worst. “What’s the angle?”
She laughed lightly, the sound not quite right, the sound of my dear sister being caught out. “I just told you the angle!”
“No, what’s the angle-angle? What’s it going to be? All the murders were caused by gnomes? They want to find hard evidence of mermaids drowning royalty?”
Cecily’s sigh was weary. “Julian, you know you need this. The substitute teaching gig ends in three weeks and you don’t have a summer spot lined up. And you don’t have any offers for next semester.”
Ouch. “Tell me the hook.” I dumped too much coffee into the machine’s basket and hit the on switch before hopping up to sit on the counter. Cecily was too quiet, but I knew this trick. We’d shared a uterus—I’d known all of her tactics since we were blastocysts. If I could wait her out, she’d crack. Sure enough, after almost thirty seconds of quiet, she huffed an ugly, snorting grunt.
“There’s another expert involved.”
Hesitantly, I asked, “Another forensic anthropologist?”
“No.” She drew out the word, her old drawl showing through. “Um, someone they want to bring on to help find clues and do interviews and stuff.”
“Interviews? With descendants of victims or something?” I didn’t like where this was going.
“Er, no. The victims and maybe their murderers.”
“...what?” I slid from the counter, my sleep-addled brain chewing on this information and finding it texturally unpleasant. “That makes no sense.”
“It does if he’s bringing on a medium.” She didn’t give me time to respond (though I really don’t think I could have said something coherent if I’d tried, at that moment) before rushing on. “Look, you need the job, and you wouldn’t be the first academic to do a show like this. Remember that professor who was a guest on all those ghost hunting shows a few years ago? Or the marine biologist they always bring on the mermaid hunt episodes of Monsters Everywhere?”
“Why do they classify mermaids as monsters?” I asked, padding to the fridge to rummage for breakfast. “It really makes you think about the Starbucks logo and its implications.”
“Julian.”
She was right—I did need the job. Any job. And I knew, without asking for dirty details, that it would pay much better than the subbing gig at the prep school. But I also knew it would be a sharp jab to my pride, and it would follow me like a bad smell if I ever managed to get hired by a university again. If I accepted the offer, anything I wrote, said, or did would be seen as coming from some weirdo on that cheesy show where they think they can talk to dead people. But… but. I needed to get paid. I needed to live. And the offers weren’t exactly rolling in for positions in the fast paced, high paying world of anthropology. “Let me think about it.”
Cecily uttered a tiny whoop of excitement. “Awesome! Okay, look, I need to get back to the installation crew otherwise they’ll have this stupid piece upside down and backwards thanks to Giovanni’s amazingly imprecise instructions. But Jacob is going to be in New Orleans tonight so you can totally meet him at that cheesy diner he’s in love with. You can fly back with him on Monday!”
“Back? Back where?” I slumped against the counter, pushing the fridge door closed with my foot. “I have class till Wednesday.”
“Darlin’, you’re a substitute teacher and it’s the last week of school. Just skip.”
“Cec!”
“What’re they going to do? Fire you? Look, I really do need to go but I’ll let Jacob know and he’ll email you the info asap and you can get with him about arrangements and all that jazz. Love you baby brother!”
“Only by seven minutes!”
“Still counts. Mwah.”
I hung up. It didn’t feel like a mistake, this offer, but it sure didn’t feel good, either.
Mama Bee’s Diner was one of those extremely fancy restaurants that tries to pretend like it’s not. Everything was lit by hammered metal lanterns and mason jar tea light holders, and while the tablecloths were a homey gingham pattern, they were heavy and felt expensive to the touch. All of the food seemed like something you’d find on any Southern grandma’s table when you just glanced at the menu, but looks were deceiving. Cornbread made with hand picked saffron and served with buffalo milk butter, green beans sauteed in truffle oil, chicken and waffles that, for some reason, involved gold leaf and something called edible flavor bursts made from maple syrup and a dash of Tabasco.
Jacob loved it.
“You know, we could’ve gone to Waffle House and saved like two hundred bucks,” I informed him. I was afraid to even touch my tea. It was served in a heavy crystal glass and made from ‘hand picked leaves, dried in the nurturing sun on a fair trade, sustainably sourced tea plantation in India’ and a ‘simple syrup infused with rose hips and a skoche of whiskey.’
It cost fifty dollars and was the least expensive thing on the menu.
Jacob, my dear, sweet, snobbish brother in law, rolled his eyes before popping a bite of fried pork belly cracklings in his mouth. “You need to get out more, Julian. See the world. Experience things.” He jabbed his fork into the pork belly again and this time, brandished it at me, making me lean back to avoid a splatter of juice. “This gig is going to be perfect for you. Money, travel, get your name back on the map for the schools...” He finally paused to chew and swallow rather than keep talking around his half-eaten mouthful.
“Have to be honest here… Most schools aren’t going to be happy about the fact I’ve been on one of these shows.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Academics are on t.v. all the time! Hell, Hawking did several of these things. Sagan had his own series for a while!”
“Well, they were astrophysicists,” I pointed out, “and those shows they did were more along the lines of documentaries or educational programming.” Exercise utmost caution, a voice in the back of my head ordered. A voice sounding suspiciously like my sister. Jacob’s eyes had already narrowed. He was waiting for the snide comment, waiting to throw it back in my face. He wasn’t a cruel person, but Jacob would give as good as he got, and he would defend his shows until his dying breath. “Bump in the Night is less education and more… informational,” I extemporized. Really, his shows were pure entertainment. Anything informational or educational was smothered in the dramatic and sensational.
Jacob took a long, expensive swallow of his own tea before fixing me with a considering look. “Good point.”
Seriously?
“We’re hoping to make Bump one of our break out hits,” Jacob admitted. He was crumbling cornbread between his fingers, little flakes of gold leaf sticking to the meat grease on his fingertips. I’m sure there was an amazing metaphor in there somewhere. “Bringing you on? That lends us credulity.”
“Credulity.” I was pretty sure he meant ‘credibility,’ but I wasn’t about to correct him. Not until contracts were signed and the ink was dry.
“Right. You’re a man of science! I mean, anthropology is technically a science, right?” he laughed. I grinned, baring my teeth. Really, that just never got old. Never once in almost ten years. Nope. “And we’ll be working with local experts and...” he trailed off as the waitress, clad in a designer homage to the costumes of Hee Haw, came to cl
ear away his dishes as I still picked at my own sparkly corn bread. “Did CeCe tell you about the medium?” he asked quietly, most of his jovial big spender persona suddenly quelled. He was Jake for a minute, my brother in law and not Jacob the producer. Jake who could actually act like a normal human for a few minutes and not Jacob the money machine. I nodded. “Yeah I figured you’d love that one,” he laughed. “Did she tell you who it is?”
“Nope. Let me guess, though. That old lady with the blue glasses and cotton candy pink hair from Channel Ten? The one with the infomercial about crystals.”
He leaned back in his chair, taking his ice tea with him. He regarded me over the rim of the crystal glass for a long, quiet moment before shaking his head and sighing. “You don’t have to always be on, Jules. Not everything needs a smart ass comment.”
Way to make a man feel fifteen instead of thirty. I took a defiant bite of my (frankly too dry) cornbread before speaking again. “No, but some things definitely do, and mediums fall into that category.”
“This guy,” Jacob pressed on, ignoring my comment, “is legit. Or as legit as you can be in his field. He’s even been tested by those guys at Stanford. He tried to take what’s his face, that skeptic guy, up on his offer to pay like a million bucks to anyone who can prove the existence of ghosts or psychic ability, but it never panned out. Frankly,” he added sotto voce, “I think the skeptic dude knew what was up and chickened out.”
That story rang a tiny little bell for me. “Wait, wasn’t that like five years ago or something? I remember some talk about that, how Mark Thomas had agreed to go on one of the late night talk shows and meet some ghost whisperer guy for a test of his abilities but Thomas never showed up. It was a big deal...” I frowned. “Okay, maybe not a huge deal but I remember there was a thing about it.”
Jacob nodded. “Thomas bailed on Late Night With Corey Robinson and it caused a bit of a tabloid kerfuffle and people were sued.” He raised his glass to me with a smirk. “Mazel tov, Jules. You’re actually human in there. Keeping up with gossip like a real boy.”
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