Phantoms

by Terence West

  "Good morning, Detective Enbaugh," a soft voice uttered from the edge of the curtain. A small face poked around the edge to smile at him. "How are we feeling this morning?"

  Enbaugh lifted himself into a more dignified sitting position. "Fine," he croaked painfully. Reaching up, he felt his throat. There was a bandage around his neck, but he could feel the gash beneath it. He looked up at the nurse nervously.

  "You should be talking normally in a few days," she said pleasantly. "Apparently, in the wreck, your throat was slashed. The cut was deep enough that it almost damaged your larynx, but luckily, the doctor was able to save it."

  Enbaugh shook his head. He didn't remember his throat being cut. He knew he had the gash on his forehead, but when he passed out–

  –the phantoms were there.

  He was fine. His mind feverishly tried to recall the last images he could remember. It was difficult, like looking for the shore while socked in a patch of fog. Not knowing why, he reached down and ran his hand over his meaty chest. Pain shot in all directions as his fingers worked their way down. Acting without thought, he ripped at the light blue hospital gown and tore it down the middle exposing his battered chest. Long red gashes crisscrossed his chest in an awful pattern. Several rows of black stitches had to be added to close the wounds, as well as a few silver staples. He had the sudden flash of claws searing his chest.

  The nurse became worried. "Detective Enbaugh, are you okay?"

  "Mo…" Enbaugh finally managed to pass the words over his lips, "Montoya."

  ****

  Morgan was cowering in the corner of her cell. The orange jumpsuit they had provided was much too large for her, but it was better than the black lacy number she had been wearing. She felt it was a tad inappropriate for jail. She brushed her dark hair out of her eyes and scanned the rest of the holding area slowly. She didn't want to give any of the other occupants the impression she was eyeing them. She had heard all the horror stories. Most of them she knew to be false, but still, it wasn't worth proving the skeptics wrong. She brought her knees up in front of her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

  Her eyes were puffy from crying all morning. Her mind had finally settled down from its state of alarm to something resembling normal thought. She'd been replaying the morning's events over and over in her mind. Sam was dead and the truth of the matter was he was her hero. He was the one she aspired to be like in life, and now she was being blamed for his murder. Why would I kill him? What would make them think I would do that to anyone, let alone Sam Peters?

  Morgan spied a heavy-set woman staring at her from across the cell. She was wearing the same orange suit and horrible plastic sandals, but she had removed the sleeves, probably to show off her multitude of tattoos. A long gothic cross ran down her right shoulder, apparently backlit by rays of sunshine. A long flowing ribbon crossed it and wrapped behind it. It had the words "in death we trust" emblazoned across it. Her other arm was a mixture of religious symbols and another woman's name. The image of a long black snake was coiled around her upper arm as it slithered down to her forearm. Her hair was short and cropped up slightly, allowing small dark wisps to fall onto her face. A lone streak of black ink ran from just above her right eyebrow to just below her eye. Morgan found herself wondering if it was actually a tattoo, or just a horrible scar.

  "What are you looking at?" the woman asked coldly.

  Morgan quickly diverted her attention to the floor. "Sorry, I didn't realize I was staring."

  The large woman lifted herself off her perch and began to walk toward Morgan. Her footfalls against the cold concrete echoed loudly in Morgan's ears. Her heart was racing. She had been in jail less than a half an hour, and already she was going to get a shiv in her side. "I'm really sorry," Morgan pleaded. "I didn't mean to be rude."

  The woman sat down on the bench next to Morgan. She stared quizzically at the young woman. "Hey," she said gruffly. "Look at me."

  Morgan slowly lifted her eyes to meet the other woman's.

  "I'm not going to hurt you," the woman assured her. "You just look scared out of your mind." The woman smiled as a look of confusion crossed Morgan's face. "My name's Jack."

  "Jack?" Morgan echoed.

  The woman smiled. "Short for Jackie," Jack leaned close, "but if you tell anyone, I'll kill you."

  Morgan recoiled suddenly in terror. "I promise I won't–"

  Jack laughed heartily. "You need to relax, kid." She slapped Morgan on the knee. "I was just kidding."

  Morgan tried to muster a smile. "Sorry."

  Jack shook her head. "You sure do apologize a lot." Her eyes wandered over the girl, then back to her face. "You don't strike me as the criminal type. What are you in for?"

  "They think I murdered my hero," Morgan replied quietly.

  "Did you?"

  "No," Morgan answered quickly. She looked at the hard face of Jack and began to relax. "What are you in for?"

  Jack laughed again. "They think I killed my husband."

  "Did you?"

  Jack leaned close to Morgan. "You bet your sweet ass I did."

  Morgan felt her body tense again.

  "I cleaved that fucker's head with a butcher knife," Jack announced proudly.

  "What did he do to you?" Morgan stuttered.

  "He snored. A lot."

  Morgan laughed involuntarily, but quickly forced herself to stop. It wasn't funny, but the way Jack had said it caught her off-guard. She wasn't sure how to reply.

  "It's okay," A waive of Jack's thick hand dismissed Morgan's unease. "I'm usually not a violent person. Just don't snore around me."

  Morgan found her humor to be in very bad taste, but what was she going to do? It wasn't like she could tell a killer her jokes were offending her. That didn't seem like the right course of action at the moment. Morgan forced a smile as if she had enjoyed Jack's humor.

  Both women looked up as the heavy clink of steel bars echoed through the cell. A lone officer stood at the opened cell door. "Morgan LeFay?" he asked.

  Morgan slipped into a sitting position as she lowered her feet to the ground. "Yes?"

  "Warden wants to see you," the officer laughed at his own joke. "I always wanted to say that." He snickered again. "I need you to come with me."

  Jack patted Morgan on the shoulder with her meaty paw. "Everything's going to be okay," she assured Morgan.

  That was the first sensible thing anyone had said to Morgan all morning. She slowly stood up and walked toward the officer. Turning, she gave Jack one final glance. The officer grabbed her wrists and pulled them behind her back. She could feel the cold metal of the cuffs as he snapped them on. "Is this really necessary?" Morgan asked calmly.

  "I'm afraid it is," the officer replied. "The captain doesn't like suspected killers roaming free."

  "I didn't kill anyone," Morgan argued.

  "Sure you didn't, honey," the officer said unemotionally. "Sure you didn't."

  Chapter 17

  Trent walked briskly past the front of the house with a large silver tripod slung over his shoulder. The crew had arrived on location about twenty minutes earlier, and set-up was progressing nicely. The white satellite van was parked in the driveway just behind what was left of the OPR's vehicle. A large yellow and red logo was painted on the left side of it, advertising the news station to which it belonged. One large dish rested quietly on its roof. Jackson had spooled out a large mess of cords onto the wet grass and was proceeding to attach them to a thick snake cable.

  Meanwhile, Chris was busily attending to his various bits of sound equipment. "Shit," he muttered under his breath.

  Jackson looked up and brushed his blonde hair out of his eyes. "What?"

  Chris was rifling through a dark green duffel bag. "I can't find the Shure."

  "The what?" Jackson asked as he snapped another connecter into place.

  "The Shure," Chris repeated. Lifting the bag, he turned it over in his hands and dumped out the contents. "I can't find the microphone. I coul
d've sworn I packed it."

  "We can use the cordless lapel mics. It's no big deal," Jackson assured him.

  "No," Chris said sternly. "The lapels will be fine for voice, but I like to have my Shure on a boom to pick up ambient noises. You can't really have a piece on ghosts and not have creepy noises."

  "Won't the lapels pick that up?"

  Chris sighed and nodded, "Yes, but only if it's loud enough. They'll completely miss the softer noises." He stood up and walked over to the van. He quickly rapped twice on the door with his knuckles.

  A cloud of smoke rolled out of the van as the door popped open. "What is it?" the man asked. He was a grizzled veteran of the news business. Probably had been in it his entire life. His hair and goatee had completely gone gray, and his face read like a withered road map of his career. His left ear was pierced with a single gold stud and a short white scar lived over his right eye. He was wearing a dark red t-shirt with a tan fisherman's vest over it. Chris was sure he had every kind of video and audio connector stowed in the pockets of the vest. "If you want me to get the feed up, you need to leave me alone." He started to pull the door shut.

  Chris grabbed the door before the man could close it completely and pushed it back open. "I need a favor."

  The man lifted his cigarette and took a long drag while eyeing Chris. Flicking it out the door, he stepped out of the smokey den. "What kind of favor?"

  "I forgot to pack my boom mic," Chris admitted uneasily. It made him sound like a first year rookie. "I need to know if you have a mic I can borrow."

  The vet smiled. He loved doing favors. Everyone owed him something. Turning back to his van, he stepped inside. "What kind are you looking for?"

  "I usually use a Shure SM81. It has a great low end, but I would also settle for an Audio Technica, or an AKG shotgun mic. Preferably the–" Chris was stopped in midsentence by a mic case hitting him square in the chest. His hands shot up to grab the plastic box before it could tumble to the ground. He shot the man in the van an angry glance. "Don't you know that can damage a mic's condenser?"

  "That's all I have," the vet said, ignoring Chris’ comments.

  Chris popped open the case and lifted out the thin black microphone. "What the hell is this?" he asked while holding the plastic artifact in his hand. He rolled it over in his fingers and stared in awe at the brand name. "Who makes ‘Uni-Zero'?"

  "It's a little place I deal with just south of the border. It comes from the same factory that makes Nady Microphones."

  "So this is some cheap Mexican knockoff?"

  "What would you rather have? No boom mic, or a cheap Mexican knockoff?"

  Chris weighed his options for a moment. Possibly having no mic was better than using the one in his hand, but then again… Chris flipped it over in his hands. "What is this? It doesn't even use a standard XLR jack!"

  "No, it has a permanent quarter inch adapter attached to it," The vet announced proudly. "Much less likely to be damaged after repeated use."

  "Are you insane?" Chris shot at the vet. "This is a serious piece of shit!"

  The vet smiled. "Take it or leave it, kid, but I'm sure your boss would be pretty unhappy if she found out her sound tech forgot some of his equipment on the day of the shoot."

  Chris glared angrily at the man, but his face slowly softened into a smile. "You old son of a bitch."

  The vet pulled a cigarette from the pack tucked into his vest. Removing a gold lighter from his pocket, he lit it and took a long drag. "Want a coffin nail, kid?" the vet asked, offering Chris a smoke.

  "Pass."

  The vet dug into another pocket on his vest and removed a small black cylinder. "Here," he said, tossing it to Chris, "you're probably going to need this adapter."

  Chris smiled again. "Thanks, old man."

  ****

  "Time?" Carrie called out.

  A crewman snapped his head up from his work to look at the producer, "Eight-twenty-seven am."

  Carrie nodded approvingly. This was going to work, she told herself. It was going to be a marvelous broadcast, maybe even change the face of television as they knew it. Turning slowly, she looked at the face of the Grant House before her. It was oddly menacing against the darkening sky behind it. Several windows on the second floor had been broken during the previous night's storm, giving it an almost dilapidated look. She smiled. That would most definitely add to the already eerie atmosphere.

  She glanced across the front lawn. Her crew, in conjunction with the small news team that had brought the van, was working diligently on the shoot. They would begin to shoot backgrounds in about ten minutes, and move on to the actual re-enactment ten minutes after that. It was a very exciting morning. Carrie could almost feel electricity surging through the air. Which, in all actuality, was probably the case due to the downed power line in front of the house. She started to smile when she saw Chloe emerge from the house followed by Rivers and the three members of the OPR. She quickly strode across the wet lawn to meet them.

  "How are we progressing?" she asked.

  Chloe smiled. "Very nicely. They'll all be ready for the shoot tonight on schedule. We even have an added bonus."

  Carrie cocked her head to the side. "What's that?"

  "They've already been in the house and experienced some strange phenomenon." Chloe pointed to Bishop's bandaged hand. "He received first degree burns here yesterday."

  "From what?"

  Chloe smiled. "Nothing."

  A wicked smile crossed Carrie's face. "Incredible."

  "I don't think you all quite understand," Cane cut in. "This house isn't safe. Four people have died here recently and another was injured. I strongly suggest that you reconsider this broadcast."

  "Too late for that, English," Carrie shot. "We go live tonight whether you like it or not."

  "We're here to try and protect you idiots," Bishop shot out. He started to speak again, but Dawn quickly stopped him. She shook her head slowly at him.

  Cane watched the outburst, then turned back to Carrie. "Ms. Lang," he said slowly, "do you want your talent to die on national television?"

  Rivers eyes widened. "I thought you said it was completely safe in there, Carrie."

  Carrie nodded. "It is, Rivers." She turned back to Cane. "It's going to happen, Mr. Cane. With or without you."

  Cane spun quickly on his heels and ushered Dawn and Bishop away. "We'll see," he added menacingly.

  Carrie lifted her hand and pressed her fingers firmly against the bridge of her nose. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. "Are they going to be like that all day?"

  Chloe shrugged. "At least we have them."

  Carrie nodded. "At least." She slowly removed her fingers and opened her eyes. "We have a slight problem."

  "What?" Chloe asked.

  "We don't have a child actor for the re-enactment."

  Chloe shook her head. "No, we don't have any actors for the re-enactment. We were going to hire a few here in Florida, remember?"

  "We can make do with what we have here for the adults," Carrie suggested, "but as for the child that died…"

  "Maybe we'll just have to forgo the re-enactment," Chloe offered. "We have enough material to cover the entire hour as is. We can start with the house history, then move to the interviews with the OPR–"

  What are we going to play over the history?" Carrie asked, slightly annoyed. "I don't think the audience really wants to sit and watch Rivers read the history for five minutes."

  "Hey, wait a minute," Rivers shot out, realizing his character had been assaulted.

  "If we had a re-enactment," Carrie continued, "we could run that over the top of River's voice-over."

  "That still leaves the problem of where we're going to get the kid," Chloe reminded her.

  Carrie lifted her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and began to dial a local number. "Let me make a few calls. We'll see what I can come up with."

  "We have to have the raw feed to the studio in less than an hour so they can produce
it," Chloe interjected.

  Carrie nodded and turned away, cradling the phone to her ear.

  Chloe looked over at Rivers. He was fidgeting with a lit cigarette in his hand. She watched him lift it shakily to his mouth and take a puff. "Are you okay?"

  Rivers shook his head. "I don't think my insurance policy covers accidental death by a malevolent ghost."

  Chloe couldn't help but laugh. "Nothing's going to happen, Rivers. You're just being paranoid."

  Rivers dropped the cigarette and looked down at Chloe. "Am I?" He crushed the butt with his shoe and slowly exhaled his last puff in Chloe's face. "Four people have fucking died in this house! Not only died, but were horribly dismembered!"

  "I think you're getting a little worked up over small potatoes," Chloe suggested.

  "Oh, yeah? What if I fucking walk? You won't have much of a show if I'm gone."

  Chloe snickered. "Even when you're here, we don't have much of a show." She knew that was the wrong thing to say as soon as it came out of her mouth.

  Rivers glared at Chloe. "I don't have to put up with this shit," he announced. Turning, he started to walk away.

  Chloe quickly grabbed his arm and spun him around. "I'm pretty sure you do have to put up with this shit, Rivers." She didn't want to pull her ace this early in the game, but he had left her no choice. "Stephen told me about the conversation you two had in his office. He told me if you fucked this up, you were gone, and he would blacklist you. Do you want that?"

  Rivers started to speak, but stopped.

  "Do you want that?" Chloe repeated with more anger in her voice. "I don't think you want to be one of those actors who shows up on Entertainment Tonight's ‘Where are they now?’ segment."

  "The Biography Channel already said they wanted to do my life story," Rivers said like a spoiled brat.

  Fire was burning in Chloe's eyes. "Fuck the Biography Channel. VH-1 wouldn't even do a show on you."

  Rivers ripped his arm loose from Chloe's grip. "How dare you?" He spun and stomped away.

  Chloe made no attempt to stop him this time. She knew he needed a little time to fume. He'd be back, she told herself. He always came back.