The Supernaturals

by David L. Golemon

  The cold was gone.

  Suddenly the pounding started again, but this time it was miniscule compared to before. The doorknobs rattled and turned. Leonard ran to the doors and turned the ancient key in its lock.

  “No!” Lionel Peterson shouted out. Most could hear Kelly Delaphoy’s snicker even over his loud exclamation.

  Everyone in the van smiled. Lionel Peterson seemed to be quickly becoming a believer in the supernatural.

  Leonard threw open the left door and leaned heavily against the door frame when he saw Kennedy and the others standing in the dark.

  “Everyone okay?” Gabriel asked as he pushed into the ballroom, quickly followed by Lonetree, Cordero and Julie Reilly. Damian Jackson came in after the camera and sound men. “I think it’s over for now,” Gabriel said. He looked around at the terrified faces framed by the dim glow of their flashlights.

  “Professor Gabe?” Leonard said as he quickly closed the ballroom doors.

  Kennedy turned. The camera men had each of the two framed, so that Harris could choose the shot he wanted.

  “I think you have a real haunted house here.”

  “Fade to black, commercial in two, one, go,” Harris said into his mic.

  On the screen, a rabbit was smiling and rolling a roll of toilet paper down a grassy hill.

  “Tell New York I need ten minutes here to sort things out. Tell them to line three four-minute spots,” Dalton said as he sat heavily into his chair. “I want to be able to go back ASAP if something happens, so be ready to cut into the spots if need be.”

  On the screen labeled “preview,” Kelly Delaphoy stepped into the picture and looked into the camera lens.

  “What news is coming out of New York, Harris?” she asked, pressing her earpiece to her ear.

  “All quiet on the Eastern front at the moment, but I think you’ll have the rest of your special,” Harris said. He paused and downed an entire bottle of water. When he finished, he looked at Kelly, who was smiling. “What’s so funny?”

  “I knew this would work.” She lowered her voice, looked away and then back at the camera. “Did you hear Lionel scream when Sickles went for the door?”

  “Yeah, we saw, along with the rest of the world. But before you start getting too thrilled over Peterson’s state, you better get a hold of yourself and start making a plan with Kennedy, because I think you’ve got a real problem.”

  “What in hell can be a problem now?” Kelly asked.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve all been herded into one place. On Camera Five, up on the third floor, something isn’t right.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, her smile fading.

  “The doors to the sewing room and the master suite are now closed. That means whatever was down near the basement and the ballroom more than likely came from the third floor.”

  “I get you, Harris.”

  “No, I don’t think you do.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “We can see the lights on in both rooms, even though the power has been out for the last fifteen minutes.”

  New York

  The network ad executives were on the phone throughout the ten minute break in live programming. The din in the screening room was music to Abe Feuerstein’s ears—they were now actually turning down requests from the main sponsors of Hunters of the Paranormal to add additional time to their commitment.

  The CEO watched as the men and women who had supported Lionel Peterson in his coup also scrambled to try and save their positions. As they attempted to approach Abe one and two at a time, he simply held up his hand and waved them away. Several left the screening room altogether. The night was his, and he only wished Lionel was here himself to see his complete and utter failure.

  “Sir, all indications are that we are now nearing a fifty percent share on the night. The late night audience is just now tuning in and the sequence of events at Summer Place could not have come at a better time.”

  Feuerstein nodded and shook his glass which contained nothing but melting ice. The young lady took the glass and the meaning but stayed as she needed to say something else.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Our legal department is concerned about what’s happening. I guess they are now believers themselves and—”

  “Tell them to shove their concerns.”

  “They would like all nonessential personnel out of that house, Father Dolan especially.”

  Abe smiled and tapped the glass the young assistant held in her hand.

  “The good Father stays. I believe he and Lionel Peterson need to be in on the finale, don’t you?”

  The assistant turned and went to refill the CEO’s glass.

  On the main viewing screen, a brand new Chevrolet Malibu shot down a Rocky Mountain highway. The scroll at the bottom of the screen warned the viewing audience that Hunters of the Paranormal would resume in five minutes. Abe smiled as he accepted his whiskey.

  “Yes sir, this is television.”

  With the storm breaking in earnest outside the walls of Summer Place, the occupants inside of the ballroom were becoming concerned. The men, including Lionel Peterson and the very frightened Wallace Lindemann, were crowded in front of the massive oaken doors. They had been trying to open them and the smaller side door for the past ten minutes, to no avail. It was as if the ballroom had been encased inside a concrete block. Kelly Delaphoy and Julie Reilly were standing next to the sofa where they had moved Father Dolan, while Jennifer Tilden and Damian Jackson tried in vain to smash the glass at the French doors in the front. Chair after chair met a similar fate to those in the living room an hour before.

  “How about taking one of the doors off at the hinges?” one of the camera men asked as he zoomed in on the greenish figures standing at the doors.

  Gabriel looked at John and tilted his head, then smiled. “I guess they didn’t cover everything at Harvard, did they?”

  Lonetree looked at the camera man and nodded, as if to say, “one for you.”

  One of the sound men reached into his bag and tossed Gabriel a large screwdriver.

  In the front of the ballroom, Jackson stopped swinging the barstool at the ornate glass of the French doors, out of breath. Jennifer patted him on the back.

  “Still think things around here are rigged, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m not ready to admit to anything yet.” He tossed the stool away and reached into his coat. He pulled out a two way radio, winking as he brought it to his lips. “We’ll see how this place stands up to a ten ton battering ram on wheels.”

  Jennifer gave him the faintest of smiles, as if she knew what was going to happen.

  A flashlight illuminated Jackson. He and Jenny were joined by Wallace Lindemann and Lionel Peterson.

  “Thank God someone’s thinking around here,” Peterson said. He pulled over the same sound man who had produced the screwdriver for the men working at the large doors and yanked the headphones from the man’s head. He placed them on and started to call Harris in the production van just as Jackson, after giving Peterson a distasteful look, initiated contact with the state police.

  “State Police barracks seventeen, do you copy, over?”

  “Harris, this is Peterson, get every technician and firemen you can and get those fucking front doors open. We’re coming out now!”

  At the same moment, a voice came over both the technician’s headphones and the police radio—one that didn’t originate at either the production van or the state police barracks. The voice was deep and booming and brought everyone in the darkened ballroom to a complete and utter standstill. The sound was not only coming from the radio and the headset, but from the powerless stereo speakers and ornate jukebox in the far corner, which had illuminated to its full glory. Everyone in the ballroom smelled the odor at the same time, as if it had flooded into the large room and clung to everything and everyone. It was the smell of lilac.

  “You cannot have them, they are mine!”
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  Jackson figured it was more interference and technical wizardry from Kelly Delaphoy, Kennedy or even Peterson himself. Both camera teams were now on the small group by the French doors. Jackson tried again. “State Police barracks, this is Lieutenant—”

  “Get out!”

  With that chilling, dark voice still echoing inside the ballroom, the lights came on and the tall doors clicked and then slowly opened. The smell of lilac immediately vanished as if it had never been there. Then they heard the cracking of the glass: the French doors, which Damian Jackson had struck time and time again, and also the plate glass windows in the living room. A few of the small panes of glass were weakened enough that they gave way and fell outward onto the large front porch.

  Peterson slowly removed the headphones and let them fall from his hand. Jackson lowered the radio and shook his head.

  “Amazing what happens when we threaten to bring my colleagues in, isn’t it, Professor?”

  Gabriel looked at Jackson and the small smile told him it was a nice try at goading him into a statement. Instead of saying something to the state policeman, Gabriel quickly walked over to the small couch and leaned down to Father Dolan.

  “Let’s get you out of here. I don’t think our host cares very much for your profession.”

  “I would prefer to stay.”

  “Not a chance. We may have enough legal problems on our hands,” Peterson said. His fearlessness was returning brighter than the lights now illuminating the ballroom. “It’s time we shut this thing down.”

  “I don’t think you have that authority anymore, Lionel,” Julie Reilly said as she gathered up her microphone and headset. “As a matter of fact, I’m not sure you work at this network any longer.”

  Peterson looked over at the camera and saw that it was still trained on him. “Get that off of me!” He shoved the lens away from his face.

  Gabriel and John assisted Father Dolan to his feet. Then Gabriel looked at the camera team that was free at the moment and gestured that they should take Dolan outside for help.

  “Gabe,” John leaned toward him just as Jenny and George walked up beside them. “Have you noticed the cold is still here?”

  Gabriel nodded. He turned to face the others in the ballroom.

  “Regardless who works at the network or not, we need to clear the house of everyone except my team, Ms. Reilly and one camera and sound man. Everyone else needs to leave—for your own protection.”

  “What?” Kelly stepped forward.

  “You heard me, Kelly. There is still activity in this room,” Kennedy said as he adjusted the small microphone to his mouth. “Harris, what have you got on the third floor?”

  There was a burst of static and then Dalton came through loud and clear from the production van.

  “The hallway lights played hell with the infrared and low light cameras, they’re just now clearing up. Wait, okay it looks like the master bedroom suite is—yes, its closed, but the sewing room door is still wide open. Now it’s the only light on that floor that’s out.”

  Gabriel nodded and looked at Jackson.

  “This is not a good place for a nonbeliever, Detective.”

  Jackson shook his head and placed the radio back in his coat. “I think I’ll see it through, Professor.”

  “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.” Kennedy looked around the room at the faces looking back at him. “Now, did everyone take note of the smell of perfume?”

  “Why do you say perfume and not flowers?” Kelly Delaphoy asked.

  “The odor was too powerful for flowers. No, that was perfume. When the voice finished what it had to say, the smell left, and the doors opened at the exact same moment. It went whenever the entity did when it left the ballroom.”

  “Whatever we’re dealing with is slowly getting stronger,” George said. He stepped to the bar and eyed the bottle of whiskey. He grimaced and then turned away, much to Kennedy’s relief.

  “Professor Gabe, you better look at this,” Leonard said from the large work table. He waved his three technicians up and out of their chairs, and then told them to vacate the house. “Go on, do what the professor says. Get while the getting’s good.” The technicians did as they were ordered.

  Kennedy looked at the nearest monitor. The woman’s face was clearly made out, and then the picture changed to that of another, this one equally mysterious. Then another face appeared, this one a full length picture. She was dressed in turn of the century clothes, and the picture must have been over a hundred years old. Then another, and another—all dressed in the same period clothing. Some had husbands or other family members in the shots, others were alone.

  “Where are these coming from?” Gabriel asked Leonard.

  “It’s from the same program my people were running just before the power was sucked out of here.” He typed more commands. “These are Ellis Island shots. We were running employee records for the Lindemann sewing machine company and the textile companies.”

  “Why is it doing that?” Julie Reilly asked as she and the others started crowding around the table holding the computer monitors.

  “It’s doing it on its own,” Leonard answered.

  Julie and Kelly simultaneously shoved the first team camera man in front of the table.

  “Harris, are you picking this up?” Julie asked into her headset.

  “We’re getting it. I don’t know what we’re getting, but it’s going out clean to the rest of the country.”

  On the monitors a picture flashed, then the revolving show stopped. The lights flickered but stayed on. All eyes were on the pretty young woman framed on the monitors. She was dressed in the same clothing style as the others and she looked to be about seventeen, eighteen at the most. She was sitting at a small table with an old fashioned sewing machine and she was looking at the camera and smiling shyly.

  “The happy workers of the Lindemann Textile Company,” Leonard read the caption, “Taken from the New York Post, February 3rd, 1925.”

  “Gabriel, we’ve seen that face before,” Jenny said.

  Gabriel sorted through a stack of folders until he found the one he was searching for. He opened it and studied something for a few moments. When he looked up, he wasn’t focusing on anyone in the room..

  “Professor, we are live,” Julie reminded him.

  Kennedy finally turned back to face the camera, and brought out an old eight by ten glossy photograph—a reproduction of a promotional still. The heading was in German, but everyone focused on the face alone. They all saw it at almost the same time.

  “Gwyneth Gerhardt,” John Lonetree said.

  “The opera singer who disappeared,” Julie said to the camera.

  “No, but a relative. Maybe a sister. The resemblance is too close,” Gabriel said. He nodded for Leonard to do his thing.

  Sickles leaned over and started typing his commands. While he did so, Kennedy waved George Cordero over to his side. On the computer monitors, the picture of the pretty girl was replaced by a very old-looking employment record.

  “You hit it on the head. Magdalena Gerhardt, eighteen years old. She worked for the Lindemanns for eight months. Gerhardt was her maiden name. She married Paul Lester, a foreman at the mill, three months after arriving from Germany.”

  “Her sister, I’ll bet anything on it,” Gabriel said. “Now, did she leave the company after she married?”

  “She left, all right,” Leonard answered, “but it doesn’t say why. Her husband, too. Wait, here’s a note from the personnel office. It seems they both quit without notice.”

  “George, I saw that look on your face. What are you feeling?” Gabriel asked.

  Cordero cleared his throat and then looked away, as if he was reluctant to answer.

  “George?” Kennedy asked again, this time with force. “Whatever it was, made you want a drink.”

  Cordero shrugged the camera gently away with an annoyed look and raised hand. But then his eyes met Kennedy’s own.

  “I’m
not picking up much. It’s like looking at a scene through a bowl of milk. It’s the opera star’s sister, you’re right on with that. And I think, I feel, Leonard’s computers are being manipulated from…

  from—”

  “The sewing room,” Kelly said, not being able to hold back, much to Julie Reilly’s annoyance.

  “The basement. Or more accurately, the subbasement,” he finally said, moving his eyes from Gabriel’s.

  “George, is that all?” Gabriel asked.

  “The presence earlier, the voice…it was male…I think.”

  “We all heard it for Christ’s sake, of course it was male. I have to hand it to you, Professor, your people don’t miss a trick.” Peterson walked toward the bar and retrieved his raincoat, pushing Wallace Lindemann to the side.

  “I don’t know if it was…male. It had, I don’t know, an acting quality to it. Hell, Gabe, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe it was old man Lindemann, my great granddaddy. That would be my bet,” Wallace said. He sipped his drink.

  “Okay, let me know if you pick up anything else. For right now, Wallace here may have something—it’s a start, anyway.”

  George nodded, knowing that he didn’t convey his true thoughts the way he would have liked.

  “Look Gabriel, we’re kidding ourselves if we think we can get the answers here. The house hides its secrets well,” John Lonetree said. He looked from Kennedy to Jenny. “I have to go under. You know it, and I know it.”

  “I don’t think this is the environment for it, John. You’ve never Dream Walked in anything like Summer Place. I don’t trust it—or, more to the point, I don’t trust whatever lives here.”

  “What if Summer Place clams up? What if it goes dormant again?” John asked. Jenny took his arm and shook her head no.

  “Then it goes dormant,” Gabriel said, feeling the camera on him and knowing the CEO and others were cringing at his words. “I’m not losing anyone here tonight.”

  “I’m not a student, and I’m going into this with my eyes—well, while not open, they will be aware. I’m doing it.”