by Mark Lukens
“Just because energy changes forms doesn’t prove the existence of a god or a supreme being or a grand design.”
“When you look around,” Warren said, “and you see the tenacity of life, the way organisms change over time, learn to adapt to the changes in their environment, doing anything to survive, reproduce and pass along the genetic information that has been coded into their cells, you have to realize that there must be a grand design. If all of this life is just random matter coalescing together from the Big Bang, and life on not only our planet, but on an unimaginable amount of other ones, is just a random chance happening, then why has life been programmed with such a tenacious urge to survive? If life was truly random, then wouldn’t life have died off a long time ago as the environment changed?”
“So your argument is that God designed us to survive, to evolve?”
“Maybe it was God. Or a higher power of some kind. A higher intelligence. Something. But I don’t, I can’t, believe that everything in the universe just happened randomly.”
“The idea of a god designing our whole universe, of designing life, is preposterous,” Nigel said.
Warren smiled at Nigel. “So I guess you know how the universe was designed.”
“It wasn’t designed,” Nigel said. “It was created from the Big Bang.”
“The Big Bang,” Warren scoffed. “That idea is more far-fetched than the idea of a supreme being. The idea that everything in the universe, all of the galaxies, dark matter, stars, planets, down to the smallest asteroids, down to the smallest motes of dust floating through space, down to the atoms and particles—all matter—came out of an explosion from a point of singularity is laughable to me. And after this Ping-Pong ball that contained all of the matter in the universe exploded in the Big Bang, then what? Everything, all the suns, planets, comets, and meteors—they just formed on their own over time? How?”
“Gravity pulled them together.”
“And what caused gravity to let them come apart in the first place? And where did gravity come from? Some scientists believe gravity is only created when something with enough mass spins in space … so if gravity is only created after something like a planet or sun has formed, then what brought those particles together in the first place?”
Nigel didn’t say anything. He looked down the dark hall at the door to the sunroom. It was halfway open and letting dull gray light into the hall.
“He’s got a point,” Harold said from behind the camcorder.
Nigel flashed Harold a wicked stare.
“And now scientists say that the universe is expanding,” Warren went on. “Everything is moving away from everything else in the universe at the same time, which is both a mind-blowing and a depressing thought. Everything except the planets and moons in our solar system is moving away from each other, that is. Some scientists believe our planets and moons are moving closer and closer towards the sun over the next billion years or so, and some believe that everything in our galaxy is moving closer, little by little, to a huge black hole at the center of the Milky Way. But let’s just assume for a moment that some of these scientists are correct and that the universe is expanding and everything is moving away from each other since this supposed Big Bang happened, as the Doppler Effect posits. Then how are galaxies colliding with each other if everything is supposed to be moving away from each other?”
Nigel rolled his eyes like he was in over his head now. “I’m not a scientist,” he grumbled.
“Something’s basically wrong with a lot of these theories,” Warren said. He could feel himself getting excited, his voice rising, his gestures getting wilder—he was turning on the professor mode and he could tell that Nigel was already sorry he’d brought this subject up. “But most scientists are too afraid to challenge the status quo, too afraid of even asking questions or keeping an open mind. They’re more worried about eking out a nice career rather than searching for the truth.”
“And you believe the truth is right here in the Thornhill Manor?” Nigel asked him like he was trying to change the subject.
“I believe it’s worth an investigation. I believe it’s worth keeping an open mind about it.”
Nigel pointed his flashlight down the hall. He seemed like he was ready to move on down the hall now and forget he’d even started this conversation.
“And what about you?” Warren asked Nigel. “Why are you so skeptical? Why are you so closed-minded, so certain in an absolutely uncertain world?”
“Because I’ve seen people get hurt by this kind of thinking,” he said as he stared down the dark hall. Then he looked back at Warren. “I’ve seen people believe in charlatans and then get ripped off. But worst of all, I’ve seen them gain hope that they could contact loved ones from beyond the grave. And then I’ve seen the crushing blow when they realize they’ve been lied to. And their wallets have been drained in the process.”
“But what about us? We’re not ripping anyone off or conning anyone. We’re just investigating a large home on an island.”
“Oh, I’m sure Nick Gorman is going to find a way to make a lot of money out of this. All of you are going to record the flimsiest of evidence, edit the hell out of it, and then pass it off to the world as proof of ghosts or an afterlife or God, or whatever agenda you’re trying to pass. And that will only give the charlatans more fuel for their fire, more ammo for them to hurt people with.”
“What we’re doing here is—”
The door to the sunroom down at the far end of the hall slammed shut.
All three of them stared down the hall. Warren shined his flashlight beam and Harold shined the camcorder’s light down the hall, but both light sources were too weak to make it all the way down the hall which was shrouded in darkness now that the door was closed.
“Just the wind,” Nigel said.
“From where?” Warren asked.
“One of those windows in the sunroom.”
“All of those windows were closed. Remember?”
“Then a draft from somewhere,” Nigel said. “A buildup of pressure inside this house from the thunderstorm outside. You’re the scientist,” he snorted.
“Let’s go check it out,” Harold said as he aimed his camera down the hallway towards the door to the sunroom down at the end. He’d already started walking that way.
Warren stopped suddenly, cocking his head. “You guys hear that?”
They all stopped for a moment, all of them listening.
“Sounds like a … a thumping sound,” Harold said. “Almost like footsteps.”
“Like the ones we heard last night,” Warren said in a low voice.
“It could be footsteps echoing from Shane and Kristen down on the second floor,” Nigel said.
“You know,” Harold said. “Somebody could really be in this house.”
“Yeah,” Nigel said. “Some of Nick’s crew setting up this hoax.”
“No,” Harold said in a low voice. “I don’t mean any of Nick Gorman’s crew. I mean there could be people living here on this island, in this building. Squatting here.”
“I don’t think so,” Warren said. “I think we would’ve seen more evidence if there were people living here.”
The clouds from the thunderstorm outside made the hallway much darker than it had been even moments ago. As they passed the doors to the other rooms in the hall, Warren and Nigel opened each door along the way. Harold shined his camera’s light into each room for a few seconds, filming and making sure no one was in any of the rooms.
Moments later they were right outside the sunroom door.
They all listened for a moment, Harold’s camera panning from Warren and Nigel and then to the door. The sound of the footsteps was gone now.
“I don’t hear anything now,” Warren whispered.
“Bloody hell,” Nigel grumbled impatiently as he opened the door. Harold kept his camera focused on Nigel in the doorway.
All three of them stepped into the sunroom. There was finally more light to
see by in here from the bank of windows.
“That’s some storm out there,” Nigel said as he stared at the windows across the room.
They walked towards the windows slowly, Harold still filming the whole time. A wall of black clouds lined the eastern horizon from the ocean’s surface up to the top of the windows. It looked like a tidal wave coming towards them.
“Yes,” Harold agreed. “A hell of a storm. I’ve been through a few hurricanes in Florida years ago and that sure as hell looks like a hurricane. At least a tropical storm.”
Warren turned away from the windows and the storm outside. He looked back at the camera on the tripod at the other side of the room. Something was wrong here, something wasn’t right in this room … but he couldn’t figure out what it was.
“There weren’t any tropical storms forecasted,” Nigel told Harold. “I checked the weather reports before we left. Everything in this area was supposed to be clear for the next few days.”
“Maybe so,” Harold answered. “But that looks like bad news out there for this rickety old building.”
Something was really bothering Warren now, tugging at him. He walked away from the line of windows towards the camera.
“Where are you going?” Nigel asked from behind him.
Then Warren finally saw it. “Damn,” he said. “You guys didn’t notice that?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Nigel, Harold, and Warren were already up on the third floor by the time Shane and Kristen climbed the winding stairs up to the second floor balcony. They waited on the balcony for a moment as Kristen stared down at the vast ballroom below, the parquet wood flooring fading into the shadows in the distance.
Shane watched her. “What’s wrong?”
“You know,” she said without looking back at him, “when we came up here last night, when we heard those … those noises that sounded like footsteps …”
“Yeah?”
“I thought I saw something down there in the ballroom.”
“What did you see?”
Kristen hadn’t taken her eyes off of the room below them.
Shane looked down at the ballroom as if he could pinpoint what she’d seen the day before. The ballroom was so big that the far ends of the room were almost hidden completely in darkness. Maybe if they took the plywood down from the tall windows that looked out onto the front porch then some light could illuminate those hidden corners.
“I don’t know,” Kristen said and she turned around and smiled at him.
He really liked her smile, just like he liked her laughter that seemed like such a sudden outburst.
“It was probably just my imagination,” she said. “I think this place is really getting to me.”
Even though Kristen seemed ready to dismiss what she’d brought up, Shane wasn’t so willing to abandon the subject. “What did you see down there last night?” he asked again—a gentle push. “What did it look like? Was it a person? A flash of movement out of the corner of your eye?”
“Yeah. That’s it. Like a flash of movement.”
“Like a shadow moving quickly across the room?” Shane offered.
Kristen nodded. “It was fast. But it was probably just a shadow from all the flashlights and camera lights that we had with us.”
Shane nodded, but he wasn’t completely convinced with her theory. “Yeah, that’s probably what it was.”
It was obvious she didn’t want to keep talking about this, so he gave up on it. He lifted the camcorder up to his eye and filmed the ballroom down below, and then he panned the camera up the stairs, and then he held the shot on Kristen for a moment a few steps above him now.
“Do you want to narrate for the camera?” he asked her.
“No, thanks.”
They walked the rest of the way up the stairs, then turned left, walking down the hallway. Room 214 was on their right about halfway down the dark hall.
“You must really like this kind of stuff,” Kristen said as they walked. “Hunting for ghosts. Spending the night in abandoned houses.”
“I guess it can be a thrill.”
“Do you miss having your own TV show?” she asked.
She seemed nervous and her questions seemed to him like a way to keep her mind off of thoughts of swiftly-moving shadows and dead people buried in shallow graves beyond the fence.
Shane didn’t answer right away. He filmed the long hallway that eventually ended at the entrance to the stairwell that led up to the third floor, but it couldn’t be seen right now down there in the gloom.
“I miss some things about it,” Shane finally answered. “I loved the excitement of it, the discovery of new places … the work itself.”
“The fame and money?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss that, too.”
Shane stopped walking and lowered the camcorder. He shut it off and held it down by his side. “But there are a lot of things about Hollywood that I don’t miss.”
“You don’t want your conversation recorded?” Kristen teased.
“I don’t miss the dishonesty and the backstabbing.”
“There’s some of that in every line of work.”
“What got you into the film business?” he asked her, changing the subject. “How did you start working for Nick Gorman?”
Kristen hesitated.
Shane showed her the camera. “It’s off. I swear.”
She relaxed a little. “Nick Gorman can be very particular about who he employs.”
“I can imagine.”
“He’s my uncle,” she blurted out.
Shane was surprised. “Oh.”
“It’s not like that,” Kristen said, already defending herself. “I’m not working for Uncle Nick just because we’re related. He loves his family, but when it comes to his films, his passion … he’s all business.”
It seemed like she wasn’t satisfied that he believed her so she went on. “I’ve got a degree in film production at USC and I was in the screenwriting program at AFI, so I’ve put in my time. Ultimately Uncle Nick hired me because of my skills, not because of nepotism.”
“Of course,” Shane said. He realized that he’d hit a nerve with his question. “So, you’re a screenwriter, too?”
“Not anymore,” she said. “I haven’t written anything in quite a while. It’s not like I hand my uncle a script and say: Make this. There’s millions of dollars on the line, sometimes hundreds of millions, and Nick, or anyone else in his position, isn’t going to jeopardize a studio just for a family member. Getting a film made is a tough thing to do. There are some great scripts that never get produced and some not-so-great scripts that get produced. Companies take a chance on a script. The stars have to line up just right. Talent definitely comes into it, but there is also a certain amount of luck.”
“So what do you do for your uncle? I mean, what does a production assistant do?”
“I coordinate things, help set up meetings between Nick and the talent, get the crews organized, work with the location scouts, help secure financing, look over any scripts recommended by our readers or agents.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“It can be. But it’s also rewarding.”
They started walking down the hallway again, the floorboards creaking slightly under their footsteps.
Kristen jumped and stifled a scream when the walkie-talkie on Shane’s belt squawked with static.
“Shane,” Billy barked from the walkie-talkie. “Kristen. Everything okay? I’m not picking up your camera feed on the laptop down here.”
Shane grabbed the walkie-talkie and pressed the button on the side. “Having a little trouble with the camera,” he told him and then smiled at Kristen. “Had to turn it off for a minute.”
“What’s the problem? Do you need to bring it back down to me?”
“Negative,” Shane said. “I’m working on it.”
Kristen had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing.
&n
bsp; “If you can’t get it going, then come back down here and we’ll work on it,” Billy said.
“Roger,” Shane said. “Over and out.” He let the button go and hooked the walkie back onto his belt.
Kristen’s smile slipped away. “Maybe we should turn the camera back on.”
“Billy will be fine,” Shane said, but he knew it wasn’t Billy she was worried about—it was her Uncle Nick.
“Maybe we should get some narration on film while we’re up here,” she said and held her hand out for the camcorder. “Here, let me shoot you for a little bit.”
Shane turned the camera on for her and handed it to her.
Her nervousness seemed to melt away as soon as she raised the camera up to her eye, suddenly detached from what was going on around her. “What about the Cranston House?” she asked. “Maybe you should talk a little about that.”
Shane stared at the camera.
“I mean, if you want to talk about it.”
He glanced down the hallway for a moment and then looked back at her and the camera. “I told you that I had a dream about the Cranston House last night.”
“Yes.”
“But there was more to it than that. I also dreamed about Michael Lachance.”
“The kid you went into the Cranston House with,” Kristen said from behind the camera.
“Yeah. Only he’s not a kid anymore. And he wasn’t a kid in my dream. He was an adult and I was visiting him in the mental hospital.”
“Have you ever gone to visit him?”
Shane hesitated for a moment, and then he answered her question. “I wanted to visit Mike right after it happened. I wanted to visit him so many times after me and my family moved down to Louisiana, but I was just a kid and my parents wouldn’t allow it. But after I grew up, when I really started investigating the paranormal, I went back to Ohio and visited Mike.”
“You saw him?”
Shane nodded. “Yeah.”
“What did Mike say to you when you saw him?”
“He didn’t say anything. He’s never spoken a word since that night in the Cranston House.” Shane remembered that last visit … Mike sitting at the table just like he’d done in the dream, looking at him with that vacant stare. “I told him I was sorry that I couldn’t find him that night. I told him I was sorry about what happened to him, but he still wouldn’t say anything to me. Of course he was so doped up … but it was more than that; it was like part of his mind had shut down completely after being in that house. Like he wasn’t there anymore.”