by Angie Martin
Alice shivered and pressed the doorbell. She glanced at the sad, faceless pumpkin near her high heels. The bruised gourd leaned over to the right, its bowed-in left side leaving it deformed and unable to stand up straight. Nice touch, Alice thought. Between the neglected home, the dead plant, and the most unwanted pumpkin of the whole patch, the home was camera-ready for their special. No exterior prep required.
Her fingertip bumped the doorbell a second time. A moment later, the door creaked open. We even have a creaking front door, Alice thought. A smile touched her lips, as the occupant of the home revealed herself.
“You must be Alice Marcel,” the sturdy, elderly woman said through the screen. She pushed open the screen door and beckoned to Alice. “Don’t stand out there and catch a cold on me. Come in, come in.”
“Thank you,” Alice said. With careful footing, she stepped up into the foyer of the home, the musty odors she anticipated not disappointing her with their assault on her nostrils. After the front door closed again, Alice extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Farr.”
“Oh, please, call me Wilma.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed down a narrow hallway.
Alice followed, all while examining the home. To the right, she caught a glimpse through a doorway into a messy kitchen, but she didn’t have time to investigate. An open door on the left side showed off an undecorated half-bath. At the end of their journey, the hallway opened up into a small living room featuring an off-white (mostly due to age) couch covered in an early 80s, grandmother-style roses, complete with lace trim around the seams. The curtains – covered in blue and yellow daisies – clashed with the couch, as did the yard sale paintings on the walls.
Wilma gestured for Alice to have a seat on the couch, while she settled down on the recliner, the only thing in the living room matching the couch. “Oh, my,” she said. “Where are my manners? Would you like some tea? I just brewed a fresh pot.”
“I’m fine, but thank you.” Alice managed a warm smile. “I appreciate you contacting our show about your home. Do you want to tell me a bit more about the hauntings?”
“I thought for sure you’d want to hear more about my William first. He’s what everyone asks about eventually, once they are over their initial jitters.”
“We can speak about Bill, if you like,” Alice said. “I imagine he is a large part of the haunting history here.”
Wilma wagged her head back and forth as if debating what Alice said. “I don’t quite know what’s going on with the disturbances, but William is what made this house famous. I suppose ‘infamous’ is a better word.”
“Depends on who is saying it,” Alice said. “We can’t discount you are his mother. You must still love him.”
“I’ve loved that boy since he made his presence known in my body. His daddy ran out on us while I was still pregnant, so it was just me and William for all those years. He was stapled to my hip, even when he got older.”
Alice reached for her laptop case. “Do you mind if I take notes? It will help with the narration of our episode, should we come to an agreement on the terms.”
“I think we will come to terms. I’m fine with notes.”
Alice smiled and pulled her laptop out of the bag. Once it started, she called up a new Word document and typed out what Wilma had told her so far. “I’m ready,” she said. “I understand from my research that Bill never moved out from your home, despite being 32-years-old at the time he was arrested. Was that his doing, or yours?”
“He never could seem to find a nice girl to settle down with. I didn’t think there was any need for him to get a place of his own and have all those expenses. Plus, he needed to take care of me. My arthritis and other ails crept up on me fast.”
Pounding out the information on the keyboard, Alice’s brow knitted. Wilma seemed to get along okay so far. No limping, not even a slow or stilted walk to indicate arthritis or anything else in need of a full-time caretaker. She made a side note to have an intern look into Wilma’s medical history. From what she’d seen and heard, it appeared Wilma feigned illness in order to keep Bill under her thumb.
“William was such a good, loving boy. Always did what he was told. A kind, gentle soul.”
Alice’s skin chilled a bit with Wilma’s words. She looked up at the woman, whose eyes wandered down to her non-arthritic hands, a memory lighting her lips with a smile. “Do you believe Bill was innocent?” Alice couldn’t help but ask the question.
Wilma startled, as if realizing for the first time she had company in the room. “Oh, heavens no, dear,” she said, waving her hand. “He was guilty as the sun rises. He just didn’t understand quite what he was doing. Right from wrong and all that nonsense. He meant no harm to others while doing what felt good to him. We are all guilty of doing that in one way or another.”
Great, Alice thought. An enabler. Aloud, she said, “Maybe just not to that extreme.”
“Who are we to judge extremes? Much of what is legal today was illegal just a hop and skip ago. Things we say ‘no’ to today may be perfectly acceptable in the future. What’s extreme to one culture is not to another. Same from person to person, even amongst what’s legal. How can we possibly define the word? How can you possibly define it?”
Though her hands rested on the keyboard, poised to continue typing, Alice’s tight muscles resisted movement. The spry, old woman had finally shown her hand, and while Alice didn’t want to assume her now opponent had stumbled upon some dirt (not just any dirt, she thought, it’s the dirt) that might be used in the live burial of Alice and her once illustrious career, the tone of Wilma’s voice suggested otherwise.
“I don’t like to play games, Alice.”
“I can see that,” Alice said. Attempting to appear unfazed, she relocated her laptop to the coffee table in front of her. “I’m not much of a game player myself, so why don’t we just get to it. Why did you call the show and ask for me to come visit?”
“Because I believe we can… what do they say in your business? Scratch each other’s backs?”
“No one really says that, but sure. You’ve got me here, and I’m listening. What can we do for each other?”
“I need to sell my house,” Wilma said. “Without William here, it doesn’t mean much to me anymore. Now, I thought because of what William…” She hesitated, her pursed lips swishing back and forth. “Well, because of his extracurricular activities, this house should sell very quickly. I mean, he was born in the master bedroom and spent most of his life here. With the hauntings, too, I should have sold the damn thing on day one, but it’s been on the market now for months without a single showing. Don’t people buy haunted homes?”
“Absolutely,” Alice said, her comfort level rising as she realized what leverage she had over Wilma. “There was a house last year on the East Coast that had thousands of documented sightings which sold for near two million dollars in a neighborhood full of homes valued at less than half that.”
“Yes, I was thinking about that house. It never quite got the publicity your show could provide, either. And, there were no famous gentlemen born and raised there, correct?”
Alice smirked, having grown accustomed to Wilma’s way of referring to her serial killer son. “You are very right. I know that my show could do a lot for your home in terms of obtaining a sale quickly. In fact, we can make sure to advertise several times that the home is for sale, not only in the show but on our website.”
“I don’t know much about those things, but I trust you’ll do everything you can to ensure my home sells at the highest possible price. I’ll make it very worth your while.”
Alice reached for her laptop. “Then let’s discuss details,” she said. “Halloween night is almost upon us.”
Chapter Three
“I hate her.”
Victor Myers rolled his eyes, heaved the last box of equipment out of the back of the van, and handed it to Darren Simpson. “She hates you, too, man. She hates everyone.”
“You don’t like her either, Vic,” Darren said, as he stacked the box on top of others beside him. He rubbed his hand over his brow, dragging the bangs of his scruffy, black hair into the sweat beads lining his forehead. “At least take my side on it.”
“Take your side on what?” Lena Vasquez asked.
“Alice,” Vic said. “Darren hates her.”
“You know she’d fire us in a second, if she could find someone else to do this job,” Lena said. “Unfortunately, she can’t find anyone to replace us ‘cause the show sucks! We’re on season three of this nightmare of a show that we created, and all she does is block us at every turn. She’s done nothing but destroy our creation.”
“Damn, Lena,” Darren said. “Better slow down before you break out the Spanish cursing again. Of course, it is the only Spanish you know.”
The feisty, petite Latina eased her way up against Darren. She wrapped her small hand around Darren’s pudgy chin. “Keep it up, and I’ll show you I can do a lot more than just cuss you out in Spanish.”
Vic shook his head. “You two have fun while I go set up for our best show in the history of paranormal television.” Carrying an equipment case, he pushed past his friends and up the walk leading to the Farr house, where a production assistant let him inside.
Vic first met Lena in third grade, when he experienced his first ever girl crush. Not on Lena, but her best friend, Kim. As third graders do, he told his best friend, Steve at the time, that he liked Kim. Steve told Lena, and Lena told Vic he was out of his third-grade league. Vic thought that made Lena the coolest girl ever.
As they became closer, Steve and other friends drifted in and out of his life. The duo picked up Darren their sophomore year in high school when they started researching the paranormal. Darren was the “weird” kid, the one who just moved to town, and had all these stories of ghostly visits at night. After listening to Darren’s tales, they dismissed most of them, but agreed to investigate his home nonetheless. They found no ghosts, but managed to snag a new friend.
Still in high school, the three started a paranormal website and started taking clients. With Darren’s boisterous, childlike fascination, Lena’s level-headedness, and Vic’s optimism and eternal belief in ghosts, they soon had a success story. After half a million YouTube followers, Alice Marcel contacted them to turn their sideshow business into prime time entertainment.
That’s when the changes started. Alice wanted to mold their onscreen personalities into what she thought would make them more popular. “YouTube isn’t the same thing as television,” she told them over and over. Not only were they not good enough for the little screen, but their concept had to change. They needed catch phrases. New speaking patterns. New habits. New gear. A different approach to this and that. It went on and on until the three no longer recognized the project as theirs. They were nothing more than trained monkeys.
Vic repressed his frustration with Alice and the show to begin the all-too-familiar work of setting up their equipment. As he took out small infrared cameras, Lena and Darren came in the front door, both carrying additional equipment. They worked seamlessly in silence, all three concentrating on their areas of expertise. Assistants filtered in and out of the kitchen, their designated home base, and within an hour, they were ready to start filming.
As soon as they tested the last camera, after the production staff had vacated the premises, Alice came into the kitchen and greeted the trio. Vic forced a smile at the raven-haired Cruella de Vil in front of him. She hadn’t gotten to her position by petting the puppies, but rather by skinning them – alive. The room noticeably chilled with her presence, as Vic would come to expect with a spectral appearance.
“I’m not going to speak in vague terms,” Alice said.
“You never do,” Darren said, mostly under his breath.
If Alice heard his words, she did not acknowledge them. “If you three don’t make this the best damn show in the history of the paranormal, then you’re done. You’ll never get another shot at this again.”
“You can’t do that.” Lena huffed and crossed her arms. “We have contracts—”
Alice’s evil laugh interrupted Lena’s words. “You think I can’t squirm through every loophole in those contracts?”
Vic kept his head down. He had never been one to challenge authority, and he didn’t feel like starting today. Not with his whole livelihood at stake.
“It doesn’t matter if you have to buy a pallet of fishing line and trick lighting like all our competitors. Put on sheets and run around the house screaming ‘Boo!’ if you must. I don’t give a damn what you do. Just do it.” She turned on her heels and highfaluted her way out of the room.
“I’ll tell you what would make a great live show,” Darren said, staring at the traces of evil left in her wake. “The murder of Alice Marcel. That’s the kind of thing that gets you trending.”
“We have great material here,” Vic said, ever the problem solver. “A serial killer who tortured and raped 31 victims over long periods of time before murdering them in his basement. A home with a great history of disturbances, albeit, unverified. And, Halloween night, live show. Well, live with a 30-minute delay. But, tonight is the night we make history and definitively prove the existence of ghosts.”
“What exactly have we been doing the rest of the time we’ve had this gig?” Darren asked. “I thought we’d already proven their existence.”
“Not definitively,” Vic said.
“I don’t even know what the hell that means,” Darren said.
“It means,” Lena said, “that so far, our audience has been able to explain away our evidence. There are whole websites dedicated to tearing apart what they see on our show. It doesn’t matter how ethical we are or how transparent we make our investigations, they always come up with some explanation as to how we ‘tricked’ them.”
“Exactly,” Vic said. “We need something that is verifiable and beyond the reach of skeptics. That’s why these live shows are great. The audience doesn’t know we have a 30-minute delay, so they can’t claim we edited out fishing line. Not like we’d ever do that.”
“Then let’s get to it,” Darren said. “I want to prove that witch wrong.”
Chapter Four
Vic spent the next hour familiarizing himself with every inch of the house. At the far end of the living room, a narrow set of stairs led up to the second floor. The upper level included a large loft area, whose windows peered out onto the street in front of the house, two extra bedrooms, and a full bathroom.
The lower level, where Bill Farr made history, was an unfinished mess of skeleton frame with no drywall and overhanging pipes and wiring. In the far corner, next to the water heater and heater, an older model GE washer and dryer set stood out in the undecorated room. Vic opened up the top of the washer and immediately slammed the cover shut. The smell of mildew from the washer lingered in the air, making Vic wonder how Wilma, Bill’s mother, washed her clothing without smelling of decay.
He examined the walls next. His fingertips ran over the holes in the studs, the ones to which Bill used to chain up his victims. At the height of his activity, he held five women captive in the basement at one time, all without his mother’s knowledge. She never went in the basement, she had told police when they discovered the dungeon, because her arthritic hips and knees gave her too much grief. With the master bedroom on the main level, she had no need for the upstairs, either.
Vic wasn’t sure how much he bought into her excuse for not knowing of the atrocities committed under her own roof, but what he believed didn’t matter. The police thoroughly investigated her claim and found no reason to believe she had any part in the murders, even one of purposefully ignoring Bill’s activities. Bill himself backed up his mother’s statements in full, never once changing his story, even as he faced death.
Whatever was happening in the house, Vic knew it stemmed from the basement. It was where he planned on spending most of his time during the show. Bec
ause the show was semi-live, and they couldn’t edit a full night of work down to one hour, Vic had come up with the idea of continuing the show on the Internet after their two-hour spot ended. All said and done, their viewers would get to see a full 12 hours of their operation, in addition to the interviews Alice had pre-recorded with Wilma. Vic couldn’t think of a better way to bring his passion for the paranormal to life. Even if this was the end of his television venture with his best friends, at least he would go out in the best possible way.
“We’re ready!”
Vic turned at the sound of Darren’s voice coming down the steps. He gave the basement one last look and ventured upstairs to join his team. Alongside Lena and Darren, they would have one of their regular cameramen, Joey Fisher, to document some of the action. Each of them donned hands-free cameras, strapping them to their heads. Darren picked up his trusty EMF meter, while Lena grabbed an infrared camera. Vic picked up the second infrared camera after securing his one-way radio to his belt. They tried not to separate too much, but the radios came in handy if one of them left to investigate a disturbance.
Carrying his camera next to his signature khakis, Joey led the way outside into the front yard, and the three followed, turning off lights along the way. Vic had decided earlier to do their intro outside, then slowly work through the house, with their focus on the basement and Bill’s bedroom.
Getting into position in front of Joey’s camera, Vic stood center, while Lena and Darren flanked him, each a step behind with hands on their hips. It was their signature opening stance, as dictated by Alice.
After Joey signaled for the show to start, Vic’s mouth curved into a genuine smile. He might hate the politics of television, but hunting ghosts was what he loved to do. “Happy Halloween! Tonight, Ghost Explorers has the honor of being the first ever paranormal team to investigate disturbances at the home of infamous serial killer Bill Farr.”