The Roach was about to give his opinion when the portrait fell from the wall, the glass shattering.
“I caused that,” Amelia said. “With my mind.”
“I wouldn’t admit it,” Kendra said. “The hotel might stick damages on your bill.”
The Roach examined the wall where the portrait had been. A tiny hole was ringed by plaster dust. The picture hook had apparently lost its grip.
She’s got a mind like a claw hammer, then.Bet she uses the head of the hammer on hubby.
“She’s a demonologist, too,” hubby said.
The Roach shot her a glance. She was too young to know better. Anyone claiming to be a demonologist was worth avoiding. The real ones, like him, worked best in secret. It was an unfortunate calling, not a hobby.
“Among other things,” Amelia said with pride. To hubby she said, “You’d best notify the hotel staff before someone gets cut.”
“Why bother?” Kendra said. “A little blood is just what we need to get the party started.”
“Blood magick,” Amelia said to her. “Are you a virgin, dear?”
“Excuse me?”
”Are you familiar with Aleister Crowley?”
“Come on, Kendra,” The Roach said, ferrying her away. “Some more guests are checking in.”
“Cool,” Kendra snapped. “Maybe they’ll be old perverts, too.”
Amelia glowered at the teen. “I would hate to fetch a demon on you.”
“You don’t want one of her demons,” her husband said, arching his eyebrows into arrow tips. The Roach wondered how many demons he’d been subjected to during the course of the marriage. Plenty, by the looks of it.
“Why don’t you two come to the medium parlor?” The Roach said, appealing to Amelia’s ego and letting her assume her presence was awaited with all the anticipation of a visiting queen’s. “Wayne Wilson is expecting you.”
“I hope it’s in one of the haunted rooms.” Amelia G. stepped over the broken glass and followed The Roach down the hall, hubby trailing and sipping his drink.
“I believe they’re all haunted,” The Roach said.
“Got any demons here?”
“Only the ones you brought with you,” The Roach said, wishing it were true.
The hall was buckled and warped, the angles slightly skewed by decades of wooden bones shifting on concrete footing. The scarred oak floorboards creaked under their feet, and mirrors placed at strategic angles suggested subtle movement at the edges of the shadows. The Roach had been in a number of reputedly haunted structures, and most of them had age and faulty architecture in common. It was another of those contrived truisms of the field: ghosts avoided clean, well-lighted places.
They were heading up the stairs to the second floor when a brittle crash sounded on the landing above. The Roach looked back at Amelia, whose plump face bore a look of childish pleasure.
“Sometimes I don’t know my own power,” she said.
Either that, or the game has already begun.
“I’ll inform the front desk,” hubby said, as if pleased at a chance to escape, lest Amelia’s glare turn him to glass and then shards and slivers.
“Wayne’s going to love you,” The Roach said.
Amelia beamed, though The Roach was sure she’d completely misinterpreted his statement.
Too bad you’re not clairvoyant, because if you could see the future the White Horse demons have in mind, you’d be swallowing that smile.
Chapter 9
“How’s it going?” Wayne said, patting Kendra on the shoulder and looking at the check-in sheet.
“Forty-three so far,” Kendra said.
“We’ll put you through college yet.”
“Unless I run away from home and join the circus.”
“You’re already in the circus, honey.”
“Well, they’ve certainly sent in the clowns. You’ve got psychics, remote viewers, a couple of cranky quantum physicists, and a woman who claims to be the reincarnation of Madame Blavatsky.”
“As long as she didn’t pay in rubles.”
“I’ve got a feeling she’ll probably add a hillbilly to her past-life collection by the time the weekend’s over,” Kendra said, rolling her eyes to indicate the surroundings.
The hotel had given them its “history room” for registration, the walls replete with old photographs, door handles, wallpaper samples, and other relics of the building’s past. A glass case held an ancient Royal typewriter, its black ribbon cracked and curled. Beside it was a tattered copy of “The Yearling,” and a placard explaining author Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings had stayed at the hotel in the summer of 1936, taking breakfast in Black Rock and dinner in Boone. The glass case also held Southern Appalachian artifacts like corn-husk dolls, a dulcimer, a ceramic moonshine jug, furrier’s tools, and a hand-stitched quilt that looked as if it has been pieced together with dust. The room smelled of linseed oil and old paper.
“It’s all about presentation,” Wayne said, imparting a basic business principal disguised as a parental lecture. “Give them a little atmosphere and let their imaginations do the rest.”
Kendra rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. ‘People don’t buy products, they buy emotions.’ Jeez, Dad, why don’t you get out of the ghost game and launch a political consulting firm?”
“There’s not much imagination in that. Plus you’re on the losing team half the time.”
A tall man with a dramatic swoop of gray in his dark hair entered the room. He wore a rumpled tan blazer and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the wiry hair on his chest. “Is this where we register?” he said, in a low, mellifluous tone.
“Step right this way,” Kendra said, motioning him to the table.
“I paid in advance,” he said. “Martin Gelbaugh.”
As Kendra checked his information and gave him his badge and packet, Wayne lifted the lid on the ancient piano in the corner. He poked the lowest C, and as the note reverberated against the room’s wooden surfaces, he tapped a note higher up the register. The two harmonics clashed, horribly out of tune even to Wayne’s untrained ear.
“The upper C is about eleven vibrations per second flat,” the man said.
Wayne looked at Gelbaugh, studying the hands that appended the badge to his suit jacket. The fingers were gaunt but graceful, like those of a musician or fine craftsman. “Perfect pitch, huh?”
“I’m not convinced that ‘perfect’ exists,” he said, smiling at Kendra. “Unless perhaps it’s the angelic demeanor of this lovely young lady.”
The gallant attempt at flattery would only enrage his daughter. She was convinced that every man over the age of 20 was a hopeless perv, and Wayne endorsed that sentiment. But she disguised her grimace so that it could be mistaken for a shy smile.
The customer is always right, even when he’s an asshole. I’ve taught her well. The Digger’s daughter.
She’s your daughter, too, Beth, but I hope your lessons have ended. Everything we knew might have been wrong.
“She could be the only angel here, Mr. Gelbaugh,” Wayne said, falling into a dinner-theater role to match that of the guest’s. “I’m Wayne Wilson, your host.”
“I’ve read a lot about you.”
“Half of it is true, but nobody knows which half, not even me,” Wayne said. Kendra shot him a look that said Don’t pile it on too thick. Or maybe Lame-o-rama. He wasn’t so good at teen translation these days.
“Is it the half that says you’re a huckster who doesn’t even believe in the afterlife and is only in it for a fast buck?”
Wayne felt his face shift into a cold mask. He studied Gelbaugh’s eyes, looking for a twinkle of mischief, but all he saw was an inquisitive challenge. The tension was heightened by Kendra’s expectation of a response. Maybe he could surprise them both.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe, or what you believe, or what anyone believes,” Wayne said. “All experience is subjective, and no one’s yet to offer irrefutable proof of li
fe, much less the afterlife.”
Gelbaugh touched his forehead in a mock salute. “So you’ve been reading about me, too.”
“Sure. I subscribe to Fate Magazine and hit the paranormal blogs like everybody else. Unless a dozen people are out there pretending to be Martin Gelbaugh, you get around.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t come to crash the party. I’m just an innocent bystander.”
“Nobody’s innocent,” Wayne said.
A group of four came to the table, drawing Kendra’s attention. Wayne moved closer to Gelbaugh, not sure whether he welcomed the man’s presence. Gelbaugh was a famous critic of the paranormal, but instead of debunking its science, he challenged the foundation of consciousness. The Gospel According To Gelbaugh went something like, “You can’t prove one plus one is two, because you can’t even prove what ‘one’ is. And if you show me a mathematical formula, all you are showing me is a piece of paper with strange markings on it, and I have no way of knowing not only whether the markings are actually there, but whether the piece of paper exists.”
Wayne had to admit, as radical theories went, Gelbaugh’s was pretty unassailable. The man had published a book called “God Equals Absolute Zero,” and it created a brief buzz before its convoluted logic bored even the fickle pop-psychology crowd.
Gelbaugh’s reputation had decayed from metaphysical whiz kid to cranky nay-sayer in the space of a decade. Now he was trading on the last of his reputation, hanging around the fringes, finding new purpose in the paranormal fad. And he’d paid his registration in cash, too far down the ladder to request free admission in exchange for a panel appearance.
“Come now, Mr. Wilson, if we’re going to debate guilt and innocence, you should at least join me at the hotel bar,” Gelbaugh said.
Wayne licked his lips, the bittersweet bite of whiskey aroused from its slumbering tomb in his memory. Sure, he could have one drink. Just one. This time, he could manage it.
Then, in a flash of prescience that could have convinced him of psychic ability if he were so inclined, he saw himself sitting on a bar stool, elbows riding the oak railing, head tilted into the gray fog of cigarette smoke. Glass tinkling, murmurs of conversation spiked with occasional cracked laughter, the TV set tuned to championship poker or semipro boxing, the drinks coming faster and faster until it was morning and he would awaken against the toilet, vomit and apologies burning his throat, Kendra forced into playing the grown-up of the family once again.
You want to talk about horror...
“Maybe later,” Wayne said. “I’ve got to check on the control room and the hunt schedule.”
Gelbaugh gave a knowing nod, and Wayne wondered if his drinking habits had been part of Gelbaugh’s homework. “Sure. How about after tomorrow’s panel? ‘The Nature of Spirits.’ One could take a number of meanings from that title.”
“It’s supposed to be open-ended,” Wayne said.
“Naturally,” Gelbaugh said. “What better way to kick off a paranormal conference than to turn on the metaphorical fog machine and cloud the collective consciousness?”
“My panelists have credentials that–”
The walkie talkie on Wayne’s belt squawked, and he retrieved it, glad he didn’t have to defend the reputations of people he’d drafted because they were willing to jabber for free.
“Excuse me.” He pressed a button and said into the mouthpiece, “Wayne here.”
“We got a problem, Boss.”
Burton had a flair for understatement. His “problem” was another man’s “life-and-death crisis.” At best, he’d run into a wiring problem. At worst, the whole telecomm system had melted down.
“On my way,” he answered, brushing past Gelbaugh and heading for the stairs. “What you got?”
“In the medium room.” Burton responded. “They were playing around with automatic writing, and a woman fainted.”
“Christ,” Wayne said. His first thought was not of the woman’s well-being, but of his liability insurance. He almost wished he believed in God so he could pray the victim was diabetic or had some other chronic ailment instead of suffering emotional trauma.
All conference attendees were required to sign waiver forms acknowledging the physical and psychological risks of ghost hunting, but his attorney had said the papers were little more than good publicity. A lawsuit was a lawsuit, and in a courtroom, everybody lost but the lawyers.
There was one more possibility, one he wasn’t yet prepared to face. But she would wait for an intimate moment to make her appearance.
You and me, just like the old days. Just like we never have before.
He was leaping up the winding stairs three at a time when Kendra called after him from below. “Something wrong?”
Wayne peered over the railing. “An Elvis sighting.”
“Dad,” she groaned, but he was already thundering to Room 218 and whatever unpleasant surprise awaited.
Chapter 10
Amelia appeared to be breathing normally, but her fluttering eyes gazed past Burton’s shoulder to a point on the ceiling.
“She’s up there,” Amelia said.
Burton, checking her pulse, put his head to her chest, but her heartbeat was lost in the pillowy softness of her breasts and he wasn’t willing to burrow in for better audio. If she were having a heart attack, she was having the most blissful cardiac arrest ever recorded, because her smile stretched across her rounded face.
“Dearheart,” said the thin man Burton took to be her husband. He was excited but his voice projected no life-or-death anxiety. “Are you stepping through?”
The other three people in the room were frozen around the glass coffee table that held an Ouija board. All three wore white badges that featured their names and the cute little ghost logo Wayne used for his Haunted Computer Productions trademark. They were paying customers, which made the situation more controllable. Paranormalists were used to drama queens and catatonia, and sometimes a gathering of like-minded seekers led to a game of one-upmanship that had the clairvoyants and sensitives quivering in the throes of unseen forces. Their performances could make an orgasm-faking porn actress proud.
But Amelia had dropped like a sack of flour, with a limp-boned surrender that would have been difficult to fake. The human body had a number of involuntary defenses, including the instinct to brace for a fall. Burton, watching the session on one of the control-room monitors, had taken her flop for the real thing. Overweight people were more prone to health problems, and in stressful environments the pressure on bodily systems naturally increased.
After calling Wayne on the walkie-talkie, he’d raced to 218 and arrived less than a minute after her collapse. Amelia’s husband Donald didn’t even ask Burton to call an ambulance. Apparently he was used to her spells, or what he had called “stepping through.”
“Angel in the clouds,” Amelia said.
Burton lifted his head from her breasts and studied the swirled gypsum patterns in the ceiling. With a little imagination, or the appropriate hallucinogenic drugs favored by visionaries around the world, then the random patterns could be fitted into whatever shapes the viewer desired. Might as well be angels as anything.
“What’s her name?” Donald asked, edging closer.
Amelia lifted a trembling arm and pointed to the table. “Ask the board.”
A yellow legal pad was on the table beside the Ouija board. Now that Amelia had stabilized, Burton turned his attention to the words written there.
“Nancy. 1922. In the stone garden.”
It was like a supernatural game of “Clue,” only instead of the butler in the study with a candlestick, it was Nancy in the garden, from an era long enough ago that she was almost certainly deceased. However, Amelia hadn’t addressed the angel as “Nancy,” so her dream image must have been someone else.
“Help me lift her,” Donald said, and Burton took one shoulder and arm while Donald lifted her head. They were struggling to get her into a sitting position when Wayne came panti
ng through the door.
“How is she?” Wayne asked.
“We had an episode,” Donald said, full of pride.
Wayne visibly relaxed. He glanced at the three guests, who kneeled around the coffee table like adolescents who’d been caught playing Spin the Bottle.
“Your medium room is above average,” Amelia said, and the bad pun broke the tension. Burton had heard it before but laughed anyway.
“The planchette,” Donald said.
Amelia reached forward, her hands still shaking, and cupped the wheeled triangular device. The three guests knelt at the coffee table, penitents before a shrine, though they must have sensed that Amelia would be flying solo on this particular ascension to the Great Beyond. Burton found himself kneeling as well, though he’d never ascribed much mystical power to a concoction of cardboard, glue, and ink manufactured by Parker Brothers.
Still, intention was a powerful thing.
Wayne approached the table, eyes shining as if infected with the contagious enthusiasm that filled the room. Burton knew Wayne also put little stock in the Ouija board, but his boss believed in giving the people what they wanted. If they paid good money to sit in a room and consult a trademarked oracle, then more power and Godspeed to them.
“Are you here, Nancy?” Amelia said.
The surrounding observers were silent as the planchette gave a squeaky roll toward the “No” corner of the board. Burton’s take on the divination tool was that the operator unconsciously manipulated the wheeled mechanism. It was difficult to tell fakery, but if you believed all of it was fake, then you didn’t have to waste time detecting sleight of hand.
“If you aren’t Nancy, then who are you?”
Burton met Wayne’s glance. No doubt Amelia had researched the hotel’s history and knew all about the legend of Margaret Percival, the suicidal Frederick Weinstein, and the honeymoon heart-attacker Erwin Henderson. Since Margaret was the most notorious of the cases, Burton expected the planchette to slide toward “M.” Donald squatted beside his wife, pen poised over the note pad to record the letters.
Speed Dating with the Dead Page 5