Bump in the Night

by Meredith Spies

  “Well,” I began, but this time Ezra’s flailing foot found my ankle and I broke off what I was about to say in a tight-lipped grunt of pain.

  Grant held his glass to his lips, not quite sipping, regarding me over the rim. “I know you think I’m cashing in on the whole paranormal craze,” he said quietly, so low I almost didn’t hear him even in the quiet restaurant. “Trust me—I am well aware of the general perception of my shows,” he added, a thin chuckle trailing his words.

  A tiny spark of recognition flared to life in my breast. Like seeks like, I thought. “You’re a believer,” I said, just as softly. “What was it? A dead relative?” They were the starter ghost for most people. Ease them into the whole ‘I see dead people’ thing.

  Grant’s cheeks flushed a dull red again. “Not quite.” He drained his martini and set the glass aside carefully, staring at it like a scrying mirror. “When I was ten, someone died.” He flashed me a quick, sheepish smile. “Well, hundreds of people die every day, don’t they? But this one specific person died. They were killed near my house. Murdered.”

  A very faint whisper tugged at my senses. A susurrus of breath, fabric against fabric, barely audible, but it cut through the ambient noise of the room. Hello...

  Grant closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Years of doing what I do had taught me scores of tells and twitches, how to read someone’s mood and honesty based on their body, their expressions. Grant wasn’t visualizing the scene from decades before. He was trying to close it off, squeezing his eyes shut against whatever it was he had seen.

  The murmur of sound threaded closer, a voice slowly moving towards us, softly eager as Grant kept speaking.

  “I was really too young to be home alone but we lived in one of those gated communities, you know the kind? McMansions and golf course lawns, that sort of thing. My mother felt safe leaving me there while she ran to get her nails done up the road.” He reached for his empty glass without opening his eyes, frowned when he remembered, and instead gripped the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “I was playing on my game system, wondering if she’d be back in time for lunch or if I’d need to get our housekeeper to make me something. I heard someone in the front hall, near the sitting room where I’d been playing.”

  The voice was next to me. Indistinct, thick, muffled by layers of time and distance. It tugged at my breathing and made it hard for me to focus on Grant’s words. I knew who it was, even without knowing their name. Ezra had gone very still across from me as he stared, watching the two of us. It’s like we’re in a bubble, all three of us. Four, I corrected mentally. In a bubble and it was about to pop.

  “There was a man standing by the front window, looking out at the circle drive.” Grant’s breath caught. He was a boy again, just for that memory, scared and alone and seeing something no one supposes they will ever see. “I thought it was my father, for a moment, then I realized he was shorter than Dad, had more hair.” Grant forced his eyes open and twisted his lips into a sour smile. “I made some noise, I think I gasped or maybe one of those,” he waved his hand vaguely, “cut off screams, like when you’re startled but don’t want to look like an asshole. The guy turned and...” He swallowed hard, eyes flickering over the table as he made a decision and grabbed Ezra’s wine, downing it in one long swallow. “Sorry, I’ll get you another,” he rushed. “The guy was missing half his damn face. Just,” he waved that hand again. “Just gone.” He met my wide eyed stare, completely unaware of how cold I felt, how my head was throbbing, the thick voice in my ear sibilant and nagging. “He was gone before I could get a good freak out going,” he said, his laugh flat and fake. “I told Georgia, our housekeeper, that there’d been a hurt man in the front hall. She called the cops, thought I saw a burglar or something. By the time my folks got home, and the cops got there, everyone was pretty sure I was attention seeking and being a spoiled brat who just wanted his parents to pay attention.”

  The voice was hissing still, pushing against me. “No one looked for this man.”

  Grant raised a brow. “You already know.” His gaze shifted to my right, then behind me. “Did he tell you his name?”

  I drew in a deep, long breath. I hated this, hated doing it in public like this, but needs must. The part of me that Saw, Heard, Felt, whatever you want to call it, it was something I could barely keep in check. Like a riled up Rottweiler with a dental floss leash. If I gave that leash a bit of a tug, it’d loose the beast and anyone, anything, that wanted my attention would be there. I’d learned to parse through them over the years, weed out whomever was just being loud, whomever I didn’t need to speak with immediately, triage the spirits clamoring to be heard, but no matter how much I practiced, there was still a moment of disorientation when I let go. Like being hit by an ocean wave when you were expecting calm waters. I could feel the man waiting, bouncing next to me. Wanting. Let go. His voice exploded in a gasp of relief next to my ear. “Bernard Watkins,” I said on the exhale. “He’s buried in the sand trap at the golf course.”

  Well. I suppose that was one way to end the meeting early.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Julian

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  No, really, not even kidding. Hurricane Minerva was making landfall and I was in a haunted house.

  Alleged haunted house.

  See, kids? Go to grad school, get a PhD, and you, too, can end up on a reality show, hunting ghosts and regretting life choices.

  At any rate: night, dark, stormy, hurricane, okay, we’re all caught up now.

  Hendricks House wasn’t a plantation but it played on on t. v. It had been built at the turn of the century (the one before last) and, in it’s lifetime, had been the home of an obscenely wealthy robber baron and his kin, a hotel, an event center (which is pretty much just a hotel with more meeting rooms than average), and then several movies and shows had used the house and grounds as either main settings or backdrops for things ranging from a Civil War drama to a Gilded Age homage to some robber baron or other (ironically, I think it was a rival of the robber baron who built the house in the first place). It was that last one that started all this mess. The period drama was aimed at the young adult market and starred one of those bright young things that looks like every other bright young thing except his dimple is on the right instead of the left. Made a zillion dollars and Dimples talked in several interviews about how Hendricks House was haunted as fuck and none of the cast or crew wanted to stay there after dark.

  He left out the part where they only filmed there for two days, both times during daylight hours only, and the cast and crew was put up in the excruciatingly fancy bed and breakfast down the way. Enter us. And by ‘us’ I mean the viral sensation Bump in the Night. What started as a series on YouTube starring two very pretty, very serious British boys (okay, young men, well into their twenties, but boys to my curmudgeonly self) had evolved into a thing. A serious thing. Oscar Fellowes was the medium of the pair, and Ezra Baxter was his...sidekick, I guess. He seemed to carry the camera around and ask Oscar if he heard something. The videos became extremely popular in a very sudden way after less than a year online, which led to Fellowes and Baxter creating their own YouTube channel. The videos went from short footage of the pair of them ‘investigating’ allegedly haunted locations in their hometown in England to visiting places a bit farther afield. Their videos were quite realistic, seemingly capturing some sort of paranormal phenomenon every time. As their notoriety grew, they were invited to investigate in other countries. Within three years, before they’d even hit their thirties, they were signing on to a deal for a ridiculous sum of money, bringing Bump in the Night to a streaming service near you, courtesy of UnReality.

  Yeah, UnReality. The network that brought you Mothman: Bi Curious or Bi Icon and Mermaid Autopsy: The Sad Truth Behind Tuna Salad.

  And I know, I know—I signed the contract too. I saw the amount of money they were offered and, honestly I don’t blame them.

  I mean, I th
ink they’re full of shit and I kind of hate myself for caving and agreeing to be on the show, but I get it.

  A million is a huge amount of money, even split between two people.

  The more modest sum on my own contract—eighty grand, thank you very much—was nothing to sneeze at either. Six episodes of being the ‘professional skeptic’ (whatever the hell that meant) and I could pay off my student loans and make sure I had someplace to live while I tried to find a job in academia. Preferably at a university located under a rock where they’d never heard of Bump in the Night so I wouldn’t have to explain myself.

  Being unemployed for six months means you jump on a good offer. While it wasn’t exactly going to put the shine on my PhD, it was going to keep me from moving in with my mom. Again.

  Hendricks House had experienced a huge boost in visitors since Dimples the Star announced to several media outlets that he’d experienced “some scary shit” while filming there, and they wanted to capitalize on that. Enter Oscar, Ezra, and their new film crew. No more Go Pros and hand held mics for them. It was all professional now. I’d only seen the test episode they’d filmed to secure funding from UnReality and, from the looks of things, neither of the boys were thrilled with the slick production values or the interviews between scenes. Oscar, in particular, seemed especially disgusted by the insistence of a ‘demonic presence’ by the ‘local medium’ (really some old dear from a few towns over who’d never been to the place in her life but ten grand is ten grand…).

  If the curt email I’d received from EBaxter@UnReality. Net was anything to go by, they were less than excited about me being there. Lots of snide comments regarding my ‘professional credentials’ and a request to see my previous work, a very short and I imagine pithy (tone is impossible via email—someone needs to get on making that sarcasm font) “Oh, I see” response when I informed him that I had zilch in terms of professional skeptic experience, unless one counted the fact I am a scientist and therefore don’t believe in hokum.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have started our work relationship by calling his profession hokum.

  It was something I could definitely ponder as I sat in the dark, listening to Hurricane Minerva batter Long Island and throw branches and chunks of gravel from Hendricks House’s pristine white gravel drive against the house, wondering if maybe it was my fault Fellowes and Baxter were late.

  “Seriously,” Jacob Grant, my brother in law and, oh yeah, the producer for the show, sighed. “It’s not your fault. Just like it’s not your fault the fucking hurricane changed paths and headed this way instead of back out into the Atlantic like they were predicting.”

  “I know that much,” I muttered. “I mean, the hurricane part. But maybe I shouldn’t have been so assy to Fellowes when he emailed me. Maybe they’re no-shows in protest.”

  Jacob smiled his familiar, curly grin. The one that meant he was feeling particularly smug. “Sounds like you’re having a change of heart about the show.”

  “Huh?” Talk about whiplash...“Why the Hell would you think that? I mean,” I hastily spun, when he turned a sharp, distinctly unamused glare my way, “I know it’s your baby and god love ya for it but I’m not going to change my beliefs regarding the afterlife just because I feel bad for being openly rude to the guy.”

  A bone-rattling rail of thunder raced over the house, pushing cool, damp gusts of air through the chinks in the windows and setting the old fashioned hurricane lamps provided by the estate to flickering. Because nothing says party like kerosene based fire hazards in a house made entirely of old wood and flammable wool carpets. Jacob glanced up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowing as something thumped overhead. “It’s not just about ghosts,” he said after a moment. “There’s allegations this house has a demonic presence.”

  “Allegations by the old lady from down the road,” I reminded him. “Allegations your production company paid for.”

  His expression made the storm outside look positively kittenish. “Feel free to walk off, Julian, but you and I both know what you stand to lose.” He glanced towards the towering bookshelves, shadowy cliff faces in the flickering lamplight. “Suck it up, play nice for a few weeks, and it’s yours.”

  A slick, rolling feeling slid down my chest and settled in my gut. It wasn’t exactly part of my contract, but Jacob had made a promise. Something he knew I couldn’t—wouldn’t—refuse. “Right,” I sighed. Guilt, or maybe shame, squirmed in my belly, a living thing trying to creep back up my throat. The thump sounded again from upstairs and Jacob sighed, rolling his eyes. “Are they setting up cameras already?” I asked, turning hard into a change of subject.

  Jacob’s smirk was sharp. “Why don’t you go up and see for yourself?”

  The library, lit only by those fire hazards, was still deep-dark in the corners. Beyond the double doors, in the foyer, it was even darker. The bob of a flashlight tracked the progress of one of the crew, and a soft glow from the upstairs landing indicated another lamp, the steady light telling me it was electric. “I’m not going to interrupt?”

  “It’ll be good for you to see what you’ll be working around,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll try and get hold of Fellowes and Baxter again.”

  He watched me until I slipped into the darkness of the foyer. I don’t think he could see me well but I still felt his eyes on me as I carefully made my way up the wide, curving steps, my brain offering up helpful images of my imminent demise should I put my foot down wrong or hit an especially slippery patch of waxed wood. By the time I reached the landing, I was shaking a little and that eel swimming in my innards was trying to qualify for Olympic speed time trials. At the head of the stairs, a battery operated lamp sat on a half-moon shaped table beneath the stained glass window overlooking the back gardens. Blocky and plastic and a lovely shade of burnt orange, it must have come from someone’s camping stash. In the Seventies. The circle of light it cast reached only to the very edge of the stairs on one side and the doorjamb of what I guessed was a bedroom. A soft creak came from beyond the door, and a sound like someone cursing under their breath. Someone downstairs laughed and popped open a can of soda or beer, the hiss-fizz of carbonation weirdly loud in the darkened house.

  “You alright?” Jacob called from the foot of the stairs. I could barely make out his bulky shape in the darkness but I knew he could see me standing in the yellow glow of the lamp.

  “Fine. Just letting my eyes adjust.” He didn’t reply but I thought maybe he made a funny little humming sound of amusement. Not quite a laugh but close. What the Hell, Julian? It’s a dark room. You’re thirty five years old. You’ve been in plenty of dark rooms. Nothing’s in the dark that isn’t there in the light.”

  That’s the problem, isn’t it, a snide little voice questioned. You haven’t seen this room in the light. You have no idea what’s in there.

  “Fucking hell,” I muttered to myself. That time, Jacob definitely laughed. Sucking down a deep lungful of air, I strode forward and into the dark room. Which was definitely a bedroom, I discovered the second I barked my shin on the iron bed frame near the door. If nothing else, this job was going to keep my fluency in curse words strong. The room smelled strongly of orange wax and dried, dusty flowers with a whiff of wet wool. The window must leak, I decided. Every damned carpet in the place seemed to be made of thick, oily wool and was no doubt horrible in the summer with all that insulating fiber underfoot. I edged a bit further into the room, a dark shape in the center back-lit by lightning for just a few seconds. Tall, rectangular, but too far from the wall to be an armoire or bookcase, I approached slowly, hands out. “Hello? You okay in here? We can hear you thumping around downstairs. Need a hand with something?” Nothing. The object felt like fabric and wasn’t very sturdy, wiggling like it was a wire frame or something similar. A soft, snuffling noise came from near the bed, followed by the sound of something moving on the sheets. “For fuck’s sake,” I snapped. “I get it, it’s a thing, make fun of the skeptic, okay ha ha ha nice. Let’s cut this shit o
ut. I’ll be done in a few days and y’all can talk all the shit you want once I’m gone.”

  In a bit of what was the most fantastic timing I’ve ever experienced, the lights in the mansion flickered, then surged back on. Jacob stood in the doorway, brows arched. “You alright?”

  “Fine,” I snapped.

  “This is where we’ll be doing the interviews,” he said, padding further into the room. I sneaked a quick glance at the bed. It was not only empty, the mattress was propped on the wall beside it. “Here. Take a look.” He reached past me and grabbed hold of the thing behind me. “It’s like a photo booth. You have privacy while you talk to the camera. Like on Love House or whatever that was.”

  “I have no idea what that is.” I stuck my head in anyway and made a face. It smelled like deviled eggs left out on the counter too long and a strong tang of mildew. “Ugh, this is disgusting.”

  “It was in storage for a bit,” Jacob shrugged, shoving his face in beside mine. About six feet tall, a few feet wide, and not very deep, the booth was silvery white inside and black on the outside. A circle was cut in one wall. “We put the camera on the outside there. Inside, we’ll be able to add some really cool backgrounds and stuff in post.”