Poltergeist

by James Kahn

  Two bright flashes of light exploded soundlessly a few feet away. Out of nowhere.

  “Anybody see that?” Ryan looked quickly from face to face around the table. Could it be a group hallucination?

  “There’ll be two more in a few seconds,” smiled Diane. “They always travel in pairs.”

  Ryan sat speechless, his camera unattended around his neck. Martha nudged him and pointed to it. “Ryan,” she said.

  Ryan looked alert and began to fumble with the setting, just as two more flashes popped at the other end of the room.

  “Gotta be quicker than that around here,” Diane said affably.

  “It’s electrical,” Ryan commented, sniffing the air. “You can smell the charge.”

  “Are there any large power generators in the area?” Dr. Lesh asked.

  “Not that we know of.”

  “I just can’t imagine any power source that I’m familiar with producing any of the phenomena we witnessed upstairs,” Ryan insisted bleakly.

  “What are you saying?” Diane let a hint of doubt filter into her voice.

  “Martha, maybe we should bring Tangina back here,” Ryan went on.

  Lesh shook her head. “Later, maybe—if she gets her strength back—depending on what we find. For all we know at the moment, though, this could all be a function of some as yet uncharacterized electromagnetic field, which . . .”

  “Of course, of course . . . all I’m saying is she may be more qualified, de facto, to at least delineate . . .”

  “She’s my patient, first and foremost, Ryan. Primum non nocere. First, do no harm. That’s the basic law of medicine. If and when she gets over the trauma of this experience, I may bring her back here. Until then, it looks to me like we’re going to have more data to monitor here than we can even make a dent in analyzing by traditional means . . .”

  “What are you saying?” Diane interjected.

  “I’m going to call up our lab tech, Marty, right now, and have him bring over all our equipment. Cameras, field detectors, and so on . . . if it’s all right with you. We will investigate these matters fully and rigorously, and . . .”

  Diane touched Martha on the sleeve. “And you were saying about poltergeists . . .”

  Lesh paused, and smiled empathetically: she’d gotten a little carried away in front of these poor, needy people. “I was saying at one point, I think—or perhaps Ryan was saying—that poltergeists are generally associated with an individual. So the literature claims, at least. Whereas hauntings—in the general vernacular—seem to be connected with an area . . . a house, usually.”

  “Also,” Ryan added, “poltergeist disturbances are of fairly short duration. Perhaps a couple of months. Hauntings typically are said to go on for years.”

  Diane, who’d been following intently what the two said, suddenly grabbed Steve’s hand and pulled it to her; a chill settled on the table, and in her voice. “Are you telling me all this could just end at any time?”

  Martha tried to sound clinically detached. “Unless it’s a haunting. But as a rule—and again I must stress, this is only what I read in the published reports—but as a rule, there seems to be no living person around whom haunting incidents revolve.”

  “Then we don’t have much time, Dr. Lesh,” whispered Diane. “Because my daughter is alive somewhere in this house.”

  Dana sat at the lunch table at school, sipping on a carton of milk. Beside her sat Heather and Trudie. They all looked rather serious.

  “But everyone’s parents are psycho, Dana. Your brain just starts to rot when you get old. Before you know it, you have a stroke.”

  “But this is really the limit. My little sister is stuck or hiding somewhere in the house; it sounds like she’s scared out of her gourd—and my parents . . . aren’t . . . doing . . . a thing.”

  “Maybe they’re trying to teach her a lesson, or some bullshit like that. My parents are always pulling that one. Like when they made me smoke so many cigarettes in a row I puked.”

  “No, this is even weirder—they want her to come back. But I think they think she got zapped away by the tornado, and now this is her ghost they’re talking to.”

  “Wow.”

  “Far out.”

  “Your parents think that?”

  “Dana, your parents need est.”

  “You know, my parents absolutely don’t believe my older sister Katie exists—ever since she joined the Hare Krishnas. It’s like . . . they really think she’s dead. Really. So maybe like this is the same type of thing.”

  “Maybe.” Dana shook her head sadly. “All I know is, the whole house gives me the creeps now, especially after dark.”

  “Who could blame you?”

  “It’s like . . . they’ve almost got me believing I hear these funny knocks and rattles now . . . I mean, I half believe they’re hiding Carol Anne somewhere, for some weird reason. I don’t know what’s going on anymore.”

  “Hey! Maybe your parents are trying to drive you crazy, like in Gaslight. Remember, when Ingrid Bergman thinks the lights are getting dim, and Joseph Cotton . . .”

  “Why would anyone want to drive me crazy, idiot?”

  Trudie scratched her chin and sat back. “For the insurance?”

  Dusk. Marty had spent most of the afternoon setting up equipment in the Freeling living room, and now was nearly finished. Two television cameras—one with a wide-angle lens—stood covering different areas of the room. Each was connected to a videotape recorder, and each of these plugged into its own monitor. In addition, there were automatic 35-mm cameras on tripods, connected to trip-wires; infrared and ultraviolet cameras; tapedecks and microphones that registered ultra-low to ultra-high frequencies; a thermograph, an ionization monitor, a magnometer, a barometer, a seismograph, and a small fluoroscope. The place looked like a den of mad scientists.

  Diane and Steve sat on the couch holding hands, while all this activity buzzed around them. Martha, Ryan, and Marty made final adjustments, checked adapter connections, and generally maintained a high level of excitement.

  Dana walked in from upstairs, an overnight bag strapped around her shoulders.

  Diane smiled wanly, and spoke without rising. “Dana, I’d like you to meet Doctor . . .”

  “It’s getting dark, Mom. Gotta go. I’ll call you from Trudie’s.” Her speech was terse, clipped. It was hard for Lesh to hear, whether the girl was annoyed, ashamed, or simply afraid.

  “She won’t stay in the house after dusk,” Steve explained weakly, almost apologetic. “Our absentee princess.”

  “She’s got brains,” Robbie muttered disgustedly. He sat on the rug, playing with a truck.

  Without another word, Dana ran out the front door. Diane stood and turned on the large console television. The local news was just finishing up a story about after-effects of the storm damage suffered two nights before, when Diane turned the dial to UHF—Channel 81.

  “We receive better on this channel, but don’t ask me why.”

  Perplexed, Dr. Lesh stared at the screen, as did the others. The characteristic blue-white light filled the room, becoming pronounced as Steve walked from lamp to lamp, turning each one off. Finally there was only the light of the television, cold and intense, and the hiss of the static snow.

  Ryan and Marty put on headphones, and aimed one of the television cameras and all three microphones at the set as Diane turned up the volume of the hissing. Lesh put on her glasses. Steve lit a cigarette, took a long, tense drag. Diane touched him a moment—for reassurance—and spoke to the group.

  “I’ll call her.”

  It was said so simply, and without moment, that Dr. Lesh inadvertently held her own breath. Diane walked to the center of the living room, folded her hands in front of her, collected her thoughts, closed her eyes, took a deep breath . . . and spoke lovingly to the ceiling.

  “It’s Mommy, sweetheart. We want to talk to you. Baby, please answer. Please talk to me, Carol Anne.”

  Dr. Lesh darted a glance at
her assistants, checking their reactions to this. Marty seemed unfazed, interested primarily in his meters and levels. Ryan was clearly fascinated, yet obviously uncertain how to respond to . . . all this. Martha was uncertain herself. What was going to happen?

  E. Buzz suddenly pranced into the room, looking up in the air as if he were following on the heels of someone with a treat. His tail was wagging; he was oblivious to everyone else in the room.

  “Look at the dog,” Lesh whispered breathlessly to Ryan.

  Marty furrowed his forehead, and pressed the headphones more tightly around his ears. The dog walked to the far end of the room, then sat up on his hind legs and begged . . . to blank air.

  “Are you with us now, sweetheart?” Diane asked the room. “Can you say hello to Daddy? Say hello to Daddy, baby.”

  Ryan shook his head slowly—even started to smile, as skepticism began to outweigh his other emotions. So this was a hoax, after all. Or if not a hoax, an unfortunate mistake. A cruel happenstance, with this pitiful family . . .

  He heard something. The smile vanished from his lips as he pushed the headset hard to his ears. His pulse quickened.

  Marty heard it, too. He fiddled with his dials—gains, filters, frequencies. “Good Lord . . .” he whispered.

  Everyone faced the television—straining, leaning forward into the fluorescent glow, squinting, holding their breath. Not a sound, not a flicker. And then, soft as a distant memory, sweet and fragile, a voice: “Hello, Daddy.”

  “Hello, sweetheart,” whispered Steve. His throat was constricted with feeling, his eyes were moist. Dr. Lesh, sitting beside him, was so startled by what she’d heard she actually jumped up off the couch. Slowly, with great trepidation, she approached the set, staring into the swirling snow. It was the voice she’d heard the previous night on Tangina’s lips. It made her shiver.

  Everyone stood.

  Diane spoke again. “Darling, it’s Mommy.”

  “Hello, Mommy.” The voice seemed to be coming out of the television.

  Imperceptibly, Marty shook his head. Something was not right about all this. A voice in the television? It was too easy. Anyone could have tampered with the set. He looked at Ryan for support in this suspicion, but Ryan was completely engrossed, fiddling with the recorders, checking the infrared monitors and ion flux measurements.

  Quickly, Marty removed his headphones, opened his repair kit on the floor, and withdrew a Phillips screwdriver and a flashlight. Then he walked to the back of the television console, unscrewed the masonite dust cover, and shined his light into the chassis. Methodically, he examined the circuitry.

  Diane spoke once more. “Can you see me? Can you see Mommy?”

  “Where are you, Mommy? Where are you? I can’t see you!”

  “We’re home, baby. Come home to Mommy. Can you find the way?”

  “I’m afraid, Mommy. I’m afraid of the light.”

  Dr. Lesh moved rapidly to Diane’s side. “Tell her to stay away from the light.” She spoke evenly, but urgently.

  “But maybe it’s a way out!” Diane protested.

  “It is. It is a way out . . . it’s the way out. But not for her. Tell her quickly.”

  “Carol Anne. Where is this light?”

  “Tell her to stay away from it! Tell her now!” Lesh gripped Diane’s arm.

  “Tell her, Diane!” Steve urged, hanging on the fear in Lesh’s voice.

  Diane nodded uncertainly. “Sweetheart, the light is dangerous. Don’t go near it. Don’t look at the light.”

  Marty sidled up behind Dr. Lesh. “I don’t think I believe this,” he whispered. “The set looks okay, but the voice could be a CB broadcasting from somewhere in the house. I’m taking a look.”

  Lesh nodded absently, spoke under her breath. “It’s not a hoax.” This was a conviction now. She didn’t know why; she was simply certain.

  “We’ll see,” said Marty. He moved out of the white glare and tiptoed up the steps to the second floor.

  E. Buzz barked again, then jumped into the air and caught something in his mouth. It drew everyone’s attention to him, just in time to see several mid-air electrical discharges flash brightly above his head. Almost blindingly bright, for a few moments they illuminated the room, then disappeared, leaving a smell of ozone.

  “What was that?”

  From the area of sparking, a number of small objects materialized and fell immediately to the carpet. Lesh and the others gathered around to examine the articles: jewelry, cameos, brooches, coins, pocket watches, digital watches, money clips, key chains, a few small bones. The dog came over and sniffed at the pile suspiciously.

  Dr. Lesh looked back at Ryan, still bent over his controls. “Anything?”

  “Nothing registered,” he muttered, checking the readouts.

  “Mommy . . .” The voice in the television grew louder, edged with fear. “Mommy . . . there’s somebody here.”

  Steve held his head in his hands, nearly beside himself with worry. “Oh Jesus, this isn’t happening.”

  “Mommy . . . is that you?”

  “Who’s there, baby? Who is with you?”

  “Somebody’s coming, Mommy.” The voice was tight as a spring, straining to its upper registers.

  “Stay away, baby!” Diane whimpered. “Go back . . .”

  A piercing wail screamed out of the television—a child’s scream, mad with terror. “Nooo! No, no, no, no . . .”

  “Run, Carol Anne! Run away!” Diane screamed back at the set. “Run!”

  Marty crept silently along the upstairs corridor until he came to Dana’s room. The door was ajar. He nudged it open and entered, keeping his back to the wall. With his shoulder, he turned on the light.

  Nothing extraordinary here. An adolescent girl’s room. Stereo, piles of records, magazines, books, crumpled clothes, blow dryer, Rocky Horror Picture Show poster, lace curtains, and suede boots. He looked quickly under the bed—no transmitting devices there. He walked over to the closet.

  He opened the closet door. Dark all the way to the back; the light was out. Racks of clothes hung before him, looking vaguely phantasmagorical in the shadows. The smell of rose oil filled the space like the olfactory memory of an earlier life. Marty inhaled deeply, began rummaging through the blouses and flowing robes on the hangers, the piled junk on the floor.

  In the back corner, he saw something. A dim shape, nearly a box, almost hidden behind a stack of papers and old shoes. Possibly a transmitter. Maybe even just a tapedeck, with hidden speakers downstairs. He pushed his way along the row of garments, dangling sleeves brushing his cheeks. Finally he came to the shape.

  He knocked aside the camouflage. It was a box. Triumphantly, he pulled it open: a packet of rolling papers, half a lid of California Homegrown, a cleaning screen, a few matchbooks. Marty laughed. He quickly decided not to roll himself a number—Lesh would get pissed off. and besides, there were too many bad vibes in this house; he’d probably just get paranoid.

  He checked out the bathroom at the end of the hall, next. The shower curtain was closed—why did they always leave the shower curtain closed at times like this? He ripped it open dramatically, half expecting his lurkiest horror. Unremarkable. Down the dark hall again, to the master bedroom.

  An odd smell was here. Like . . . mildew, or mold. He wondered if a small animal hadn’t died, and gotten stuck behind the dresser or something. He looked. Nothing there. Nor under the bed, nor in the closets or drawers. He went into the master bathroom. All mirrored and tiled and bright—Marty couldn’t imagine anything sinister or covert here. He curiously checked the tub, the cabinets; went to open the cupboard beneath the sink. It wouldn’t open.

  That was strange. There were no locks on it. Yet hard as he pulled on the handles, the doors wouldn’t give. He hunkered down, braced himself to get some good leverage, was about to pull . . . when he heard the noise. The noise came from inside the cabinet he was trying to open.

  An unearthly growling, a gnashing of feral teeth—quiet
, actually, but covering such restrained power, such barely contained violence, it sounded as if it had to be coming from a creature ten times bigger than anything that could have crouched in that small space.

  Marty stood up quickly, pale and alert. He backed out of the bathroom. He didn’t know what the Freelings’ game was, but he didn’t want any part of what was under that sink.

  He ran back out into the somber hall, finally coming to the closed door of the children’s room. It had to be pranksters; there was no other reasonable explanation.

  The lights were all off up here; he couldn’t locate a switch. He knew this was the last door, though. Gently, he put his ear to it: distant echoes, like wind in a cave. Deliberately, he collected his courage; carefully, he tested the doorknob. Locked.

  He was definitely getting a case of nerves. Downstairs he could hear all kinds of commotion going on indistinctly; at one point, even a muted explosion, like the sound of troubled thunder. He inhaled and exhaled deeply. Okay, it was now or never.

  It was now. He pulled a file from his utility belt, and with deft fingers began to jimmy the lock. In a few seconds he found the thread, and the lock slid back. Quietly, he began to turn the knob.

  Without a moment’s warning, something putrid sank its teeth into Marty’s side. He screamed in agony as he was thrown to the floor—and reflexively thrashed out, rolling over and over, down the darkened hallway toward the top of the stairs.

  Ryan gaped at his readouts—suddenly everything was registering wildly. Beyond him, in the television, the screams continued mercilessly.

  Diane couldn’t stand it anymore. She pressed her hands over her ears, tears streaming down her face, imploring Dr. Lesh with her eyes. Lesh had to look down. She felt totally impotent.

  Robbie sat huddled in the corner, rocking autistically, too scared to cry. Steve paced frenetically back and forth, swinging his arms in helpless rage. The dog whimpered, curled under a chair.