When she arrived, the street was empty. Before her was a re-creation of an old American main street, the false fronts displaying more of Alex Jordan’s collections. Since it was all housed within a giant building, it was completely dark overhead, keeping the street in permanent night. The lack of any other tourists in that section made things feel very quiet and private. Eliza had always felt that it looked like an alternate version of Disneyland’s main street, remembering a family trip they’d made when she was little. She recalled Disney’s version as open and bright, festive and vibrant. Alex Jordan’s version, laid out in front of her, was the opposite; charming, but creepy. Dark. Intriguing and frightening at the same time. At the end of Disneyland’s main street was a castle; at the end of this main street was a two-story contraption of mannequins holding instruments, unnervingly still and silent. Whereas Disneyland’s live-person band would play a bright crisp march and walk down a sun-drenched street, the band waiting to play at the end of this street was ready to crank out a mechanical and out-of-tune Sousa march in the dark, lit by red lights that made them look sinister. She prayed no one showed up and dropped tokens into the machine; they’d remain silent and unmoving as long as no one did.
The barbershop was first on the right. Inside the dimly-lit display she saw an arrangement of old barbering tools. She wondered which of them were real; she knew that was what made the place fun, trying to decipher what was really antique, and what was a replica. Half of this stuff might not have even been used by barbers, she thought. It just looks good.
She checked right and left to assure herself she was still alone, and dropped into the River. None of the objects inside the display changed or looked different in the slightest. As she quickly dropped back out, she felt a slight pain at the back of her neck.
I need to do it slower, she reminded herself.
Across the dark street was the façade of a doll maker shop. She braced herself as she approached the large window, looking into the interior. Dozens of dolls of all shapes and sized lined the walls, and were posed on small chairs and next to miniature houses.
This one for sure, she thought. Dolls are always creepy.
She dropped into the River and closed her eyes, waiting for the flow to settle.
When she opened them, the dolls were all looking at her.
She stepped back from the window, feeling her physical body follow her. None of the dolls had changed in the way that Rachel’s lip balm had become something completely different. They all remained the same, with the same frilly dresses and blank expressions.
But their eyes had moved. They were all watching her; every single one.
She dropped from the River and the faces of the dolls returned to normal, their glass eyes staring blankly in the random directions of their poses.
Dolls! she thought, turning from the display. I hate them!
She continued walking down the dark street, past the fire station and the statuary. She stopped at the statuary to once again drop into the River, and was disappointed that none of the small figures transformed.
Rachel might be full of shit, she thought.
The eyes of those dolls did move, though.
Next up on the right was a cinema. Red velvet ropes blocked the entry to a small alcove set back from the main façade, where a ticket booth waited with a mannequin inside. Behind it were the doors to the theatre itself, one of which was propped open, exposing a small row of seats and a white screen beyond. She dropped into the River and took a look around, not really expecting to see anything unusual, and was rewarded according to her expectation.
She was getting closer to the wall-sized calliope. Its full scope was now in view, no longer partially hidden by the buildings at the end of the street. The fake band was arranged on two decks of a massive Dixie riverboat, The Gladiator. Each character was holding an instrument, and the mechanics that would force the fingers to move and the valves to be depressed on the trumpets and saxophones were exposed with little attempt to hide them; the mechanics, after all, were supposed to be part of the charm. Each of the mannequins looked slightly off, as though pieces of different dummies had been used to form a whole figure, resulting in the heads not quite matching the body, and the hands not quite matching the arms.
Eliza turned to look at the token box, waiting to receive two of the metal discs, ready to breathe the display to life.
No way, she thought, even though she had a half-dozen tokens in her pocket.
She turned to her left, looking at the last house of the street before the entrance to the next section. It was a lamp store, filled with Tiffany-style lamps of different shapes and sizes. Once again she dropped into the River, and this time was shocked to see several of the lamps transform. One looked like an anvil, and another became a crusty wooden crate, covered in dried mud.
Oh my God! she thought, marveling at the transformation. Look at that! Rachel was right!
She heard movement behind her, and realized a couple had made their way down the street and to the riverboat display while she’d been examining the lamps. She could hear them dropping tokens into the box. She wanted to leave the room before it started up, but she knew she’d never make it. Immediately the wind of the bellows cranked up, filling with air in preparation for the first notes. It took about five seconds, and the playing would begin.
She turned, still in the River. The couple was young, standing right in front of the display, their backs to her. They haven’t a clue I’m in the River, she thought. They think I’m just another tourist, looking into one of the shop windows.
Then the sound began, revving up like a record trying to get up to speed. It was loud, filling the formerly silent street with banging drums and cymbals. She looked at the riverboat as the figures came to life, moved by articulation arms in repetitive patterns.
She glanced back down the street. No one else had entered the room; it was just the three of them. She noticed little mechanical music box displays, running up and down the street, small contraptions housed in wooden frames with glass windows, tucked between each of the shops. She’d passed them by while walking the street earlier, completely missing them, concentrating more on the shop windows. There was a glow coming from several of them; a gypsy fortune teller, whose arm was moving back and forth over a series of tarot cards; a winter scene of skiers slowly sliding down a snow-covered mountain, the mechanism returning them to the top for an endless loop; fishermen casting rods into fake water and tugging to pull something up. They were all glowing in an unnatural way, and she was just about to walk to them when the music from the riverboat changed, dropping several steps, becoming louder, screeching like fingernails on a chalkboard. She turned back to look at it, wondering if something mechanical was breaking down; instead she saw figures moving between the mannequins, reaching for the instruments. They were whitish-pale and transparent, and she could see though them to the riverboat backdrop. As she watched, one of them looked up, staring right at her. When they made eye contact, the male figure smiled at her, and then lowered his eyesight to the cello by his side. He reached down to slide his ghostly fingers along the strings of the instrument, producing a loud wail that made Eliza want to hold her ears. He looked back up at her, his smile growing as he watched her discomfort.
She dropped from the River, and as she felt the sharp prick of pain at the base of her skull, she heard the sound of the riverboat return to the out-of-tune cacophony that it normally produced.
The exit to the next section was at her left, and she took it, shaken, wanting to put distance between herself and the entity she’d seen on the riverboat. His stare was now emblazoned in her mind; she knew she’d have nightmares in the future, and would have to find a way to exorcise that look from her memory.
Not just the stare, she thought. His delight. His sheer delight at the pain he was causing.
My God! she suddenly thought. Was that the cause of Shane’s condition? That grinning, evil apparition on the riverboat?
Be
tween the image from the barn last night and the demonic figure on the riverboat, she was beginning to feel frightened. She realized there were inexplicable things around her that she couldn’t control. She hated the feeling. Her whole life she’d always been in control; even after her father’s death she felt she’d managed to keep things relatively normal and on track. What she’d seen since entering the River two days were disorienting and unnerving. It felt like upheaval, and it scared her.
How much more of this stuff is there? she wondered.
She made her way to an office where she could make a phone call and check in on Shane, and afterward, slowly walked back to the gift shop.
●
“I told you so,” Rachel said, taking a drag on her cigarette. “And that’s not the half of it. You should see the circus displays. Tons of haunted stuff in there.”
“He stared right at me,” Eliza replied, remembering the creature on the riverboat. “When he saw that I was paying attention, he deliberately made things worse, as though he was torturing me.”
“Sick fucker enjoys it,” Rachel said, tamping out her cigarette. “I’ve seen him before. He gets off on making people uncomfortable.”
“What is he, exactly?” Eliza asked.
Rachel looked at her, surprised. “A ghost, you idiot!” she said, pursing her lips. “What did you think?”
“I always thought of ghosts as…as…” she stammered, trying to come up with the right words.
“As white smears on fuzzy photographs?” Rachel replied. “Or as imagined sounds on some TV show?”
“Well, yes,” Eliza answered. “Kinda like UFOs. You hear about them, and there are hints, but you never really see one.”
“We do,” Rachel replied. “That’s what the gift is all about. Seeing things other people can’t see. I can’t believe you’re gifted and that’s the first time you’ve actually seen a ghost.”
“Well,” Eliza said, “I hadn’t really been using it, like I said.”
“I can feel them,” Rachel replied, “even when I’m not in the River. This whole place is full of them.” She waved her arm in the air, motioning to the buildings of The House on the Rock. “God love him, but Alex Jordan didn’t have a clue what kind of bad mojo he collected here. You saw a few things in the Street of Yesterday, but that’s just a fraction of all the haunted stuff in there. You should see the other machines, The Blue Room. The Franz Josef. And then there’s The Organ Room. All full of ghosts and other weird shit.”
“You’ve seen them all?”
“I don’t have to. I can sense them, just walking through. I stay out of the River while I’m in there. I don’t want to see what they actually are.”
“Well, if you don’t drop in there, why’d you have me do it?”
“To prove to you that what I’m telling you is the truth! Do you believe me now?”
“Yeah,” Eliza said, remembering the glow of the displays and the eyes of the dolls. “I do. What do we do about it?”
“If your brother was attacked by one of those things,” Rachel said, “we need to discover what it was so we can try to reverse it.”
“You have some kind of antidote?” Eliza asked. “Like a potion he can take?”
“That might be one of the options,” Rachel replied, “but we’d be stabbing in the dark. The solution has to be tailored to the problem, or it can wind up causing more trouble. Each one of those ghosts and haunted objects in there is unique, and is capable of causing unique damage. We have to know which one we’re dealing with first.”
“How are we going to know that?”
“There are ways,” Rachel said, her eyes moving back and forth as she contemplated options. Eliza could see that the challenge was invigorating and exciting her in a way she’d never seen Rachel behave; driven and focused. “Once we know which one attacked your brother, we do research on it. Then we’ll know what we’re up against.”
Eliza sighed. “Sounds complicated.”
“Would have been a lot less complicated if I hadn’t sold all my stuff,” Rachel replied. “We need my Tapura.”
“Tapura?” Eliza repeated.
“It’s like my lip balm,” Rachel replied. “It’s an object that looks different in the River. I used to have one.”
“How would that help?”
“It was a signature matcher,” Rachel replied.
“A signature matcher?” Eliza shook her head, confused.
“Every one of the objects in there — and most of the ghosts — put off a signature,” Rachel said. “My Tapura captures the signatures so you can compare them.”
“So how does that help?”
“We go see your brother in the hospital,” Rachel explained, “and we let it capture whatever signature is coming off him right now. Then we bring it back here, and it will tell us which object or ghost matches. Then we’ll know exactly what to target. Come on,” she stood, “we better get back. Lois has probably shit enough bricks to build the Great Wall of China.”
Eliza stood and followed Rachel as they walked back to the gift shop. “If you sold your…your…”
“Tapura,” Rachel offered.
“Yes, your Tapura, how are we going to get one?”
“From the asshole I sold it to,” Rachel replied.
Chapter Five
The next morning they wound their way through a subdivision of Rockford, ending at a cul de sac. Eliza drove, as Rachel’s car was barely able to get her to work and back, and too unreliable for the trip. Rachel directed her to park in front of a two-story brick home.
“This is it,” Rachel said, getting out of the car. “He’s a prick, so just let me do the talking.”
They walked toward the house; the grass was long and weeds had invaded the plant beds under the windows. Homes on either side showed signs of children; abandoned ridable plastic trucks and bright yellow tennis balls peppered the lawn, but the house they were approaching appeared lifeless and sterile. It made Eliza feel a little cold.
Rachel knocked on the door. It opened, revealing an older woman with thick-lens glasses. Her brow was furrowed. She looked stern.
“No soliciting!” the woman barked, and closed the door.
Rachel turned to Eliza. “Hold onto your hat.” She knocked again.
The woman returned. “Do I have to call the cops?” she asked, her voice dripping with threat.
“I need to see Jack,” Rachel replied.
“Doesn’t mean he needs to see you,” the woman replied, closing the door. This time Rachel had her foot ready. As the woman slammed it into her shoe, Rachel winced.
“Remove your foot, or I will!” the woman hissed, her glasses beginning to slide down her nose from the weight of the lenses.
“I’m here for his benefit!” Rachel replied. “He’ll want to see me.”
“I highly doubt that,” the woman replied, shoving the door harder into Rachel’s foot.
“There’s a problem he needs to be aware of,” Rachel said, pushing back on the door. “Life and death, potentially.”
Eliza could see the door ease off, and the angry look on the woman’s face cracked a little, revealing concern. “Life and death?” she asked suspiciously.
“Let me talk to Jack,” Rachel said. “You won’t understand what I have to say. He will.”
“He’s not…” the woman started, then paused. She pushed her glasses back up her nose.
“Yes?” Rachel asked.
“He’s not the same as he used to be,” she finished. “He’s changed…somewhat.”
“I don’t care,” Rachel answered. “There’s a problem with one of the things I sold him that he needs to be aware of.”
“Hmmf,” the woman snorted. “Who’s this?” she said, opening the door a little, staring at Eliza.
“My friend, here to make sure I get out of here alive.”
Another “hmmf” erupted from the woman, and she opened the door to let them in.
Eliza noticed the smell of spices; dozens
of them, a potent combination of garlic, turmeric, and saffron, hanging in the air like a thick fog. She resisted the temptation to cough.
The woman shut the door behind them. “He’s downstairs,” she said, leading them through the dark house. “I warn you, he’s different.”
She passed through the kitchen to a stairwell, stopping to grab a flashlight. They descended. The stairs opened into a large, unfinished basement. Windows had been blacked out, and as the woman’s flashlight bobbed through the room, Eliza could see several tables scattered along the walls, filled with papers and objects.
“Come back this way,” the woman said. “He stays back here. Doesn’t like the light, but I have to use something to see.”
The woman kept her light pointed down at the ground as they walked over the cement flooring, not raising it up to point in the direction they were walking. She stopped when they reached the far end, and Eliza tried to make out what was in front of them; slowly the ambient light revealed Jack.
He was sitting in a large padded chair. He had no hair, and the skin of his head was mottled, covered in green patches that looked infected. When she looked down, at first she thought his left arm and leg were missing, but then she realized that they were there, just covered in something that made them appear to be gone; it was a greyish ooze that occasionally caught the light from the woman’s flashlight, turning translucent, exposing red veins inside. His right side appeared fine. He was naked, and made no attempt to hide his genitals from the women. When he looked at Eliza, she felt a chill; his eyes were yellow.
“Yes?” he spoke, his voice raspy.
“What are you doing?” Rachel asked, surprised at his appearance. “Seriously?”
“None of your business,” he replied weakly.
“Last time I saw you,” Rachel said, “you looked completely normal. Now you’re all fucked up! What happened?”
The Haunting of Pitmon House Page 4