by Gaby Triana
“What do you mean by the house has an aura?” I asked. “I always thought auras were the fields of energy surrounding living things.”
Her almond-shaped brown eyes focused on Villegas House. Lips pressed together, she nodded like saying it out loud might make it true. “Exactly.”
SIX
A house as a living thing. With its own dark gray aura.
Great.
The very thought sent a spike of unease through me, but it was too late to leave now. Here we were, and here we’d stay until this job was done or one of us got swallowed by the house’s aura, whichever came first.
Calm down.
I was surrounded by people. What could happen surrounded by so many people?
Kane’s crew got to setting up tents, opening backpacks, cracking open equipment cases, running cables, and starting a generator. Its rumbling ripped through the tranquility, and I thought of the animals that lived here and what they’d think of us for disturbing their peace. The ghosts, too.
Were they watching us now?
As it turned out, I would be sharing a tent with Linda. Kane and Eve would be taking their own, the two tech guys, Quinn and BJ, were sharing, and Sharon had apparently requested her own tent, which was fine, since her ego needed a big place to sleep. I felt more comfortable sharing with Linda, anyway, even though she didn’t seem to want to be here.
Once we’d set up camp, the crew stood facing Villegas House, taking photos and talking about what they’d do once they went in. I realized they weren’t entering, not because they were scared to, but because they had an established methodology for doing these investigations. Everything was recorded, so it wasn’t until cameras got rolling would Sharon or anyone set foot inside.
I was itching to find out what would be inside the crumbling rotten structure but grateful that the Haunted Southland crew would be finding out first. I’d be waiting outside. By the tent. In the safe area.
BJ had set up a couple of monitors which connected signals with their video cameras, so anything that Quinn taped while inside, we could see it out in the “tech tent.” They did a test run on lighting, Sharon’s voice and movements, and a few other video tests I didn’t understand because I didn’t speak TV production. Everyone was too busy to explain what they were doing. I liked the buzz of it, however—the energy this team created. They worked cohesively, like a well-oiled machine, and I felt envious of their chemistry.
Mosquitos invaded after noon, so I made myself useful going around, spraying repellant on anyone who would let me. We didn’t use repellant in our camp, but anyone not used to mosquitos definitely needed it.
A female presence sidled up to me and spoke in a southern accent. “What can you tell me about this place, Cypress?”
It was Sharon, hands on hips, chin gesturing to the house. She was taller than I was, statuesque, and though she was in her mid-40s, it was easy to see that she had once been a beautiful twenty-something with a career in television. I’d read somewhere that she’d used to be an NFL cheerleader turned soap actress turned ghost investigator, a smart move if you asked me, because youthful beauty did not live forever.
“Honestly, I don’t know much. Only that a gladesman elder built the place in the fifties. He left almost as soon as he finished it. Later on, his sons would get into one altercation or another with an environmentalist who moved in, then one day, there was an accident.”
“An accident, or a murder?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Nobody knows for sure. I mean, we know it ended in death, because they came out here to investigate. There’s photos online of decomposed corpses lying around, but that’s all they have. They didn’t stick around long to find many facts.”
“Could it have been a natural death? Like an animal attack?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know of any creature that would do that. The Everglades has its mysterious Skunk Ape, kind of like a Big Foot, but it’s peaceful—if it’s real, that is—not something that would kill seven people.”
“What about panthers?” Sharon faced me. I could almost envision her as a police officer with uniform, badge, gun in holster and everything.
“Florida panthers are shy. I doubt a panther would’ve killed everyone that day, especially hunters who would’ve ended it with one shot.”
“Were there any women here?” Sharon asked.
“Women? Um, well, there was Rutherford’s wife, Elena. Plus I believe one of the assistants was a woman. Why?”
“Just curious. What about the Nesbitt brothers? Were either married or were their wives part of the confrontation that took place?”
“Thing is, I don’t really know. Everything I’ve learned has been passed down orally, and you know how that is. Details change from year to year.” For being considered for ghost consultant, I really didn’t know much, did I?
“What happened after the killings?” Sharon asked. “Did anyone come back and experience anything strange? What’s the haunted history like?”
Sharon’s questions were starting to bother me. Not because I didn’t have the answers she wanted, or because she seemed to think I was the Wikipedia of Villegas House, but because she seemed to want them for her own. Kane had told me that we’d have a meeting once we got here, where I’d share all I knew about the house, but Sharon had isolated me and interrogated me. Just a little Avila-Sharon session.
“Ms. Roswell, I know very little about its haunted history,” I said, staring at the ground, a mix of grass, sand, but also shards of wood. “I only know that my tribe stays away from here. They consider it bad luck. They’ve told stories of men who’ve come back to the village changed, never to be the same after visiting. It’s a legend because no one knows what really happened. The Everglades has a habit of blurring the past that way.”
Sharon frowned. “I thought you were the hired historian, but you don’t know shit.”
“I…” I tried not to feel rattled, but my pride was hurt. Who did she think she was? “I’m not an historian. There is no historian about this house. I’m only here because I guess I was the only one naïve enough to bring you.”
Sharon’s bright blue eyes scanned over my face, as if she could read my intentions and find out if I was lying. She didn’t trust me, but that was okay—I didn’t trust her either, and I hadn’t come here to make friends.
“You were the only one, huh?” She smirked then turned to watch the crew setting up. “Well, we’ll have to use Linda as much as we can then. She’s the reason I’m here.”
I looked at the aging medium sitting in her camping chair outside out tent, doing a crossword puzzle. She stopped, fished the ground for a piece of wood and held it with eyes closed. She seemed underappreciated, as though she saw herself as an older woman of little or no value. Which was sad, because so far, she’d been the only one who’d provided any useful information about Villegas House.
As curious as I was, I didn’t want to continue engaging with Sharon any more than I had to. Talk about the real person being completely different from the celebrity. She skulked off to my relief.
I took a seat next to Linda
She handed me the bark. “Look at this. What do you think?”
I took the shard of wood and flipped it over in my hands. It seemed to be from the house, same color, same type of wood, and everything. “Probably a broken piece from the house. Why, what do you think it is?”
“I know it’s from the house. That’s not what I mean. Close your eyes. Tell me what you feel.” She closed her hands around mine with the wood tucked in my palm.
I closed my eyes and felt the wood, its density, the smoothness of its surface. It wasn’t Dade pine, and it wasn’t Cypress, so it may have been any kind of imported wood from the days when Gregory Rutherford lived out here, but none of that mattered or was why she’d asked me to hold it.
The only thing that mattered was that my chest hurt. Breaths became shallow, as though I’d run a marathon, and my side cramped, yet I couldn’t drop the stup
id piece of wood.
Its effect had taken a hold of me like an electrical current. I gasped and finally threw the piece of wood on the ground. “What the hell was that?”
Linda nodded, satisfied. She sat back in her chair, as though her suspicions had been right. “You’re like me, Avila. You see beyond the veil.”
SEVEN
Of course she knew.
She was bloody psychic.
I dragged my gaze away from her, hoping she wouldn’t mention it to anybody, but my silence was admission enough.
“Alright, everybody. Over here, let’s talk.” Kane clapped his hands together once and swung his arms, waiting while everybody made their way to the center of camp. He sat on top of a crate and swung his baseball cap backwards. “We’re ready to do this. Avila,” he said. “First and foremost, thank you for bringing us here. We know how hard it was for you, but do know that we really appreciate it.”
Everyone looked at me. Only Eve and Linda smiled.
“No problem,” I said. Actually, big problem. But that was my burden to bear, one I’d deal with when I returned home. I appreciated his acknowledgement, though.
“Also, thank you, Linda. I know it’s not always easy for you, doing what you do, but we appreciate you being here, as always.”
“I’ll be here if you need me, sweetheart,” Linda said in a melodious voice. Turning to me, she mumbled, “My work comes later.”
“We like to receive impressions without her in the beginning, then bring her in afterwards,” Sharon clarified for me, as though Linda’s explanation hadn’t been enough.
“Yeah, for the heavy lifting.” Linda smirked. “Which there will be. I can tell.”
Sharon ignored her.
I nodded and focused back on Kane. Next to me, Linda fanned herself with a folder. The woman did not look well, and the heat and humidity were pretty oppressive, even for me.
“Avila, this is for you, since we know it already. Keep everything dry, cell phones off, loose jewelry taped or put away. Like what you’ve got there…” He pointed to my neck. I instinctively touched my gator tooth necklace. “Not that it looks noisy. In case you’re in any of our shots, Sharon’s our host, so we don’t do, say, or touch anything without her OK. She’s the one who guides this whole process onscreen.”
A slice of panic cut through me. “I’m going to come out in this?” I thought I was just here for the ride, quietly hiding in the background.
“We don’t plan on having you in any scenes, but you never know. Sometimes spirit activity affects the crew in different ways, and people end up on screen.”
“Okay.” Last thing I needed was to come out on Haunted Southland and have my family see me escorting strangers to Villegas House before I was ready to tell them. Though eventually, word would get out that a show had been taped here.
Kane went on about technical things. He may as well have been speaking a different language. “We’ll need to boost the gain,” he told Quinn and BJ. “Check the batteries, I don’t want to break the stream.”
“Do we go with a ring light?” Quinn asked. “Or softie?”
“Ring light,” Kane answered, launching into a discussion about more editing things. I took the time to hear them all speak, get a sense of what kind of people they were.
Quinn was the consummate professional, BJ was quiet and meek, Kane was definitely in charge, Eve was there to make her husband look good, and Sharon listened but I could tell that she would challenge authority from the way she shook her head at stuff Kane was saying.
“Great, another cave to shoot in,” Quinn said, adjusting his video camera.
“Don’t worry, we’ll fix it in post,” Kane replied.
“I am post.” Quinn laughed.
“Overall, respect the house,” Kane said. I felt like maybe he was saying this for my benefit, since I’d told them the ghosts here didn’t mess around. “Respect the spirits. If we want to get anything, we want them to invite us in. Got it?”
“Got it,” they all mumbled then got around to getting ready. Eve blotted her husband’s forehead of sweat then came around with more wipes to make Sharon camera-ready. Watching them work was fascinating, but I couldn’t help but feel like this wouldn’t last long.
Eve passed by me, stopped, retraced her steps, blotted my forehead with a smile and said, “You don’t need this. You always look fabulous.”
For the first time since arriving, I cracked a smile. At least there was Eve.
“Let’s get an opening shot,” Kane said, crossing his arms. All eyes were on Sharon. “Steady…roll tape in three…” He counted down on his fingers…two…one.
“Hello, I’m Sharon Roswell, and today we come to you from one of the deepest, darkest secrets of the Everglades—Villegas House. Built circa 1955 by local gladesmen, this two-story plantation home situated on a cypress island later became home to environmentalist Gregory H. Rutherford and his wife, Elena Villegas, after the original builder abandoned it due to unclear circumstances. Is Villegas House haunted? We’ll soon find out.”
She went on to explain how the couple rehabilitated endangered species injured from hunting then released them back into the wild. How Roscoe Nesbitt’s sons, William and Richard, harassed the new residents on the property and how the family feud lasted a couple of years until 1967 when everything went horribly wrong and police found six dead bodies, the seventh death happening in a nearby hospital.
I wondered where she’d gotten her information. It seemed she had studied it previously and only asked me for my version to verify it.
“Locals say the house is so haunted, nobody gets past the front door. Well, we’re going to change that today, aren’t we?” Sharon asked dramatically. Suddenly, right in the middle of filming, a loud noise, like a bang of wood, crashed inside of the house. “Did you hear that?” Sharon’s eyes scanned the area, the camera following her at every expression.
Kane and BJ exchanged looks, and Eve seemed happy that things were already starting to happen by the way she silently clapped her fingertips together.
“Let’s go inside and take a look…”
Sharon walked up the disheveled steps of Villegas House and touched the front door, which was wide open, with her fingertips.
“Shit. I don’t know, you guys…it feels oppressive in there.” She looked at the camera and shook her head. I knew this was part acting to create suspense viewers would eat up, and that “shit” would get bleeped out.
What we’d all heard was more than likely pieces of wood falling, literally rotting away, as we stood here, and if anything happened to Sharon Roswell, it would be nobody’s fault but ShadowBox Productions’ own.
Still, I stared at the house, drawn to it, as the sounds around me fell away. Something seemed to call to me, made my stomach clench and my heart palpitate. Were those whispers, telling me to stay away, other voices asking who I was, who we all were? No, it couldn’t have been. I shook it off. My nervous brain was messing with me.
Behind me was Linda, still sitting in her chair, holding a clipboard and a pencil, still doing her crossword puzzle, but she looked far from entertained. The woman shook her head. “We shouldn’t go in there,” she mumbled.
Her voice sounded deeper, not as melodious as before.
Kane shushed her with two fingers held up. He continued to watch, as I did, the two big monitors BJ had set up showing Sharon and Quinn walking into the condemned house.
“But I understand,” Linda mumbled again. “All in the name of research.”
I got a sense of dread hearing Linda, the one woman they should all be listening to, telling us that we shouldn’t go in there.
“It’s why we came,” Kane told Linda then looked at me with wide eyes, silently communicating that sometimes, things got tense on the set.
I could see how a medium’s impressions might interfere with a smooth production. Eyes back on the house, I watched as Sharon slowly made her way inside, then within seconds, she and Quinn had disappeare
d into the gloom. My eyes shifted to the monitors, which changed to the grainy image I often saw on TV when they were filming in the dark. Suddenly, the screen turned black with only white lines breaking up the darkness.
“What’s going on?” Kane asked BJ.
“We lost connection.”
“Damn it. Keep rolling. Quinn, Sharon, you all right?” Kane asked.
A few moments later, the host and the cameraman reemerged from the house, shaking their heads. Sharon wiped sweat off her brow and gave Eve a look like that didn’t go well, while Quinn walked all the way up to the tech station.
“Camera’s dead,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Kane asked. “Dead-dead, or?”
“Dead,” Quinn replied. “It just turned off while we were walking through the first room. I tried turning it back on, and you know I charged the shit out of it before we started, so I don’t know what the fuck’s happening.”
“What’s happening is the spirits don’t want you inside.”
Linda again.
We all looked at her, dark eyes gazing ahead at a spot on the ground in front of her, unfocused. Her hand holding the pencil skittered across the page, scratching out on the paper. Something about her looked…off.
“She’s doing it again,” Kane mumbled to his wife.
“They don’t want you,” Linda mumbled. She scribbled harshly now, ripping into the paper. Quinn took hold of a different camera and rushed over to stand behind her. I shifted my spot to see what she was writing as well. She held the pencil in a fist, child-like, trance-like, staring straight ahead, as though someone else were writing messages through her.
And there, in large chicken-scratch letters was the word—DIE.
EIGHT
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Did she just write DIE?”
“Did you catch that? Did everyone see that?” Sharon spoke dramatically into the camera as it filmed Linda.