Ghost Box: Six Supernatural Thrillers

by Scott Nicholson

  Yep.” Cody let the footage continue as Wayne herded the groups together and began sending them out of the control room. Cody stopped the streaming video and backed it up, then replayed the segment. This time, he zoomed in and increased the screen resolution so that the image was revealed in large rectangular pixels.

  “Here’s the weird part,” Cody said, touching the screen with his finger. “See the digital information on the regular image?”

  “Yeah. It’s pixelated.”

  He froze the image just as the shadowy figure appeared. “Now look how fuzzy the blocks are.”

  Kendra wondered if he was testing her skepticism. She couldn’t decide whether to call his bluff or act ignorant. “Well, if it’s a ghost, isn’t it supposed to be fuzzy?”

  “It’s sort of like when you keep making photocopies of a photocopy. Pretty soon the image degrades.”

  “You’re saying Dad rigged a fake image?”

  “No. This is my personal video. I would know if somebody hacked it. He didn’t even know I’d set this one up because I did it before the rest of the crew hit the attic.”

  Burton’s group was the last to leave, and Wayne came over to the monitor desk. Kendra was about to ask if he’d seen the video when Cody shot her a “Cool it” look and minimized the screen.

  “Murphy’s law,” Wayne said. “The group hunts always work on paper, but people don’t hunt on paper.”

  “Got it sorted out?” Cody asked, bringing up the split-screen view that showed small versions of all the live camera images.

  “Trains are back on schedule,” he said. “Kendra, can I talk to you a sec?”

  She rolled her eyes just enough for Cody to notice, and his lips pursed in sympathy. “Sure.”

  Wayne escorted her to the hall and faced her, lowering his voice so Cody couldn’t hear. “You know I trust you and give you lots of leeway, and maybe that comes across as being inattentive, or ‘spaced out,’ as you like to say. And I’ve never worried about bringing you along on my hunts because you’ve always been so mature.”

  Because when Mom died, somebody had to be the grown-up. That was the kind of response that would require years of psychotherapy, so she merely nodded.

  “But this time I want you to stick close to me,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.”

  “It’s just a creaky old hotel,” she said.

  “Don’t be so damned hardheaded.”

  “Is this about Cody?”

  Wayne’s eyes narrowed and flicked back into the control room. “What about Cody?”

  Dad was so shut off from his emotions that he couldn’t recognize teen lust when he saw it. Not that she was quite sure what to make of it herself, or how far she wanted to go, but if two heterosexual teens were stranded on a desert island, somewhere along the way things would get natural.

  “Nothing. He’s just a tech geek.”

  “Cody can take care of himself. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Like I can’t take care of myself?”

  “Look. Some stuff is happening, okay? Things I can’t explain.”

  “I thought that was the point,” she said, then slipped into a mocking delivery of one of his marketing slogans. “‘All the shivers you can stand, or your money back.’”

  “That was show biz, but this is real.”

  “Digger Wilson calling something ‘real’?”

  “Honey.” His features curdled, his pretense of patience drained dry.

  “You said I was mature for my age, but I think you just forced responsibility on me so you wouldn’t have to bother with me.”

  Digger slammed the bottom of his fist against the wall, the suddenness causing her to jump. “Damn it.”

  “Great, a few more punches like that and this whole place is liable to collapse.”

  Digger walked away just as Cody poked his head out of the control room. “Something fall?” Cody asked.

  “Just my high hopes,” Kendra said. Dad had already turned the corner. Kendra was still flushed with the thrill of cheap victory. In younger days, she would cry, her tears driving him into helpless rage. She’d grown a little subtler since then, but he was just as vulnerable to his anger. The violence was a new manifestation, but nothing she couldn’t turn to her advantage.

  “Thanks for keeping our little secret,” he said.

  “Hmm?” She was only half listening, thinking of Dad.

  “The superimposed image. I need to break it down a little to see if it’s legit.”

  “And if it is?”

  “Then somebody’s trying to set us up.”

  “What’s the third alternative?”

  “I don’t believe it’s an intelligent haunt. No interaction.”

  “Well, you believe in demons, right?”

  “Yeah, but–”

  “Why couldn’t a demon superimpose an image, or manipulate your video data, if they’re so powerful?”

  “It doesn’t work that way.” Cody looked a little less certain than he sounded.

  “You have rules for everything, but not everything follows the rules.” The combative mood still lingered, and she couldn’t shake it, even though Cody had done nothing wrong. To her horror, she felt a surge of heat in her self-righteousness, and wondered if she had inherited the Digger’s anger issues.

  She needed to get away before Cody wrote her off as a bitchy lunatic. A little down time with some paper and pencils was the cure for her mood.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m starting my period.”

  Cody grinned, which she took as a sign of forgiveness. “My deepest sympathies.”

  “Good luck with that image thing. Gotta run.”

  “Later.”

  Kendra headed for her room, yearning for escape into two-dimensional worlds and cartoon ghost faces, where the characters behaved the way she wanted.

  Chapter 16

  The Psychic’s Room was set up in 131, and Cristos Rubio was holding court in style.

  When Wayne entered the room, Rubio was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees with his palms turned up. He wore his signature purple cloak, a silk cord holding it around his neck. His wrinkled brown face was etched with secrets, and his skin looked as if it were flaking. His eyes were small, dark, and reptilian.

  A young man sat in front of Rubio, a deck of playing cards on the floor between them. The man pressed one of the cards against his chest.

  “The card you’re holding is the seven of diamonds,” Rubio said in his rich Spanish accent.

  The man turned the card over and flipped it to the floor, where the half-dozen onlookers gaped at it. It was the six of spades.

  “Three out of eight,” the man said.

  Rubio opened his eyes. The left one wandered, swiveling toward the corner of the room. In the Middle Ages, those with wandering eyes were considered seers, and the lucky ones managed to earn their bread by telling fortunes, preferably good ones. The rest were burned at the stake or exiled.

  “Cut the deck,” Rubio said.

  The man did, and Rubio touched the top card. The onlookers fell silent, as if they were also trying to tune into the card. Wayne admired Rubio’s sense of drama, letting the moment play out. Rubio took his fingers off the card and the man picked it up.

  “It feels like the jack of hearts,” Rubio said.

  The man turned the card over, revealing that Rubio had predicted it correctly. Or else examined the marks hidden in the patterns on the back of the card.

  “Four of nine,” the man said, with a slight bit of awe.

  “Is he cheating?” whispered a woman in the back of the room.

  “Probably,” said a man in a black turtleneck. “But it’s a good act.”

  “I checked the cards myself,” Wayne said. “He’s legit.”

  As far as I know.

  Wayne had found Cristos Rubio through an Internet search, figuring a psychic would round out the conference and give some of t
he low-energy types a reason to skip out on the hunts.

  “One more,” Rubio said. “I should be good to pick at least 50 percent.”

  The man went through the routine again and this time Rubio correctly guessed three of clubs. This elicited a few “oohs” and “aahs,” as well as a little muttering. Gelbaugh, leaning against the wall wearing his patented smirk, offered, “Hardly a controlled experiment.”

  The man who was dealing the cards, whose face was pointed like a weasel’s, though he had gambler’s eyes, said, “Why don’t you try one?”

  Good theater, Digger thought. I might have to make this a regular part of Haunted Computer Productions.

  Gelbaugh eased his way through the crowd, strolling like a motion-picture sheriff headed for a showdown. “Let’s try my deck,” he said, fishing inside his sports jacket. “Then we’ll know it’s clean.”

  Unless you two varmints is in cahoots.

  Gelbaugh pulled out a deck with an elaborate, mystic design on the card backs, replete with stars, moons, comets, and other celestial bodies against a midnight-blue background. He set the deck on the coffee table, cut it, and said, “Try the top one.”

  Rubio touched the deck, closed his eyes, and frowned, the deep creases of his forehead as eroded as the Andean Mountains of Peru, his country of origin. His thick, dark eyebrows worked up and down in concentration. “These are not playing cards,” he whispered after a moment.

  “Sure, they are,” Gelbaugh said. “We’re playing a game, aren’t we?”

  “Don’t push it,” Wayne said.

  “What’s the matter?” Gelbaugh looked around at the assembled audience, several of whom appeared to be silently supporting him. “You don’t want anyone to peek behind the curtain?”

  Wayne was resigning himself to another verbal shootout with Gelbaugh when Rubio cut in with renewed strength in his voice. “I see.”

  Gelbaugh’s smile dropped into an O of surprise, and Wayne’s pulse leaped at the cheap victory. If Gelbaugh were left dead in the street, his trigger finger cold and limp, then the conference attendees might be able to relax and enjoy themselves.

  “Okay,” Gelbaugh said. “Wing it.”

  “Is Tarot,” Rubio said.

  Gelbaugh’s face went impassive. “Obvious,” he said. “The design gives that one away.”

  “From India.”

  “Wrong. These are from Poland.”

  “Designed in Poland. Printed in India.”

  Gelbaugh remained inscrutable. “Much of the world’s printing is done in India.”

  “It’s moving to Hong Kong and China,” said a man in a tie that featured a ghost drinking a martini and bearing the logo “Blithe spirit.” “I’m in advertising. All those crazy chemicals and no regulations, plus there’s more merchant ships.”

  “Thank you for the trivia quiz,” Gelbaugh said. “But I’m sure you folks want to get back to chasing figments of your imagination, so let’s get this over with.”

  “Fool,” Rubio said.

  “Sticks and stones. But don’t let your name-calling break your concentration.”

  “The Fool. Turn it.”

  Gelbaugh gave a deft flip and the card showed a dancing jester who wore an idiot grin. “Ah, nice work. Odds are one in 70, so you should head for Vegas after the conference.”

  “It is upright, meaning the beginning of a journey. Spiritual, emotional, or physical. Decisions and unexpected occurrences await.”

  “As vague as any daily horoscope or fortune cookie. Does that apply to me or to you?”

  “Me. You have the down side: Rash choices, impulsive actions, reckless behavior.”

  Gelbaugh grinned and look around the room. “Any ladies in the house want to see how reckless my behavior can be?”

  One woman blushed, but most of them scowled. The energy in the room was taking on a brittle edge, the anticipation melding into impatience. Wayne didn’t want to interfere, but he felt obliged to play the tolerant host.

  “Next card,” Wayne said. “If he can get two out of 70, then Cristos–and clairvoyance–wins.”

  “The senor just called me a gambler,” Gelbaugh said. “Anyone want to put $500 on the next guess?”

  Rubio shook his head in dismay, but the advertising executive raised his hand as if he were a bidder at an estate auction. “I’m in, asshole.”

  “You heard the man,” Gelbaugh said to the room, cutting the deck again and sliding the Fool card to the side.

  Rubio reached out a hand and placed his index finger on the deck. One corner of his mouth twitched. The room was so silent that Wayne heard the distant elevator grinding toward the bottom floor.

  “Pull something melodramatic like the Hanging Man,” Gelbaugh said. “Or the Devil.”

  “Please no joke about these things,” Rubio muttered through tight lips. The finger on the card trembled. “Knight of Cups.”

  Gelbaugh turned the card and was grinning before he laid it on the table for all to see. The ad man drew in a deep breath. “Seven of Coins. Guess that means coins for me.”

  “Okay, he’s batting .500,” Wayne said with feigned joviality. “What say we cash in our chips and move on?”

  “Double or nothing,” the ad man said.

  “Please,” Rubio said.

  “Fine, I could use a grand, considering how expensive these conferences are,” Gelbaugh said, splitting the deck once more. “Maybe I can afford an autographed publicity shot of Digger Wilson.”

  Rubio, resigned and slumped, put his palm over the deck and closed his eyes. His dark complexion had gone pale and sweat beaded his forehead like jewels. The people in the room shifted uncomfortably.

  “No good,” Rubio said after a strained moment.

  Gelbaugh, without looking, held his hand out toward the ad man. “Sucker’s game.”

  “Wait,” Rubio said. His shoulders shook, as if low-voltage electricity were flowing through him. Two women, who had been whispering to one another, leaned toward the table. The entire group had crowded together so that the air around the table had become stale and warm.

  “I see a curving shape,” Rubio said. “An ‘S.’”

  “Swords, coins, cups, wands, empress, priestess, sun, star, strength...have I forgotten any? Ah, yes, justice. That hardly narrows it down much.”

  The man knew his Tarot, Wayne had to admit. Gelbaugh was well-read on any subject he sought to ridicule.

  “No, no, this is a different card,” Rubio said.

  “Something in the major arcana?”

  “Are those the cards without Roman numerals?”

  “Nice. Pretending ignorance.”

  “I don’t know these cards well. It is not good to know the future.”

  Gelbaugh winked at the ad man. “Especially if the future sucks.”

  “The shape moves against a field of green.”

  “Could be the sun,” one of the onlookers said.

  “Shh,” said another.

  “It’s not going to help,” Gelbaugh said. “Any guess has the same odds as any other.”

  “Snake,” Rubio said with force.

  “Ha. Your odds just went from long to zero. There’s no snake in the Tarot.”

  “Snake,” Rubio insisted, his eyebrows lowering and his face setting in hard resolve.

  “Final answer?”

  “Snake.”

  Gelbaugh turned the card, revealing an illustrated snake that curled up from a meadow and into a tree. It was done in the same art style as the other cards, though Wayne had never heard of such a card in the Tarot.

  Gelbaugh’s grin had frozen on his face, as if he had tasted live worms and found them bitter. “A trick,” he said.

  “No trick,” Rubio said. “Your deck, remember?”

  “That card’s not part of my deck.”

  Rubio turned the card over, face down. “The design matches.”

  “I’ve had this deck for years. That card isn’t in it.”

  Wayne wondered who would go to suc
h lengths for a prank. Gelbaugh was genuinely angry, overlooking the fact that Rubio had made a correct guess. Or perhaps “guess” was the wrong word. The wizened Peruvian had delivered his earlier readings with a studied equanimity, but his insistence on the answer of “snake” had projected passion and pride and a little bit of fear. Now Gelbaugh owed acknowledgment but all he had was rage.

  Gelbaugh drove the bottom of his fist onto the table top, shaking the remaining cards. “Someone’s been in my room,” he said. “I had the deck locked away.”

  “Only the hotel staff has room keys,” Wayne said.

  The ad man slapped Gelbaugh on the back and said, “Even Steven.”

  “He cheated,” Gelbaugh said, furiously counting the deck. “There should only be 70 cards.”

  “Maybe he changed the card with his mind,” said a woman in a rumpled silk jumper.

  Wayne moved closer to examine the card as Gelbaugh picked it up. The wax had the same amount of wear as the other cards and was clearly not new. It matched the other cards in all other aspects besides its depiction. Wayne wondered what the snake would mean if it were one of the arcana. Probably would imply all the historic and psychological metaphors of serpentine behavior—temptation, poison, and cold-bloodedness, with the flip-side attribute of shedding old skin. And, of course, there was also the Freudian interpretation of male genitalia.

  Cristos Rubio leaned back, weary and slumped. “Snake,” he whispered with finality.

  “...thirty-seven...38...39....” Gelbaugh counted.

  “He pulled it from the bottom of the deck,” someone said.

  “I don’t trust either of those guys,” said another.

  “Cristos helped me find my car keys,” said a woman who now stood over the self-proclaimed psychic as if she wanted to market his movie rights.

  “...sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine.” Gelbaugh touched the snake card, which still rested on the table. “Seventy. Somebody swapped one out.”

  “It’s your deck,” Wayne said.

  Gelbaugh stood, the Tarot cards in disarray in one hand. “All of you are in on it,” he said. “You, too, Digger.”

  “Hey, you didn’t even sign up for a reading,” Wayne said.

  Gelbaugh pointed an indignant finger at Rubio. “If you can read minds, then you know what’s coming.”