Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers

by Scott Nicholson

  “I don’t get it,” Kendra said. “If God has the power to throw angels out of heaven, why would He allow them to hang around down here and tempt people with evil, possess them, or whatever?”

  “God needs somebody to do His dirty work,” Roach said. “Keeps his hands clean.”

  “What do the demons get out of it? I mean, Lucifer got tossed out on his buns because he wanted to be top dog, and now he’s sitting around plotting his comeback?”

  “That’s what the Book of Revelation is all about,” Roach said, though that biblical text was clouded by metaphor and poetic nonsense. “The Fallen go for it, they get Earth for a thousand years, just enough for them to get a taste, and then–whammo–God yanks the bone out of their mouths.”

  “Okay, so they’re waiting for their day in the sun,” Kendra said. “Then why are they messing around in the meantime? If demons walk among us, how come none of us are possessed?”

  The innocence of youth. Where do you think your own sins come from, Digger Junior? And you don’t even have to rely on evil’s influence spreading from within, because sooner or later the Devil’s hammer is going to hit you from the outside.

  “Demons can’t work without invitation,” Roach said. “So it’s a choice. That’s what the whole heaven-and-hell thing is all about.”

  “Lighten up,” Cody said. “You’re going to give the paranormal industry a bad name. I’d rather be seen as a bunch of opportunistic flakes than Gloomy Doomies.”

  “What good are numbers in matters of faith?” Kendra said. “You can pile up specs until the end of time and never come up with an answer to the big question.”

  Cody grinned a little at the compliment, but uncertainty clouded his features. “What’s your point?”

  “You’re trying to prove the unprovable, Dad’s trying to know the unknowable, Roach is trying to defeat the invincible. We’re all just going through the motions and it all comes out the same in the end.”

  “Whoa,” Cody said. “I didn’t realize you were an existentialist.”

  She slid off the table, mussing the linen, and headed for the door. “Nah, I’m just a cartoon character. Don’t mind me.”

  Roach watched Cody’s eyes as they consumed every detail of the girl’s movement. Confident she was being watched, she gave a flip of her hair, blending shadow and light, and lapsed into a subtle imitation of her catwalk strut.

  Yes, he’s watching, you little vixen. But he’s not the only one.

  The demon in the corner, which had not yet given itself a name, nodded in agreement.

  Chapter 14

  “You shouldn’t have tipped the lamp so fast,” Duncan said.

  Ann, aiming her digital camera into a mirror so that it caught a slanted view of the third-floor hall, said, “It wasn’t me, it was that cranky old cynic, Gelbaugh.”

  “You’re the cranky old cynic. Besides, he was all the way across the room.”

  The hall was buckled, the decades warping the wood beneath the frayed gray carpet. The skewed geometry no doubt contributed to paranormal delusions, and Ann figured to play it to her advantage. Using the mirror, she was able to distort the architecture even further. She clicked, and the flash illuminated the grim passageway.

  “I wouldn’t put it past Digger Wilson to rig it himself,” Duncan said. “Maybe a thin fishing line tied to the lamp cord.”

  Ann took another photo. “Doubtful. He would have played the crowd a little, let the drama build toward a satisfying climax. He’s a showman if nothing else.”

  A small group turned the corner at the far end of the hall, led by a middle-aged man in an SSI jumpsuit. While some of the hunters were solemn and had haunted looks about their eyes, this group was boisterous and laughing.

  “No respect for the dead,” Duncan said.

  “Judging from the roster, most of these people are from established groups,” Ann said. “I guess they all want a paranormal show on the Sci Fi Channel.”

  “Light on the ‘science,’ but heavy on the ‘fiction,’” Duncan said. “But I doubt if there’s a lot of demand for the ‘Skeptic’s Channel.’”

  “Skeptic? I’m not a skeptic. Skeptics are still open to possibility.”

  Ann and Duncan pressed against the wall to allow the group passage. The jump-suited group leader smiled at them and glanced at their name tags. The walkie talkie on his hip hissed and squawked, and Digger’s voice rode a wave of static: “We’ll have to regroup, folks. Please return to the control room.”

  Jumpsuit groaned and banged his clipboard against his hip. “This is no way to run a railroad.”

  As he herded his group toward the stairs, Ann grabbed Duncan’s sleeve and went in the opposite direction. “Come on, handsome, time for a little game.”

  “We just did that. You know it takes me a couple of hours to recover.”

  “Not that kind of game. This is for keeps.”

  “Where we headed?”

  “I saw on that guy’s clipboard that they’re headed for 302. We have time to give them a little show.”

  “What about all the cameras they’ve got rolling?”

  “We’ll use them.”

  After the turn of the corridor, they reached a set of stairs that squeaked with every step. Ann admired the cleverness of the maintenance staff. From the mirrors on the walls to the careful disrepair, a Hollywood construction team couldn’t have concocted a better stage. The hotel even had a chilly draft snaking through the hallway.

  They found 302 unlocked, as Ann knew it would be. All the hunt locations were guaranteed to be open around the clock, just in case some hardcore spirit junkies needed a late-night fix.

  “So what’s the plan?” Duncan asked.

  “There you go, talking in questions again.”

  “I have a probing mind.”

  “And probing other things. But once in while you should just shut up and follow my orders.”

  “What do I get out of that deal?”

  “My undying gratitude. Now go to the window and wrap yourself inside the curtain liner.”

  “Nobody’s going to fall for that.”

  “I’m going to flash the lights. Anyone standing outside will see your silhouette but won’t have time to observe any definite features. So you’ll become a ‘sighting,’ and everyone will want to run in here with their instruments.”

  “I still don’t get it.” Even as he was expressing doubt, he headed for the window, and Ann smiled to herself. She knew how to get what she wanted, and he likely had a few good months left before she burned him out.

  “If 302 becomes a hot spot, then we have time to set up stuff in the other rooms.”

  “What stuff?” The woman coming out of the bathroom surprised Ann, and Duncan was already untangling himself from the curtains.

  “Uh, sorry. Didn’t know anybody was in here.”

  “Yeah, our group hunted here and I had to….” She rolled her eyes into the bathroom. “Darned thing didn’t flush.”

  “We were just goofing off,” Ann said.

  “You said something about a sighting.”

  Ann had been thrown off her game with Duncan witnessing. The woman looked to be in her 30s and was attractive, but had none of the spaciness of the other hunters, that vacant-eyed desperation that made them so easy to fool. “I heard this room was haunted.”

  “It is,” she said. “I’m Tonya, by the way. Tonya Townsend.”

  “I’m Ann, and that’s Duncan.”

  Duncan moved away from the window and pretended to investigate the closet, going so far as to flick his flashlight on and peer into the corners.

  “Nothing in the closet,” Tonya said. “It’s gone. I felt it.”

  “You’re a...what do they call them, a ‘sensitive’?” Ann figured the woman would be flattered.

  “I’m a hairdresser,” she said. “The head is a powerful place for spiritual energy and when you’re styling someone’s hair, you’re messing with the crown chakra.”

  Ann ha
d heard of the seven-point energy system derived from a Hindu-based healing tradition, but she wasn’t sure it held any more validity than ghosts and goblins. But she nodded, more to distract Tonya from her suspicion than because of any interest in the subject. “And you know when ghosts are around?”

  “Yes,” she said, eyeing Duncan, who was now peering under the bed. “I can feel them. Sort of like the static before a thunderstorm.”

  Or maybe exactly like that. One of Ann’s theories was that minor electromagnetic fluctuations could lead to disorientation and hallucinations, and people who were hard-wired to be susceptible were also more likely to report paranormal experiences.

  “Did you sense one here earlier?” Duncan asked. His eyes met Ann’s, and she saw a conspiratorial glimmer in them. He was changing the subject.

  “Yeah. It was the suicide guy. The one who jumped from the third floor and got skewered.”

  “I thought he jumped from 318,” Ann said. She was losing track of the haunted rooms.

  “He wanders from room to room. No need to worry about walls, right?”

  “I guess not,” Duncan said.

  “He has a sad energy. I’ve encountered ghosts that had post-traumatic stress disorder, and they usually don’t know what happened. This guy acts like he knew he made a choice and now he regrets it.”

  Ann bit her lip to keep from grinning. Tonya’s face was so earnest that Ann almost believed her, except the part where the guy was many years dead and she was talking about him like he’d just returned from a vacation.

  “Do you think he’ll come back around?” Ann said, pulling a Flip video camera from her breast pocket. “I would love to get some footage for my YouTube site.”

  Tonya narrowed her eyes. “You can’t see him. He’s an energy spirit. He doesn’t draw enough charge to become substance.”

  “Sort of like a battery that’s gone weak?” Duncan asked, trying to impose a plausible science.

  “You’ve heard of auras, right? The energy rings above people’s heads? It’s sort of like that.”

  “Cool,” Ann said. “Can you see them?”

  “I see them with both the living and the dead. That’s how I can tell their moods.”

  “What color is mine?”

  “Orange, the color of fire and passion.”

  Ann felt a small surge of pride, despite not believing a word of it.

  “What about me?” Duncan asked.

  “You’re a greenie. Earthbound and bright.”

  Ann couldn’t resist. “And the dead guy?”

  Tonya closed her eyes. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  You can say that again. Ann felt her flesh tighten as the room temperature dipped noticeably.

  “He’s here,” Tonya whispered.

  Duncan, who had sat on the bed, looked around the room. Ann found herself pulling out the pocket-sized video camera. “Where?”

  “Right behind you.”

  Ann’s heart skipped a beat despite her doubt. As she turned, she imagined a slow exhalation of breath drifting along the back of her neck. She wondered if she were beginning to suffer a peculiar version of Stockholm Syndrome, only as a willing hostage of the paranormal community. She was more than a hostage; she was a spy.

  Ann saw nothing but put her hand out. The air in front of her felt cold and her fingers tingled with a faint trickle of electricity.

  “His aura is gray,” Tonya whispered. “With a little bit of purple, like clouds at sundown.”

  “What’s he want?”

  “I can’t tell,” she responded. “I don’t think he knows.”

  “Come on, Ann,” Duncan said. “This is getting a little silly.”

  “Shh,” Ann said. She pressed the button on her Flip cam and held it in front of her. Perhaps Tonya’s hallucination was a bit of reflected streetlight or a prismatic effect from the bedside lamp. The cam also had an audio track so she could monitor Tonya’s remarks.

  “Can I talk to it?” Ann asked Tonya.

  “It’s a he,” she said. “You can try. But I don’t think he’ll stay long.”

  Ann had studied investigation techniques and knew some hunters took a provocative approach, on the belief that ghosts were like caged tigers and only needed to be poked a little to growl.

  “Why did you kill yourself?” she asked, the words coming out louder than she had intended.

  The heating system kicked on, the hum accompanied by a mild vibration in the floor. So much for a simple answer in English.

  “Maybe you should have it sing the ABC’s,” Duncan suggested.

  “The aura is changing,” Tonya said. “Now it’s like a dark cloud.”

  Ann waved her hand at head height before her, imagining the aura dispersing like so much mist. The air before her was now frigid, despite the ventilation system pumping warm air into the room. A pungent aroma assailed her nostrils, as if a rat had died in the air duct and reached a ripe state of corruption.

  “Do you see anything?” Ann asked, intending the question for Duncan.

  Tonya answered. “The aura is getting bigger.”

  Ann took an involuntary step back and the pillar of cold air seemed to expand to meet her. Tonya’s steady, calm voice was somehow more chilling than if she’d gone for a dramatic stage whisper. Ann kept the Flip cam as steady as she could in her now-trembling hand. The tension in the room swelled and the overhead light dimmed.

  “It’s drawing power,” Tonya said.

  “Electrical surge in the wiring,” Duncan said, but Ann wasn’t so sure science was behind this little display. She knew most of her experience was subjective, and that the visual and auditory record would reveal nothing unusual, but she found herself glad for Tonya’s steady presence.

  As the light grew bright again, the room warmed. Tonya exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath since exiting the bathroom.

  “What was that?” Duncan asked.

  “It’s gone again,” Tonya said.

  “He’s gone,” Ann added, realizing that the force had projected a definite masculinity. But that was absurd. Even if the various experiences could be corroborated, physical events by their nature were indifferent and neuter. Science was marked by gender, not sex.

  “Come on,” Duncan said, taking her arm and leading her to the door. “You need some rest.”

  Ann was listless, as if the entity had drained power from her as well as the light bulb. As Duncan guided her from the room, he whispered, “Good show.”

  He must have thought she was faking the performance, both to assuage Tonya’s suspicions and raise expectations among the hunters. But Ann wasn’t quite sure how to assess the experience. The various phenomena combined to create a cumulative effect that left her wondering what had happened.

  As they reached the door, Tonya said, “Your aura.”

  Ann turned, though Duncan frowned.

  “The black is in yours now.”

  Chapter 15

  Lame-o-rama. Ain’t that right, Momma?

  Kendra had lowered her expectations for her dad, but this was a little embarrassing. She would have just given the two ladies their refunds and sent them on their way, but Wayne Wilson never let a dollar slide out of his pocket without a fight. Even the little melodrama with the fainting fat lady had turned dull. This whole conference was shaping up as nothing more than another wasted weekend.

  The control room was in chaos, with the hunt schedule already thrown off barely two hours in. A dozen people were complaining about their groups, and one woman said her butt had been fondled in the dark. Wayne had tried to appease her by suggesting she’d been touched by the spirit, but apparently the woman’s feminist ardor trumped her belief in the paranormal.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll get back on track in just a minute,” Wayne shouted in his best barker’s voice, momentarily quelling the rebellion. The room smelled of menthol and stale tobacco smoke, with a faint tinge of body odor. As he huddled with Burton over a clipboard, Kendra sidle
d through the murmuring crowd to Cody, who was rattling the keys of his laptop.

  “Hey, Future,” she said. “Got any goods yet?”

  Cody’s brow furrowed as he studied the computer, which was perched on a card table and wired to a bank of video monitors. “Check this out,” he said without looking up.

  He tapped some keys, bringing one of the video thumbnails to full size on his screen. The video began playing, and Kendra leaned over Cody’s shoulder to look. His neck smelled clean, with an outdoorsy freshness that made her a little light-headed. She debated brushing her chest against his back, but decided he was too deeply into his work to notice, and she didn’t want to waste ammunition.

  She smirked to herself. Tiny bullets.

  “The attic,” Cody said, stating the obvious as he pointed to the screen. The image showed rafters, dusty boards, a crumbling brick chimney, and fluffy piles of old insulation.

  “Creepy.”

  “No more so than any other dark place. Now look.” Cody pressed a key and the video began streaming.

  Kendra saw no movement on the screen and couldn’t tell whether the image was a still photograph until a moth finally fluttered past the camera. Her dad, like most hunters, spent more hours poring over potential evidence than they did hunting, one of the mundane and overlooked aspects of the field. Ghost-hunting shows on television didn’t show the tedious research that went into gleaning the oddities; the audience would be clicking away to reality shows and other forms of instant gratification. Cody was as impatient as any teen, so he didn’t bother building suspense.

  After 20 seconds, Wayne appeared on the screen, crouching and walking awkwardly toward the chimney. He placed his hand on the bricks as if sizing something up, then he retraced his steps.

  “So, it’s just Dad being dorky,” she said. “Nothing special about that.”

  “Wait.”

  Five seconds later, a faint image of a person appeared against the bricks. The image had no movement, but appeared to fade in and out. Just as the woman’s features became distinct, showing her flowing dress and long hair, it blinked out.

  “Whoa,” Kendra said. “Did I just see that?”