World's Scariest Places: Volume Two

by Bates, Jeremy

  “Private collection? You sound like you have a trunk full of body parts somewhere.”

  He assumed feigned hurt, hand on hips. “You know me, Jack, I’m a pacifist.”

  Actually, I didn’t know Pepper was a pacifist, and the revelation surprised me. I’d always considered anyone who felt bad about stepping on a bug once in a while a bit of an oddball—unless, of course, you went out of your way to step on bugs, and if that were the case, you had a whole different set of problems.

  I said, “So you’ve never flushed a spider down the toilet?”

  “What are you talking about, Jack? I hate spiders. I kill them all the time. I’m opposed to violence. People-against-people violence.”

  “I thought pacifists were opposed to violence categorically because of the karmic consequences and all that.”

  “You’re thinking of Ghandi, Jack. You can definitely be a regular pacifist and kill spiders.” He stopped next to me and studied the wall. “Wow, Barbies!” He raised his camera, adjusted the focus, and snapped consecutive shots. “What do you think happened to that one? I’ve seen a few like it.” He indicated a doll that appeared charred, as if it had been set on fire.

  “Maybe it came to life and Solano had to torch it.”

  “Oooh, Jack, that’s good. I have to remember that.”

  “Get a photo of that pissed-off one too.” I pointed to a doll with an onion-domed head that seemed to be scowling at us, one plump arm outstretched.

  Pepper aimed the lens inches from the evil thing’s face. The camera clicked.

  I adjusted the doll’s arm so it was now reaching above its head.

  Pepper seemed shocked I touched it. “What are you doing?”

  “Take some more photos. You can tell people it moved on its own. It will make good TV.”

  He was nonplussed. “The documentary will make good TV regardless.”

  “Even if nothing spooky happens?”

  “Patience, Jack. We only just got here. Let’s wait and see.”

  “For what? Night of the Living Dead—only with dolls?”

  He huffed. “Okay, fine. You don’t believe in spirits, or an afterlife. I’m not going to try to persuade you otherwise. You are too stubborn.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I’m stubborn?”

  “You’re the most stubborn person I know.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “See, you won’t even admit I might be right.”

  “Because I’m not stubborn.”

  Pepper sighed melodramatically. “Yeesh, Jack.”

  “Tell me, Peps,” I said, “in all your TV shows, all your investigating, have you ever seen a ghost, really?”

  “Not in the sense you might be thinking.”

  “What sense is that?”

  “Not a white sheet that goes ‘boo.’”

  “So what have you seen?

  “Things that cannot be explained. I’ve recorded cold spots, abnormal ion counts in the atmosphere, photographic anomalies—”

  “With your Ghostbusters equipment.”

  “Scientific equipment, Jack. Electromagnetic field detectors, infrared cameras—”

  “I hate to point out the elephant in the haunted room, Peps, but if any of that stuff actually worked, wouldn’t it have proven the existence of a ghost already?”

  “There’s no more scientific evidence to support the existence of black holes than there is to support the existence of spirits. But you believe black holes exist, don’t you?”

  “You’re talking apples and oranges.”

  “Why, Jack? Parapsychology is not a pseudoscience, or at least it shouldn’t be classified as one. There are plenty of respected institutes and universities investigating paranormal phenomena. There was a particularly important experiment done a couple of years ago. A person with a terminal illness volunteered to die in an air-tight glass box. At the moment he passed away the glass, which was thirty centimeters thick, cracked in numerous places. The amount of energy needed to accomplish this would be tremendous.” Pepper paused dramatically. “Now with this in mind, remember what Einstein said. All the energy of the universe is constant. It can’t be created or destroyed. It just gets transferred to a different form. So what happens to the electrical energy in you and me, the energy that makes our hearts beat, when we die? It continues, just in another form. And that form is…”

  “Ghostly,” I said.

  “Right, Jack.”

  “Well, whenever you get more proof of this than cracked glass, or a fleeting electromagnetic field, let me know, will you? Beers on me.”

  “I figured for someone who’s had an out-of-body experience, you would be a little more open-minded to what may lie beyond this life.”

  “Neurons firing, Peps. Hallucinations.”

  “Look, Jack. We might not yet have the means to conclusively prove spirits exist, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist either.”

  “What about clothes then?” I said. “If our energy gets converted to a different form after we die, why do our clothes, a manufactured convention, come with us? You know, the manifestation of the butler in the old British mansion. Why’s he always wearing a petticoat and bowtie?”

  “Close your eyes and picture yourself. What are you wearing?”

  “What I’m wearing now.”

  “You’re not naked?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  I opened my eyes. Pepper was smiling triumphantly at me.

  “See, Jack,” he said. “When you see yourself, you see yourself clothed. The same could be said for ghosts. If they have any control over the energy which they’re comprised of, then it’s quite likely they would manifest themselves how they saw themselves as a living person, wearing clothes.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t get it, Peps,” I said. “Why do you want to prove ghosts exist so badly?”

  “Why? Because it would prove your life continues beyond this one, Jack! It would change the way we think about everything. It would be revolutionary.”

  “But you’re presupposing that there being an afterlife would be a good thing.”

  “How could life everlasting not be a good thing?”

  I thought of my dream earlier. “Because what if that life everlasting was eternal suffering? Would you really want to know that’s what awaited you?”

  “You mean hell?”

  “Call it what you want. But, hell, fine, why not. Would you want to prove the existence of hell?”

  “Well, sure, because if there’s hell, then there’s heaven.”

  “Maybe not, Peps,” I said. “Maybe there’s only hell, and that’s why death is so mysterious, so unknown. Maybe it’s not supposed to be understood or unraveled. Maybe it’s so cloaked in secrecy because what lies beyond is so terrible that life would cease to be livable if we knew what awaited us after we died.”

  “Damn, Jack!” he said. “How do you ever get out of bed in the mornings?”

  “Because life is what it is. There’s either something waiting for us after we die, whether good or bad, or there isn’t anything. Overthinking, even proving, what might be or not be won’t change a thing.” I clapped him heartily on the back. “On that note, let’s go see what’s lurking inside this hut.”

  2

  Unsurprisingly, there were no ghosts inside the hut. There were, however, dolls. Best guess, a hundred, probably more, crammed into an area the size of a small bedroom. For a moment I thought of those carnival midway booths with prizes overflowing the walls and ceiling—only these weren’t cute stuffed animals or toys. They were like all the other dolls we’d already seen: decrepit, sad, mottled, cobwebs spun inside their mouths and eyes sockets. Yet they were different too. They all had their heads and limbs intact, while many were bejeweled with necklaces, bracelets, and strange handcrafted headgear. The result was an incongruous mixture of neglect and love.

  I said, “Seemed Solano had special affection for these particular guys.”

  Pepper was moving
from wall to wall, camera stuck to his eye, taking close-up shots of several of the most disturbing dolls. “Look at this one, Jack,” he said excitedly. Click, click, click.

  I joined Pepper at the support post to which the doll was attached, wrinkling my nose at the almost sickening musty smell that permeated the air. At some point the doll had been painted flesh-colored, but now most of it was covered in a gray grime that made me think of a necrotizing disease. Clumps of tangled black hair fell in front of its face, though it was parted almost deliberately so one black eye could peer out. A dozen colorful bracelets encircled its wrists, while a stethoscope dangled from its neck.

  “Oh, and this one,” Pepper gushed, moving on to a doll whose bald head was studded with nails and nose rings and anything else that could pierce the plastic. Click, click.

  I said, “I wouldn’t have guessed Solano as a Hellraiser fan.”

  “Hey, is that a shrine?” Pepper was already moving on once more. Click, click. A step backward to frame the shot better. Click. “Can you take a picture of me in front of it?”

  “Don’t you want to get all this stuff on film?”

  “I like to take photographs first, to get a feel for the locale.”

  He passed me his camera, then crouched next to the shrine, which featured two wood-carved cranes atop a hand-painted sign that read “XOCHIMILCO.” Beneath this sat what might have been the most bizarre doll yet. She wore some sort of hat from which dangled ribbons, rosaries, and large hoop earrings. She also wore sunglasses, a necklace with a large silver pendant, and a white and pink dress with two teddy bears embroidered on the chest.

  “You guys make a good pair,” I said, squinting through the camera’s viewfinder and taking several pictures. “Any idea what her deal is?”

  Pepper took the camera back and twisted his lips in a thoughtful expression. “I can’t say for certain, but I would guess she was Solano’s favorite. Maybe it was the first doll he found?”

  “She doesn’t look old enough.”

  “Since when do dolls age?”

  “They do here, on this island. Some look like they’re a hundred years old.”

  “Maybe the spirit of the little girl chose it to serve as her medium.”

  “To speak to Solano? I thought you said she spoke to him in his dreams?”

  “And perhaps she spoke to him through certain dolls too.”

  “Are you making this all up as you go?”

  He feigned hurt. “Please, Jack. Can you at least try to keep an open mind?”

  “I am, Peps. It’s all going in one side and coming out the other.” I indicated a large wood-framed photograph hanging on the wall to the left of the shrine. “So is that the great Solano himself?” It showed a man with thinning black hair, kind black eyes, an unkempt handlebar mustache, and a wispy goatee. He was smiling, revealing yellowed teeth. He wore a sleeveless jacket beneath a poncho. “Looks like a nice enough guy.”

  “Nobody said Solano wasn’t nice.”

  “Just crazy.”

  “Spiritual—”

  “…MA-MA…”

  I started. Pepper seemed as surprised as me.

  I said, “Which one—”

  “…MA-MA…”

  The voice was loud, whiny, effeminate.

  Pepper began backing up toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “A doll just spoke, Jack!”

  Ignoring him, I moved along the wall, trying to figure out which doll was speaking—

  “…MA-MA…”

  My eyes paused on a clown doll directly before me: brown shaggy hair, white face, pink nose, pink dimples on the cheeks, pink lips.

  Was it smiling at me?

  The kid inside of me that had once been afraid of the dark and wondered what slept under my bed wanted to follow Pepper’s lead and get the hell out of the claustrophobic room. Nevertheless, the rational adult wouldn’t allow it.

  It was just a doll. An inanimate chunk of plastic. Battery-powered, programed to speak every now and then.

  I reached for it, to turn it around, to peel off its pajama top, to check for the on/off switch and battery compartment—

  A thunderous bang! shook the wall, accompanied by an ear-splitting shriek.

  I cried out, stumbling backward. I collided into a support beam and fell down, dragging several dolls with me. At the same time laughter erupted from the other side of the wall.

  Embarrassment burned me from the inside out. I pushed myself to my feet, scooping up the dolls on the floor. I’d snapped the strings holding them in place, there was no way to reattach them to the beam, and I was still cradling them in my arms when Nitro and Jesus appeared in the doorway to the hut, both grinning like pigs in shit.

  Nitro said, “You scream just like a little girl, Jack Goff!”

  Jesus assumed a straight face that barely disguised his look of hauteur. “I hope you’re okay, Jack,” he said with the proper air of civility. “You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”

  I dumped the dolls at the base of the support beam and went to the door. “Funny, dickheads,” I told them. “Now how about getting the fuck out of my way?”

  Jesus stepped aside. Nitro seized my forearm as I passed him. “You just going to leave those dolls there on the ground, chavo? That’s disrespectful.”

  “Let go of me,” I told him.

  He squeezed tighter. “You got to learn some manners, my friend. You can’t just go around busting everything—”

  I shoved him hard enough he nearly fell over. I would have gone after him but Jesus grappled me from behind, pinning my arms to my side.

  I ran him backward, crushing his body between mine and the doorframe. His hold on me slackened, though he didn’t let go.

  Nitro, recovering, eyes storming, charged. I spun around, using Jesus as an unwitting shield. Nitro’s fist whizzed past my right ear.

  Then Pepper leapt into the skirmish, shouting, telling us to break it up.

  “Jesus!” Pita said a moment later, appearing from nowhere. “Nitro! Stop!”

  Jesus released me. I turned back around, tensing to attack Nitro, but Pepper and Jesus were in the way.

  Nitro was pushing against Pepper, letting Pepper hold him back.

  “Jack, Nitro!” Pita shouted. “What the heck is going on?”

  Nitro ran the heel of his hand over his mouth. “Your boyfriend got scared and spazzed out, that’s what.”

  “Don’t touch me again,” I told him quietly.

  “Or what, chavo? You gonna sissy-push me again?”

  I shoved Jesus and Pepper out of the way and lunged at Nitro. He threw a punch that deflected off my chin, dazing me. Nevertheless, I got my shoulder into him. We smashed through a railing and tumbled down a gentle slope. We struggled all the way to the bottom, flipping back and forth. Nitro was strong, all muscle. But I was bigger, probably had thirty or forty pounds on him, and when we came to a stop I got my weight on top of him—only to realize I didn’t know what to do next. He pissed me off, but I wasn’t going to smash in his face. That’s when I heard Pita and Elizaveta. They were talking frantically. Something had happened.

  I got off Nitro. I expected him to leap at me. He didn’t.

  I climbed the slope, clawing at long grasses and ferns. At the top I saw Jesus sitting on the ground, Elizaveta and Pita and Pepper crouched in front of him.

  “What happened?” I asked, going over.

  “He twisted his ankle,” Elizaveta told me.

  They’d rolled up Jesus’s left pant cuff. Elizaveta gently pulled off his penny loafer. He wasn’t wearing socks. There was a large red bump where there shouldn’t be on his ankle.

  Elizaveta probed it with her finger. Jesus hissed in pain.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Pita glared at me. “You pushed him over.”

  “He was in the way.”

  “In the way of what?”

  I shrugged. “Nitro.”

 
“Nitro—right. Why were you attacking Nitro? What’s wrong with you, Jack?”

  “With me?” I said. “Are you serious? Nitro—”

  “You heard her, chavo,” Nitro said. He’d climbed the slope behind me.

  “Fuck you, Muscles.”

  Pita said, “You’ve gone over the board, Jack.”

  I blinked. “Over the board?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Over the board?”

  Her face flushed. “Jack!”

  “Why don’t you take a hike, Jack Goff?” Nitro said.

  I faced the joker. He was grinning, his barrel chest puffed out like a turkey’s. His eyes drilled into mine, black, taunting. He wanted to start something again because he knew everyone was on his side.

  I walked away.

  3

  I’d met Pita some five years ago when I was twenty-three. Her father, Marco Cuhna, had put together a self-sponsored racing team to compete in the ’96 Busch Series Grand National Division, NASCAR’s minor league circuit, and he wanted me to be his driver. I’d come a long way from the back-of-the-pack kid racing the Monte Carlo on local tracks. The previous year I’d won the American Speed Association rookie title, while the current season I’d finished fourth in standings with two wins. Nevertheless, the big corporate sponsors didn’t want to touch me. I wasn’t fit enough to compete at a more elite level, they said. I bumped too much on the track and drank too much off it. In other words, I wasn’t the whitewashed, polished driver you could put on the front of a Wheaties cereal box. Yet none of that bothered Marco Cunha. “They’re stupid,” he told me simply during our first meeting. “They want someone with perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect personality. Why? Who watches NASCAR? I tell you, Jack. Beer-drinking, blue-collar young men. And they want someone they can root for. An underdog, a hothead, an anti-establishment figure.” He smiled. “So now you tell me, Jack. Know anyone who fits that bill?”

  Driving the No. 11 Conquistador Brewery Chevrolet, I finished the ’97 season sixteenth in the point standings with zero wins. Not exactly statistics to celebrate, but Marco had faith in me, and I had become sort of family, as by then Pita and I had begun dating seriously. She was in her final year at UCLA and came one Sunday to watch me race at Irwindale Speedway. She, Marco, and I went for dinner afterward, and when Marco retired to the hotel, she and I stayed out partying well into the morning, parting with a goodnight kiss. After that, we kept in touch via telephone every now and then until she graduated in June—then she was accompanying her father to every race. I hadn’t wanted a girlfriend. I was too busy. A typical day had me putting in fifteen hours at the racetrack. Pita, however, was persistent, she was always around, and she was a lot of fun. At first we were spending one or two nights a week together. Then it was three or four. Then it was every night, falling to sleep together, waking together. She didn’t know much about stock car racing, but she learned quickly. Moreover, she was a people person by nature, and she fell in love with the glamor of the industry. The buzz of the press conferences, the socializing at the press dinners, the race day parades and post-race functions. What she didn’t like so much were the pit lizards, or groupies, who always seemed to know where I hung out away from the track. Pita was a confident, attractive woman, but seeing these girls throwing themselves all over race car drivers drove her crazy, and it was the source of our first few fights. So to prove to her I wasn’t interested in any of them, I proposed to her in Charlotte, South Carolina, on a clear night in the center of an asphalt oval.