“I found him! I found Monty!”
Stunned silence—from the ghost, from the entire cast.
It was one of the interns, and it took me a moment to remember that I was surrounded by live people. Alice was the enthusiastic intern who always had her phone in one hand. She waved it around, her face alight with excitement. The argument by the wall crack ceased and the ghost forgot me. I saw her shade drift closer to Alice.
Raymond asked, “Are you sure it’s the right Monty Winslow?”
Alice grinned. “My mom’s a real estate agent. I know how to look back and see who owned places. Monty and Jennifer Winslow owned this house for twelve years before they sold it, uh,” she peered at her phone. “Twenty-nine years ago. It’s had, um, fifteen different owners since then. Sold, and resold, and then it was a rental for a long time. The value on the home has been dropping for six years, and the current value per square foot is low against comparative properties, and the—”
“Do you know where Monty is now?” Raymond asked, cutting to the essential.
“Working on that . . .” She held up a cautioning finger. “Just a moment . . . okay. Let me cross-reference that . . . oh, he’s claiming a senior tax rate now on a bungalow on South Eleventh Street . . . Yeah. I think I do.”
Raymond turned back to Bert and Giselle. “Let’s call Monty,” he suggested. “Let’s set up downstairs around the kitchen table. I want to be sure we get good audio on the call as well as some footage.”
He herded them away as if shepherding chickens. When I started to follow, he turned and shook his head at me. As the others moved away, he stepped back to pull me aside.
“Hey, salvage that ugly toilet seat, would you? It shot great. We might want it again for another house.”
I nodded, thinking of the rubber gloves and garbage sacks in my kit.
“Oh, and I don’t want anyone but you cleaning on this floor.”
“What?”
“Well, maybe I can get someone to help with the bathroom. But three crew have already told me that the upstairs bedroom is ‘creepy.’ And that’s just her room, not the cold room. I know I don’t have your sensitivity, but that one room feels really bad, even to me.”
I looked at him in dismay. He shrugged eloquently and said, “You’re all I got,” and walked away. As if that settled it.
Actually, it did. Film jobs are hard to come by in this town. It was in my own best interest to make sure this episode of Second Chances bought us a fourth season. I collected supplies and trudged back up the stairs. My task was to get the room sanitary enough for the drywallers and painters to come in. Tomorrow’s shoot would show them at work, after the “Monty sees it” scene. As Bert had once loudly explained it to us: “The painters are paid to paint, not clean. We don’t want to pay painter’s rates for someone to sweep up rat poop. So you do all that before they get here.”
I worked alone up there while down in the kitchen Raymond captured our stars calling Monty and making arrangements for him to come tomorrow. Then they’d take the shots of Giselle with her hair bundled back in a pretty scarf, a spray bottle in one hand and a dirty rag in the other. They’d find a reason to put Bert up on a step ladder, to repeat their favorite joke about him being afraid of heights. Grandma Chris would stand and beam as Sweetie bid her parents an extremely fond farewell before being whisked away. Then the cast would leave the set and the crew and interns would all pitch in for the cleaning.
The ghost was in the closet again. She was slumped, head sagged forward, knees bent. And the little fountain of blood went leap, leap, leap. I crossed the room and gently closed the closet door. I took the broom and began sweeping the ceiling, knocking down cobwebs and old popcorn texturing. It fell to the floor like clumps of dirty cottage cheese.
The feel of the ghost had changed. She was sad rather than angry. Her sadness permeated the room. I found myself sighing heavily. It was hard to find the energy to clean the glass in the windows. Memories of times when I’d done stupid things came back to me, linked to memories of saying dumb things that made people laugh at me or walk away. One after another, painful memories rumbled through my brain like trains clicking past on an uneven track. I heard myself whisper aloud, “I never want to be friends with anyone.” I drew breath and tried to focus. I took notes on my clipboard as I worked. Three places where the Sheetrock needed patching; the outlet covers on the electrical boxes didn’t match; the ceiling light fixture was wobbly and had no cover. And no one was ever going to want to marry me. The window opened and closed but the catch was broken. My sister wasn’t speaking to me. I stood on my toolbox to unscrew the remnants of the curtain rod holders from the wall.
And every moment, with every blow of sorrow, I felt her watching me.
Monty’s coming tomorrow?
I nodded, sweeping up bits of Sheetrock and ceiling texture.
Maybe he can fix it. I can’t touch her at all. When he said he was sorry, for a few days afterward, he’d be nice and she’d be happy. It was so crazy, how she always seemed to believe him when he said he was sorry and would never hurt her again. It was a weird kind of strong. Like he couldn’t break the good part of her.
“I had a friend like that once. Until he killed her.” Words popping out of my mouth. Unshared secrets spoken aloud.
Monty didn’t kill her. She just died. In her sewing room. It was after I was dead. I can’t go there. But the people who have come and gone here, they say terrible things about Jenny’s room. That it’s cold and awful. People who slept there had terrible nightmares. But the last two people who rented this place, they didn’t even get furniture moved in before they decided to break the lease. Something is wrong with her. Something terrible.
Time for the question. Did Monty kill you?
Gone. No trace of a ghost presence. I suddenly felt as if I could draw a full breath.
I went for a bucket and sponge mop. I used a bleach mixture on the old linoleum. It stung my nose and every small cut on my hand and made my eyes water, but I could almost see the room as it had been. I put clean water and more bleach into the bucket and began to wipe down the trim and the windowsills. Patch the walls, fresh paint, new flooring, some curtains and carpet, and it would be a nice little room.
Jenny was always so warm. She was different from any other foster mom that I’d had. Like a real mom. Even on that night when Monty nearly choked me . . . when she could, when he was done with her . . . I could tell she’d cleaned herself up before she came up here. But there was still blood around her nostrils and in one ear. And her lip was fat. But she came up here and sat down on my bed. I was so scared I couldn’t even cry. I tried to give her the necklace. She folded it back into my hand and said, “Everyone deserves another chance to try again. You especially.”
The ghost’s voice became an angsty wail. She was so kind to me! In the evenings, I’d go across to her little sewing room and watch her make things. She wanted to teach me how, but I was always afraid to try. Afraid I’d wreck something.
The knowledge flowed into me, not as words I heard but as memories suddenly shared. Her shame, her fear, her pain were as mine.
But after that, Monty was like a ticking bomb. I don’t think she’d ever said no to him before, and he blamed me for it. When Jenny wasn’t in the room he’d whisper awful things. He said I was wrecking their marriage. He’d call me slut or whore. I started leaving for school before he got up, and as soon as I got home, I’d come up here. Jenny would bring me my dinner on a tray. I could guess how he was shoving her around and cursing at her. But she just took it. For me. For what she thought I could be. But I didn’t live up to what she believed. I was a coward. He’d beat her and I’d hide up here. And cut myself, as punishment for my cowardice. Because I knew it was my fault he was beating her. I was a COWARD!
The room exploded. I opened my mouth and clapped my hands over my ears. There was no sound, just a burst of pressure that made the window panes slam against their frames and the water in my mop buc
ket jump. It slammed shut the door of the room as the closet door flew open. I stared at the girl in the closet. For the first time, I could see her clearly. Goth-white skin, chestnut hair flying wild in a wind of her own making. Blood on both her hands, blood forming a puddle around her. Ears still covered, I backed slowly away. I put my hand on the doorknob. It wouldn’t even turn. “You were just a kid!”
You are going to help me! It was a command, not a request. You are going to get Monty here, and you are going to make him walk into Jenny’s room! He has to tell her he’s sorry. He always said he was sorry afterward. And she always forgave him. Every. Single. Time. I think that’s what she wants, maybe. Maybe if he says sorry, and she forgives him, she’ll go back to being Jenny. To believing things can be good. To being warm and kind.
“Please let me out.” I could hear anxious voices from downstairs. My heart was hammering. She was strong and getting stronger. Ignoring her was becoming dangerous.
She protected me. I was terrified of him, and she must have been scared, but she stood up to him. For me. Can you imagine how frightened she must have been?
I thought I had a good idea of it, yes.
I would hear him yelling at her. And soon I would hear other sounds. He’d push her down, or slam her against the wall. Or throw things at her. I’d hear a kitchen chair go flying. I was so glad she was protecting me, and so afraid. So ashamed of letting her do it. I knew I didn’t deserve her necklace. That’s why I dropped it into the wall. He has to tell her he’s sorry. PROMISE ME!
“I’ll do my best!”
That’s not a promise! That’s what I said to Jenny, and my best wasn’t good enough. PROMISE ME NOW!
There were shouts and one shrill squawk from downstairs. Somewhere, glass broke. This was no time to tell the ghost that a promise made under duress is not binding. “I promise!” I shouted.
She vanished. A terrible ringing silence filled my ears. I felt as if they were stuffed with cotton. I could turn the doorknob and I did, and stumbled out and nearly fell down the steps in my hurry to get away from her. I slammed into an intern in my flight out the door, and we went down in a tangle of arms, legs, clipboards, and walkies.
Raymond was suddenly standing over me. “What was that?” he demanded.
“The ghost made me promise that we’d get Monty into that cold room upstairs. She wouldn’t let me out of her room until I did!” I shouted the words, but only realized how loud I was talking when Raymond stepped back from me.
“The ghost?” asked the intern I’d fallen over.
“Let’s be calm about this,” Raymond suggested over two interns shouting “I knew it!” One rushed up the stairs while the other fled into the street outside. Raymond hauled me to my feet. “CALM DOWN!” he shouted in his command voice, and we all did. Amazing what knowing that someone is in charge can do for you. He escorted me to a kitchen that now smelled of bleach and fresh coffee. He sat me down at my battered prop table. “Now. From the beginning, for everyone. And nobody interrupts her.”
I hesitated. I had already taken a lot of ribbing over a prior poltergeist event. Announcing two ghosts wasn’t going to improve my standing in our ragtag production company. But Raymond was giving me his steely-eyed look, and someone else clacked a cup of coffee down in front of me. So I told. I was glad that our cast wasn’t in attendance. When I was finished, Raymond shook his head. “Well, that screws up the call sheet entirely.”
That was the whole issue for him—how would it affect the production? In moments, he was on his cell and walkie, issuing new instructions for Grip and Electric about how rooms had to be lit and prepped. Alice the intern announced suddenly, “I got her! Laura Comstod! The suicide made the papers and it was the end of Monty and Jenny Winslow as foster parents. 1987. Long time for a ghost to hang around.”
The moment she spoke the name aloud, I felt Laura’s presence grow stronger. She’d been named. There would be no defying her now. “I want to take a sick day tomorrow,” I told Raymond.
“And less than a week later, here’s the obituary for Jennifer Winslow.” Alice was so pleased.
“You’re not sick,” Raymond said to me. “And I need you.”
And that settled that.
Nonetheless, I felt sick when I showed up for work the next day. None of the food I’d eaten had stayed in my stomach, and I had the shaky, light-headed feeling that goes with that. I’d spent all night battling anxiety sharper than the box cutter in my tool kit. I wasn’t the only one affected. Several of our interns had vanished, and three other interns had brought friends with them. News of a ghost is like that. Some people flee and others cluster. Raymond seemed to have expected it; he had sets of the NDAs and other forms prepped for the “new interns” before he put them to work. Our cast arrived early, a first. Raymond had anticipated that, also, and had spent the night on the set to be sure nothing was disturbed. Including the pendant. Giselle was bright-eyed with fury that Monty was coming to claim it.
Within minutes of her arrival, she had another grievance. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this ghost thing?” she demanded of Raymond. She stared over his shoulder, and her icy glare was all for me.
“Because it’s all nonsense!” Bert declared comfortingly. He put his arm across her shoulders and hugged her. She didn’t relax.
“I know you, Bert Fuller. You’re hoping something will happen, something on camera!”
“Now, honey, I didn’t know any more about this than you did, right up until we arrived here this morning. And I’m sure it’s just a case of someone getting the spookies in an old house at night.” The look he sent me was condescending, in a threatening sort of way.
Raymond had witnessed both looks, and moved me out of the line of fire. “Let’s have Art upstairs for now. Make sure no one touches anything before we’re filming,” he suggested, and I went.
We were set up and ready for Monty when he arrived. Raymond had rigorously limited who would be upstairs for the filming. Some were bitterly disappointed at being excluded. I felt awful about being included.
“No one touches anything up there,” he’d reminded me.
“There is no predicting what’s going to happen,” I warned Raymond, and he just grinned. And I abruptly realized his wild enjoyment of this.
Monty arrived in a pickup truck driven by a younger man of about fifty. I stood at the top of the stairs, clutching the railing and hoping the ghost wouldn’t bring the whole house down on us when Monty stepped in the door. I saw the old man hesitate on the doorstep, and the atmosphere in the house swelled with bitter anticipation. A few of my coworkers exchanged glances. Some people can feel those shifts in mood in a haunting. Others scoff until there’s a physical manifestation. A few times, I’ve taken pleasure in seeing disbelievers suddenly confronted with shuddering lights or fluttering curtains. But I’d never encountered a manifestation as strong as this one, and all I felt was dread.
In the room below, Raymond kept the show on track and on schedule. Introductions and handshakes were followed by non-disclosure agreements and releases to sign, makeup, microphones, and last-minute discussions of shots, angles, lighting, and all the other details. Monty had been a big man, but now he was bent over a potbelly. And a little deaf, perhaps. I heard Raymond explain to him three times why he had to go back outside and be filmed arriving at the house.
And all the while I waited upstairs with a simmering ghost. I could tell when they started filming. Raymond had decided that the lead-in to the story would happen outside and then move into the house. The cast was recapping the finding of the necklace and the mysterious note. I could only catch a few words of what the old man was saying. Politically correct he was not. “My dear old Jenny . . . a bit simple but a sweet woman . . . many happy years here . . . a diamond cross my grandmother wore on her wedding day, so . . .” I listened to them move through the house below and heard snatches of his version of life there. “Jenny wanted children . . . I warned her about that little tramp . . . a pain
in the ass. Jenny always said . . . stole my grandmother’s necklace . . . no morals, sleeping around . . . pregnant . . . that girl’s suicide just broke my Jenny’s heart and . . .”
Liar. Liar, liar, liar! You killed her. You broke her heart when you told her I’d committed suicide! It wasn’t true!
Some of the crew were backing up the stairs toward me, microphones and cameras and lights preceding the procession of Monty and the cast. Only one of my coworkers seemed as on edge as I was. One of the others was a bit nervous, and two others were absolutely immune to the ghost. I was sweating, and the salt of it stung in last night’s cuts. One of the interns, Jerry, abruptly whispered, “So the foster kid committed suicide because she was pregnant?”
I wasn’t! I didn’t commit suicide!
“Be calm!” I begged her. Jerry gave me an offended look. Monty and Bert and Giselle were reaching the landing.
Keep your promise!
I held myself in stillness.
One of the camera crew was taking the steps backward, trying to catch Monty’s every expression as he ascended the stairs of his old home. I retreated into the bathroom to make more room. I had no set task. Perhaps Raymond had stationed me there thinking I could keep the ghost under control. I knew better. I also knew of Bert’s plan. Monty would be shown the necklace in its dusty hiding place. Raymond was hoping for an extreme reaction shot.
I was fearing the same thing. When I saw that Grandma Chris and Sweetie were following them, my stress skyrocketed. Don’t hurt anyone, I mentally begged the ghost, and wondered if she were aware of my thoughts. I felt the ghost’s energy surging and falling in waves, bolstered by the heightened emotions of everyone there.
Unfettered III Page 44