The Wantland Files

by Lara Bernhardt

  Stan and TJ shifted around the room as Danielle pleaded with her husband. “Stephen, let her. Please.”

  He shrugged and released the boy.

  She squatted to toddler level, admiring the picture. “Did you really draw this all by yourself?”

  Still slurping two fingers, the boy nodded.

  “Wow. You are a very good artist.”

  Drew grinned around his soggy fingers and moved close enough to lean against her. He released his fingers with a wet smack. “Tat!” He pointed to his drawing.

  “It’s a pretty cat. Do you like cats?”

  He nodded again.

  She placed a hand on his back and immediately felt all the vibrant, spinning energy sources he produced. Just as she suspected. One of them outshone all the others.

  “I like cats, too. This is a terrific drawing.” She smiled at the boy. He tipped his head onto her shoulder. Please, Stan, catch every second of this.

  She handed the drawing back to Drew. “I hope you’ll color more pictures for us.”

  Stephen held his arms out, and Drew returned to his embrace.

  She stood up and met Danielle’s anxious gaze. “He’s not only a great artist. He’s also an Indigo child.”

  Sterling and Stephen exchanged a look. She knew what it meant. She’d once investigated a home where the woman’s friends refused to believe anything unusual might be happening, even when they experienced strange occurrences themselves. That woman had offered a bit of advice: Skeptics be skeptics.

  “What does that mean?” Danielle asked. “Is that good?”

  “Depends on how you look at it, like most everything in life. Indigo children are empathetic. He may be quite emotional and affected by the emotions of others around him. Some days he may feel moody and not know why. Indigo children are more in tune with their sixth sense. The indigo chakra at the top of the spectrum is the dominant energy in these individuals. Thus, the name. The fact that he’s open to and aware of other entities around him leads me to believe he may, in fact, have seen the manifestation that’s been disturbing you.”

  Danielle ran her fingers through Drew’s hair. “I knew he was special. I knew it.”

  Sterling clicked his tongue and shook his head. “I feel like you’re using the word fact rather loosely, Kimberly.” He turned his attention to Danielle. “No offense, ma’am, but there is absolutely no proof that chakras or Indigo children exist. Your son doesn’t need a label to be special.”

  Kimberly gritted her teeth. “I’m an Indigo myself, Mr. Wakefield. I know what I’m talking about. And I know it exists. He may not grow up to manifest clairsensory abilities, but he will be empathetic, have strong instincts, may dream things before they happen—”

  “There is no proof of any of that,” Sterling said. “You can say anything, but that doesn’t make it true.”

  “My proof is that it happens to me. I experience these things. Just because you don’t—”

  Michael cut her off. “Why don’t we return to the master bedroom to finish the reading? You can talk to Danielle about this later.” He put an arm around her, leading her out of the kitchen and down the hall. He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Don’t bother wasting time arguing with him. Danielle believes in you. Getting anything in the reading yet?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet,” she mumbled.

  “That’s unusual. You said you had a good feeling about this one. Were you wrong?”

  “Don’t doubt me, Michael. I know there’s something here. I just haven’t found it.”

  “I hope so. And I hope you find it quick. The episodes where we don’t find anything are the least popular. And I don’t want a nothing episode for a season finale.”

  “Believe me, no one feels more strongly about that than I do.”

  Stan maneuvered into the master bedroom before her and recorded her entering the room, while TJ stayed behind and focused on Sterling.

  She felt it immediately. “I’m getting something.”

  She scanned the room, not sure what she sought, but certain she’d know if she saw it.

  Or if it saw her.

  Static, fog, shadows, bright flashes of light or color. Anything out of the ordinary could signal something attempting to communicate. She took a few more steps into the bedroom, watching for any shift. Nothing grabbed her attention.

  She closed her eyes. Input could reach her in many forms. She tuned out the world and opened her senses to whatever might be attempting to communicate. She strained her ears, listening for whispers. No words formed around her. She didn’t feel any hot or cold spots. This was elusive, a twinge she couldn’t quite explain, drawing her forward. She put her hands out to prevent stumbling into anything and allowed herself to be pulled.

  She bumped into the bed and ran her hands over the cover, groping along the edge. Nothing from the bed.

  “Oh, boy. Here comes the Helen Keller routine. My favorite.” Sterling’s voice shattered her concentration.

  Half a dozen voices shushed him. She also thought she heard Michael’s low whisper. Probably telling Sterling to zip it.

  She refocused and allowed the unknown force to lead her. The twinge grabbed her again, but stronger this time, as though someone held a firm grip on her shirt and pulled her forward. She opened herself to the sensation, encouraged it. The other energy drew strength from hers, growing more powerful.

  Beads of sweat collected on her brow as she inched forward. She gulped lungsful of air. In the few steps she took crossing the room, the force left her drained, as though she’d just run ten miles.

  Where are you? What are you? Talk to me.

  She couldn’t maintain the connection much longer.

  The pulling sensation stopped. Whatever pulled her dropped its grip.

  Heat. Something hot stood in her path. She opened her eyes.

  The crib.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but heat waves rolled off the baby bed as if she stood in front of an open oven. Sweat dripped from her chin. She held her hands over the crib.

  Barely aware of murmuring voices behind her, she lowered her hands, gripping the rail. Heat hot enough to blister seared her palms, but she held fast. It wasn’t real. The heat was in her mind, triggered by whatever sought to communicate with her. She couldn’t stop now.

  Hazy images appeared in the crib—soft, wavy edges at first that sharpened into focus. What she saw made her physically ill. She didn’t want to see. She jerked her hands away and turned from the baby bed, severing the connection to the unknown entity to end the vision. Exhausted, she nearly fell to her knees but managed to stay upright, though she gasped for breath.

  Michael hurried to her side with a handkerchief to blot the sweat, but she held up a hand. She was fine. In the first season, she would accept his help and take breaks after draining encounters like this one. Not anymore. She could handle it.

  Michael still worried. “You were right. There’s something here. And it looked pretty powerful.”

  She looked for Stan. Her top cameraman, who had probably been right beside her the entire time, already focused on her as she recovered. Hopefully, he’d taken plenty of crib footage. That bed was the key to this mystery.

  Sterling watched her, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

  Danielle stood just inside the doorway, wringing her hands. She didn’t want to scare the woman, but she had to tell her the truth.

  “Danielle, I had a vision.”

  “What was it?” Danielle asked.

  “In the crib, I saw a baby . . . very still.” She didn’t admit the word lifeless had crossed her mind. “A cat stood over the infant, hissing, red eyes boring into me.”

  Danielle moaned and fell against Stephen. “It’s Felix. He’s after Joshua. I thought he was here to scare me. Not my baby.”

  TJ swooped in on the couple as Danielle dissolved into tears.

  Sterling cleared his throat. “You’re lending entirely too much credence to a so-called vision. Let’s no
t get carried away.”

  Stan kept his camera trained on her face.

  She spoke directly into the camera. “Tonight we will attempt to communicate with the entity and determine what it wants. And how to stop it.”

  9

  Kimberly sat at a table with Michael and Rosie in the hotel restaurant nursing a virgin daiquiri. The drink held more sugar than she normally put in her body, even though she’d ordered the “skinny” option. She never drank during a shoot. Alcohol dulled the senses, and she needed hers honed. But this had been a long day. She wanted a drink badly and hoped the placebo effect would calm her.

  Las Cruces boasted plenty of fine dining options, but they’d opted to grab something at the hotel restaurant. It attempted to offer a classy experience but fell short in her opinion. Mostly owing to the television set to a sports channel droning about impending drafts.

  But also because of the food choices. Or lack of choices. While Michael and Rosie went for a plate of loaded nachos, she searched the menu for baked salmon and grilled asparagus. The closest she could find were roast chicken and steamed broccoli, which she’d instructed the waiter to prepare dry steamed. It would suffice.

  She loved her show and the opportunities it gave her to help people. But the constant traveling got old. So did the sleepless nights. The nature of the business required nighttime investigations. The show shot one week, then they edited the following week. But she slept so little during shoot weeks, she didn’t fully recover during edit weeks. She never complained aloud, lest someone think her ungrateful. Hosting a popular show was a fantastic opportunity many people sought but few achieved.

  Like Sterling. His show never took off like hers did. Maybe he should take a hint and realize people just didn’t like him. She couldn’t wait to see how he handled sleep deprivation. He wanted recognition and celebrity, but could he put in the effort?

  Most of their fellow diners stared at her and whispered. One even pointed. They seemed to be attempting to determine if she was the celebrity they suspected she might be. This was typical. When her show had first become popular and people began recognizing her, she’d found it disconcerting. But she’d grown accustomed to it. Mostly.

  “Anyone know how Sterling reacted to the crib encounter?”

  “He stayed pretty quiet,” Michael said, glancing around the restaurant. “Where is he, anyway? I told him we were eating here. Thought he might join us.”

  “If he shows up, I’ll share my seat with him.” Rosie shifted to one side of her chair. “His tight little butt will fit here.”

  Michael shook his head and held out a palm. “Or we can pull up another chair.”

  “Another option. But way less fun for me.”

  “I’m okay eating dinner without him. I already endured one meal with him today.” Kimberly slurped her daiquiri.

  “I’m excited about tonight,” Michael said. “What exactly happened with the crib, Kimmy?”

  “Pretty much what I said. I held back a bit so I wouldn’t scare Danielle. Something drew me to the crib. The crib gave off enough heat to burn.”

  Michael checked her palms again. “Still no marks. Good. I saw you sweating pretty good, and it worried me. And you looked exhausted. You gonna be okay tonight?”

  “Of course. I have to be. This is a powerful force we’re dealing with. And seeing the cat from the drawing standing over what appeared to be a lifeless baby . . .” She shuddered. She didn’t want to admit how she felt. “Whatever is threatening them, we need to get rid of it soon. The part I don’t understand is why I didn’t feel anything malevolent in the house.”

  Michael rubbed his hands together. “This could actually be a fantastic season finale.” He held up a hand. “Don’t say a word.”

  “I wasn’t going to.” She couldn’t help smiling, though.

  “So tonight we should focus on the crib, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. It’s pretty worn. More than you’d expect from one baby sleeping in it. Maybe it has some history.”

  “It looks old,” Rosie agreed. “Not something you’d walk into a store and buy today. Worth looking into.”

  “Am I awful because I hope the ghost cat shows?” Michael asked.

  “Not at all. Of course we want to catch it while we’re here. And I can protect the family.”

  “I’m thinking we should set up cameras in the backyard and the bedroom.”

  “Yes, both places. And I’d also like to record in the kitchen and living room areas. I’ll attempt to communicate, see if we can get some EVP activity.” Electronic voice phenomenon often offered clues to the spirit’s identity, and she had an excellent track record of convincing ghosts to talk to her.

  “No problem. We’ve arranged for the family to stay at the hotel tonight. So we’ll have the run of the house and won’t disturb them.”

  She nodded. “Good.”

  “There’s my crew.” Sterling approached their table, a pale, willowy woman in four-inch stilettos on his arm.

  She groaned. No amount of alcohol could help her cope with him. And she wasn’t even drinking. Michael kicked her under the table. Rosie sat up straight, smoothed her hair, and wiped the lipstick off her glass with her thumb. As if anyone would believe that fire-engine red, patent-leather lips occurred naturally.

  “Hi, guys.” He placed a hand on the woman’s back and pushed her toward the table. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend. This is Amber. She drove down here to meet me for dinner tonight. Barely had any time in her busy schedule. But you guys know that already.”

  She glanced up from her daiquiri to discover that though he addressed the table, his eyes remained fixed on her. He looked quite pleased with himself. But then, he always did.

  Offering a hand and a smile, she studied the woman. “Kimberly Wantland. Nice to meet you. What is it that keeps you so busy?”

  The young woman, whose odd shade of platinum hair no doubt came from a bottle, blinked once before squeezing her hand with fingertips and thumb.

  What sort of handshake was that? It sent shivers down her spine.

  Amber blinked her blank eyes once more before turning them on Sterling.

  “She’s a model, as everyone knows.” His eyes took in Kimberly’s clothing. “That is, everyone with knowledge of the current fashion trends.”

  She expected Amber to giggle, but the woman’s bovine, empty expression remained unchanged.

  Strange.

  “Yes, your black denim, black T-shirt, and black jacket are undoubtedly on every Parisian runway this season.” She gulped her drink before she said anything ruder.

  “Boozing it up before tonight, huh? That’s gotta help with your focus. Or do you already realize we aren’t going to find anything?”

  “It’s a virgin daiquiri. There is no alcohol in it, you—”

  “Won’t you two join us?” Michael jumped to his feet. “We can pull up some more chairs.”

  “Yes,” Rosie said, scooting her chair over. “Sit by me, Sterling. Amber, I love your nails. That color is amazing. Kimberly, we should try purple on you sometime.”

  Sterling grinned. “You should. It’ll bring out your natural ‘Indigo’ highlights. Thank you for the invitation, but Amber is only here for the night. I asked for a table for two. For some . . . alone time.” He winked at Michael before leading Amber to their table.

  She stifled a gag. “That’ll be some earth-shattering ‘alone time’ considering we have to shoot in an hour.”

  Rosie bit a fingernail and watched them cross the restaurant. “I’d settle for fifteen minutes with him.”

  Michael nodded. “And I think I’d take fifteen minutes with her. Which makes absolutely no sense. Since she’s, um, not at all my type.”

  “What has gotten into you two?” She looked around the room. All the men who stared at her earlier now fixated on Amber. Not just their eyes, either. Their bodies oriented themselves to her, as if they had no control.

  Granted, the woman was attractive. But
not enough to account for this response. She’d only seen this type of reaction once before. Could it be? If so, Sterling was in way out of his league and had no idea. This was almost too good to be true.

  The waiter delivered their meals, smiling at her as he passed the plates to them. As she feared, the “roast” chicken breast, bloated and almost as pale as Amber, appeared poached or boiled, and the broccoli dripped with oil, limp and overcooked.

  “Is everything okay?” the young waiter asked, hovering at her side. He looked so eager to please, she assured him they were fine.

  She clutched her quartz in one hand and downed the last swallow of daiquiri, still, sadly, alcohol-free. No way would she send her food back to the kitchen. If she did, tomorrow’s top news story would be “Kimberly Wantland Rude to Waiter, Sends Food Back to Kitchen.” Commentators would postulate on whether celebrity had gone to her head, if she was out of touch with reality, and whether something should be done about it. Never mind the food wasn’t prepared as she’d ordered it.

  The drone of sports commentators ended midsentence. The momentary silence caught her by surprise.

  Then her own voice startled her. She looked at the television she’d been working hard to ignore. Her face stared back.

  The waiter stood by the television, giving her two thumbs-up. “Marathon,” he mouthed at her. He’d turned on reruns of her show playing in syndication. An episode from season one. The scene cut away and shifted to the opening sequence. Theme music played beneath her introduction.

  “Dark figures. Flickering lights. Moving objects. Noises in the night. The feeling something isn’t quite right. Is it your imagination? Or something reaching out from beyond? I’m Kimberly Wantland, and these are The Wantland Files.”

  She decided this place wasn’t so bad after all and picked up her knife and fork. She’d tip the waiter well. Unlikely that would show up online anywhere. But he deserved it. And her face on the screen managed to win back some of the whispering patrons. Always good to remind people they wanted to watch her show. Now they’d watch for a glimpse of their hometown and maybe a neighbor. And they’d tell all their friends they saw her at the restaurant.