"Buck Ames. This is Arden Blake."
Buck stands up. He comes over to me, a twinkle in his eye.
"Hey. How's it going?" He gives me a movie star smile.
"Good," I finally manage to squeak out. "I'm good."
I nod and put my hand out. We shake. I'm still unable to say anything more, so overwhelmed am I by Buck’s dazzling blue eyes which appear both intense and analytical. Vulnerable yet brave.
"Good? That's good," he says in that low sexy voice of his, with just a hint of a southern accent.
"Arden’s our ghost whisperer," Devon explains. "Or she was."
“Was?” Buck looks at me.
Everyone else is looking at me too, as if awaiting an explanation.
"I'm just...I think your ghost is dangerous," I say. "Very…dangerous.” I sound, I'm sure, like a total idiot.
"He sure is," Buck says with a shake of his head. "That is one spooky ghost. Something about Phil's movie just brought him out of the woodwork I guess." He motions to the sandy haired guy with glasses, still sitting at the table.
"Are you…the screenwriter?" I ask him.
He nods and stands up. "Yeah. Hi. Phil Level." He puts his hand out.
I take it and shake it, thinking that as long as I keep looking at him rather than Buck, I’ll be able to talk like a normal person.
"Nice to meet you,” I say. “I write too. Nothing produced, though."
He smiles. "This is my first movie. It’s pretty exciting.”
"That's if we can keep filming," Buck adds, pinning me with those gorgeous blue eyes of his. "Now I'm not usually one to believe in all that...voodoo rigmarole." He raises his hands and wiggles his fingers. "That supernatural type stuff. But I'll tell ya, something is definitely going on, on this boat. And it is frickin weird. It almost killed the kid."
"The kid?" I say.
"Yeah..." Buck looks around but he obviously doesn't see the person he's looking for.
"Marlon's in his trailer," Devon says. "He's the actor playing young Hubert Baker. He was sitting next to Buck when that lighting rig fell. It almost seriously hurt them.”
"Wow," I frown. "Scary." I look around at the room once more. "Hubert Baker? That's the character of..."
"It's the son who survived the massacre," Phil, the screenwriter, explains.
"You haven't read the script?" Buck asks. "You maybe oughta read the script." He looks over at the director. "Don't you think?"
Before Devon can answer, Buck goes over to the coffee table and picks up the heavily marked-up, doodled-on script that's sitting in front of Phil. "Here you can take this one. I got another one in my trailer."
He holds it out to me and as I reach out to take it, I think I see a look of consternation on Phil the screenwriter's face.
Maybe he was hoping to keep the script for himself.
And if so, who could blame him? It has all of Buck's handwritten notes in it.
I casually flip through it, as though I'm not dying of glee inside. I can't wait to pore over it and get a glimpse into the mind (or lack thereof) of one of the hottest, young actors of our generation. Plus, if I'm ever in a real bind, my guess is it would go for mucho dinero on eBay.
"But you signed a nondisclosure right?" Buck says, studying me through narrowed eyes. "I don't want anyone to know anything about all this wacky, ghosty stuff. I mean it, man. The tabloids are on me enough. I don’t need to add any fuel to the fire."
I nod but before I can answer, Devon chimes in. "Yeah, she signed it. But we're not even sure if she's staying on the job. Are you?"
They all look at me. And at this point, how can I say no?
"Well, I'll think about it,” I say. “I just really need some time alone in here if that's okay?"
They all look at each other.
"Yeah, it's okay," Devon says. "The second unit was just filming some cutaway shots in here but they’re breaking for lunch.” He looks around and talks to a guy standing next to him. "Call props to come get this stuff.”
The guy nods and talks into his walkie talkie.
"Wait! Before you do that!" An older woman with blonde hair in a neat ponytail, hurries up to the table and snaps a shot of the nightstand and the items on top of it. She's using a Polaroid camera to take the photo and as she waits for her shots to develop, she scribbles some notes in a big notebook.
As Buck and everyone else starts to leave the room, I turn to her. "Are you the script supervisor?" I ask, though I’m pretty sure she is. I remember the script supervisor on that one movie I worked on, constantly doing the same thing – snapping Polaroids and taking notes. In fact, I was really impressed by that woman as not only did she have to be super-organized, she had to have a real eye for detail - to make sure that the movie didn't have any continuity goofs. Like, for example, if a guy is smoking a cigar the beginning of the scene, the cigar shouldn’t magically wind up even longer by the end of the scene.
Hence the use of Polaroid photos and lots of notes to keep track of all these details.
"That's me," the woman says, looking at me with a smile. “I’m Mary.” Then she goes back to studying one of the Polaroids in her hand.
"You still use Polaroids?" I ask. "I thought they went out of business a while ago."
She gathers up her notebook and pencils. "Yeah. Actually this is a digital Polaroid. They just released these new cameras not too long ago." She holds up her camera. "It’s digital but it still develops like a regular Polaroid."
"Oh, cool." I look more closely at her camera and see that it does look more rounded than the vintage Polaroid cameras I've seen.
Then I notice a more old-fashioned looking Polaroid camera sitting on the nightstand.. "Is that camera on the table yours too?"
"No, that one's a prop camera," she says. "It's for one of the characters in the movie –
the daughter. She has a Polaroid camera that she's always taking pictures with.”
I nod, as just then, the boat jerks and a metal stand goes toppling over into a lighting rig. In an instant, the electrical cords that are attached to it pull up and grow taut, and Mary, who's standing nearby trips and goes flying.
In the process, she drops her notebook and it goes skidding across the wooden floor, notebook-pages and Polaroids flying out everywhere. Mary's shoulder smacks into the table and a pitcher of water that’s sitting on top of it crashes to the floor.
We both scream as one of the lighting guys rushes over to help her up.
I hurry over to her too and bend down to start picking up the Polaroids. But the water that was knocked over in the melee, starts seeping into the area where a bunch of big electrical cords are plugged in.
"Shoot!" the lighting guys screams. I look over in horror as the cords spark and smoke. I fear we're all about to be fried like a turkey at Thanksgiving. But luckily, he slams off the power before anything worse happens.
"Whew," the lighting guy says, as we all sit there thinking about what could’ve happened.
"Yeah. Whew," I agree.
CHAPTER NINE
Once everything calms down and Mary has gathered up her notebook and photos, she mutters to herself something about this being a ‘cursed’ production and leaves the room. I’m left all alone as I sit back against the wall and catch my breath.
Is this really a cursed production? I wonder. Or are people just freaked out about the history of the boat that they’re filming on?
I exhale loudly and look around the dimly lit room, unable to stop my mind from imagining the massacre that took place here those many years ago.
It gives me the creeps to think about it, and to be honest, I really don't want to have anything to do with any of it. But then I look at the script still in my hands, thinking how hard it is to turn down a plea from someone like Buck Ames.
And after all, who knows? Maybe all these accidents really are just coincidences. And maybe I did imagine that spooky voice on my phone.
I'm about to leave the room when I notice that somethi
ng sticking out from behind the nightstand near side of the bed. I go over and reach behind it and see that it's a Polaroid photograph. It looks old and I can't quite make out what it's a picture of -- but I figure it’s one of the ones Mary dropped when she dropped her notebook – though I have to wonder how it made its way to the other side of the room. So I stick it inside the script that I’m holding, figuring I’ll give it to her on my way out.
But as I stand up, I catch my reflection in a wall mirror and get a weird tingly feeling on my skin. I stare at my reflection -- and suddenly, there's a blur of movement behind me. Then a man’s face appears over my shoulder.
"I'm gonna kill you," he growls. He slowly raises his hand – in which there’s a huge knife.
I scream and spin around to face him. But when I do, he's gone.
I stand for a moment, trying to catch my breath. Then I run out of the room as fast as I can.
I've got to tell Devon that I'm absolutely not taking the job. But most importantly, I have got to get out of there as fast as possible.
I hurry out to the parking lot, get into my car and drive off. And I don't stop until I'm home safe and sound.
CHAPTER TEN
Once at home, I let Trevor out to do his business and then go back inside and look across the way to see if Gabriel is in. I can't tell whether he is or not, since his blinds are shut.
So I call him from my old, old, old, flip phone, which I've had to reactivate until I can get something from this century.
But unfortunately, no one answers. Maybe he’s gone to sleep, though like me, he tends to be a night owl.
So I let Trevor back inside and pull him onto my lap. Then I sit on the couch and snuggle with him until his warm little body and fast heartbeat calms me down.
"It was so scary, Trevor," I say into his fur as I hug him close. "There was a really scary ghost who wanted to kill me."
Trevor seems unconcerned as he sniffs around my face and mouth to see if I've eaten anything of interest while I was away. When he doesn't smell anything good, he jumps down and grabs his favorite toy – a green, slobbery, squeaky lion that’s almost as big as his head.
With it still in his mouth, he jumps back onto my lap and starts gnawing on it.
"Thanks Trev," I say, as I lift the slobbery thing off of my good tee shirt. I toss it across the room and Trevor jumps down and goes running after it.
Oh well, at least my shirt looked good when I met Buck Ames.
Speaking of which....
I get up to look at the script which is in my purse.
Though I'm actually still feeling anxious and could really use a talk with Gabriel about it, I resist the urge to call him again. If he's home and not answering, I'm not going to try to force him to talk to me.
Instead, I bring the script over to the couch and sit down to read it. Not that I'm so eager to find out more about the crazed murderer who killed everyone on board the Andrea Claire.
But I do feel like it's the least I can do – especially since the killer – or his ghost anyway –seriously wants me dead.
So I sit back, open the script and start reading. And what I read is very disturbing.
The story starts out very happily, with the first scene showing the family as they prepare to go on their long yacht trip, all happy and excited. On board is the yacht's captain, along with Mr. And Mrs. Baker, their seventeen-year-old daughter, Wendy – who is constantly taking photos of everyone with her new Polaroid camera – and her best friend, Annabella. Rounding out the party is the Bakers’ young son, Hubert Jr. who just turned 13.
On their second day out at sea, the family picks up a drifter- a literal drifter who is drifting out at sea on a lifeboat: Duke Warren.
Duke is a natural storyteller and an experienced boatman and everyone seems quite taken with him. Everyone except for young Hubert, who notices something odd about the guy.
Hugh tries repeatedly to warn his parents about Duke, telling them that the guy is ‘creepy.' But they don't listen to him – they all think the young, handsome drifter is charming. In fact, the way it's portrayed in the script, both the daughter and her friend have a little crush on Duke.
The third day out at sea, the drifter is out on the deck, talking to the daughter. He's telling her about his ten-year-old son, who he hasn't seen for over a year. But when Wendy tries photographing him with her Polaroid camera, he knocks it away. Then, in a rage, he shoves her against the boat's railing.
She hits her head hard and it starts bleeding. The Captain of the boat hears a commotion. He comes running down, trying to help, which is when Duke stabs him repeatedly. Then he grabs the flare gun and shoots Wendy with it in the head.
Young Hubert, the son, is napping on the prow of the ship. He wakes up and walks to the back, only to discover his sister’s mangled body. And the captain’s next to her.
Horrified, Hubert rushes downstairs, only to find his parents dead too, stabbed to death in their bed.
As Hugh tries to make his escape off the boat, he sees Duke stabbing Anabella and screaming "I'm going to kill you!"
Duke then comes after Hugh, who is able to get his hands on a fishing spear and stab Duke with it. In shock, and assuming everyone else on the boat to be dead, Hugh jumps on a lifeboat and sails away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
All in all, it's a horrifying story. Made all the worse by the whole ‘I’m going to kill you' aspect of it. Particularly since I'd heard those very words directed at me by the killer himself. – or his ghost, anyway.
I get up and started pacing.
"I really can't take this job, can I?" I say to Trevor.
In answer, he drops his toy at my feet in an effort to get me to play with him.
I have to laugh as I go over and rub his head – I toss his toy and then, on a lark, I grab my laptop and go online to see if I can find out what ever happened to the surviving kid – Hubert Baker.
Unfortunately, there’s no information anywhere about him, so I decide to look up the other survivor, Anabella Klee. But before I can, I hear a noise outside.
I jump up and hurry to the window, hoping that it's Gabriel returning home.
But it doesn't seem to be. The lights of his bungalow are still out and his car isn't in his drive.
I look over towards the bushes that separate our bungalows and don't see anything suspicious. I tell myself it was just the wind as I reach up to close the curtains, when a face appears in the window in front of me.
I scream and drop the curtain.
My heart pounding, I run over to find my cell phone but it’s not on the table.
I grab my large tote bag and frantically search through all the detritus inside. But it’s not there either! I finally find it on the sofa, but I’m so freaked out that as I try to dial, I drop it to the floor, causing the back to fall off and the battery to fall out.
With trembling hands, I put the battery back in and get the phone put back together, then I wait for it to power back on. But it takes forever. The whole time, my heart is pounding a mile a minute and seriously feels like it’s going to explode.
Which is when I see the silhouette of a person outside, moving past the window.
I stifle a scream, standing rooted to the spot.
What if it's the ghost? What if he followed me home?
Or worse...what if it's someone real?
"Bark!" I whisper to Trevor, as the music coming from my phone signals that it's finally starting back up. But Trevor's too busy licking his toy to pay attention to any danger nearby.
"Bark!" I say again. "Sound big. And mean!"
Nothing.
Of course not. Trevor only barks at skateboards and adorable little children.
I hear a squeaking sound coming from outside and recognize it as the sound of my mailbox being opened.
Who would be opening my mailbox?
I seriously doubt it’s a ghost. And it can't be the postman as it's much too late for that.
Could it be a thief?
Someone trying to steal the checks – or the bills, rather – inside?
I've been a victim of identity theft before and I know what a pain it is to deal with. No way am I letting that happen again.
In a flash I go from fearful to angry. How dare someone come into my yard and try to steal my mail!
Without thinking, I swing the front door open, while at the same time, flipping on the light outside.
"Get away from my mailbox!" I scream. "I'm calling the police!” At which point I dial 911 on my phone and listen to it ring.
The guy who’s standing in the shadows turns and stares at me startled. Then he does the last thing I expect him to. He takes a photo of me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
My eyes are blinded by the flash.
Confused, I step back inside and pull the door shut behind me. But the guy in my yard races up the stairs and grabs the door before I can shut it.
"Hey! Are you the ghost hunter that was hired by the production company to get rid of their ghost?" he yells at me. He's holding onto the door, keeping it open.
"What? No!" I’m struggling pull the door shut but he won’t let it go. "Stop it! Let go!” I scream.
"Enquiring minds at gossiphoundz.com want to know,” he says, taking another photo of me, one-handed “So are you busting their ghost? And does Buck Ames really believe in all this crap?”
I stop struggling with the door as it suddenly dawns on me just who and what he is. I stare at him in shock. "You're a…tabloid reporter?"
He nods smugly and I see him clearly for the first time. He seems to be in his late twenties or so. Cute. Or he would be if he weren't an obnoxious, trespassing paparazzi.
"Go away!" I say, as I ready to pull door shut. "You're trespassing. It's a crime. Now get out of here or the police will arrest you."
He looks at me, suddenly cagey. "Oh come now. You don't want to call the police on me. Not when I have this..." He holds up his phone and presses 'play.'
To my utter horror, I hear my voice coming out, saying, “Anyway. I'm heading home. But thanks for getting me the job, Lilly. Even though I’m a total fraud and I know nothing about ghosts or ghost-hunting, it pays really well and I totally need the work. So I owe you. I'll talk to you later…”
Haunt Water Page 3