Haunted

by Tamara Thorne

  "Okay, Mel. I'll be waiting to hear from you in the morning. Are you sure you won't tell me now?"

  "No, Ray, not now. Goodnight." She heard him start cajoling again as she dropped the phone in the cradle. Soon, she began to drowse, visions of David Masters cavorting in her head. The dreams to follow would put her in an excellent mood by morning.

  Chapter Eleven

  Body House: 7:49 P.M.

  "That wasn't too bad," Amber said as David handed her the last dish to dry. "For a casserole."

  David had been thinking just the opposite and he suspected his daughter was just trying to look on the bright side. Minnie had left them something she'd brought from home that morning, "taco fiesta casserole," she called it, and it featured soggy tortilla chips, canned chili peppers, and ground beef that must have had a fifty percent fat content. It felt like a sack of cement in his stomach and he suspected that only a teenager could digest it.

  "If she keeps cooking like that, I'll have to double my hypertensives within a month."

  "Oh, yeah, cholesterol and all that junk. What are you going to do?" Amber asked mildly. "Fire her?"

  "No, don't worry." He laughed. "I'll try to retrain her, instead. Everything I bought is low fat. I even got a low fat cookbook. She'll get the message."

  "I hope so." She paused. "Dad?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Do you really think Eric Swenson is retarded?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Well, he seemed kind of weird to me, but..."

  "How do you mean?'' Eric had been on his mind ever since they'd met, and he was eager to get his daughter's take on the odd young man.

  "He doesn't seem stupid," she began, then shrugged helplessly.

  "Theo said he has the mind of a ten-to-twelve year old," David told her. "And there are plenty of twelve-year-olds who can out-think adults. They may not have the life experience..." It was David's turn to shrug.

  "That's it, Dad. He seems like he's spent his whole life locked away by himself and they just let him out."

  "Unsophisticated," David said as the phone began to shrill in the parlor.

  "I'll get it," cried Amber, tossing the dish towel at David and running from the room. Closing the cupboard and hanging up the towel, he hoped they'd find the box containing the rest of the phones tomorrow.

  "It's for you!" Amber called, her tone mildly disgusted.

  As he entered the parlor, he became painfully aware of the inadequacy of his few pieces of furniture. After Dead Ernest hit the bestseller list and stayed there, he had moved Amber and Melanie from the rental and bought a modern condo that was made mostly of glass and chrome. Melanie had helped him with the furniture and, except for the rather timeless overstuffed gray suede couch and chairs, it was all too modern for the house, even he could see that. He wanted the parlor, at least, to be perfect by September, when it was likely that independent human interest programs like Eye on LA might contact him about filming ghost spots for Halloween programming.

  Gaylord Price, his Hollywood agent, had promised to give it his best shot, especially since Remains to be Seen was still on the charts and his recently completed novel, Star Light, Star Bright, would hit the stands in early October. Maybe Theo can give me some guidance with new furniture. Then he focused on Amber as she tapped her foot impatiently and held the receiver out to him and decided to ask her to come up with some ideas first. For one thing, it would keep the peace; for another, it would give her a project to fill the summer, if she was interested. All he knew for sure was that he didn't want to get involved in anything creative except his new book. Though he'd begun Mephisto Palace before they'd moved, he was already behind schedule on the damned thing.

  Who is it? he mouthed at Amber as he took the phone. Gaylord she mouthed back. Speak of the devil! Maybe he had something lined up already.

  "Gaylord," he said, returning Amber's wave as she headed toward the stairs. "How'd you get my number so fast?"

  "Called that real estate agent of yours." Gaylord's British accent gave him an air of dignity you didn't normally find in the film business. He was as cutthroat as the rest of the agents, he just didn't sound like it, and that was why David liked him.

  "And she just gave you my number?"

  "No, no, dear boy, no need to worry. She put me through the third degree first. So tell me, lad, is that woman as sultry to look at as she is to listen to?"

  "At least.”

  As usual, Gaylord insisted on going through the pleasantries before he got down to business. "There is a reason for this call," he said ten minutes later.

  "Good news or bad news?" David asked with trepidation.

  "You tell me. They cast the part of Max."

  "Uh huh." Max was the hero of Dead Ernest and the last part to be cast before filming could begin. "Did they get Evan Winters?" he asked hopefully. That would make it good news. Winters was a newcomer David had spotted in a bit part in a Costner movie and he had the same diamond-in-the-rough style that the hero in the book did--dark, young but craggy, with a voice that rumbled pleasantly. Ernest would be a big break for Winters and Gaylord had guessed that he could be acquired for a song.

  "I'm sorry, David, they didn't get Winters."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Because they got someone bigger."

  "Who?"

  "Gere."

  "Gere as Max? That's ludicrous! That's stupid! He's too soft and smooth and handsome. You can't have a man with a baby face playing a rugged badass like Max! That'll ruin it!”

  "There, there, my boy," Gaylord said when David finally ran out of steam. "Remember what I told you about the movie business? Unless you follow Friedkin 's path and write and direct, you're going to have zip to say about creative control. You sell them the rights, and they do what they want. Your book sales will go through the roof." He chuckled. "As if they haven't already."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know." Gaylord had explained to him how it worked and, at the time, it sounded fine. Now, it sounded horrible, but there was nothing he could do about it. Gere as Max. What a travesty.

  "Gere could play Scoleri," he said hopefully. Scoleri was Max's lady killing best friend.

  "David, it's done. Let it go."

  "My input counts for nothing?" he asked resignedly.

  That cultured chuckle again. "You know the joke about the starlet who came to Hollywood and slept with a writer, David."

  "Yeah, I know the joke." David cleared his throat "And Gere's a draw. I'm sorry, Gaylord, I didn't mean to blow up."

  "No apologies necessary, dear boy, you barely let off steam. You haven't seen "blow up" until you've seen--" Another chuckle. "I suppose I should be discreet. She's a client."

  "Well, at least we got Turner to play Sergeant Pimental," David said. The air in the parlor suddenly seemed very chill to him and he picked up a faint whiff of jasmine. "And that's exactly who you wanted."

  "Urn hmm." With his free hand, David began feeling the air for pockets of cold.

  "David, here's some good news for you. The studio asked about Mephisto Palace today."

  Slimy cold crawled over David's fingertips, up to his knuckles.

  "David?"

  "Oh, sorry? I missed that."

  "I said the studio inquired about Mephisto Palace. Any idea when the manuscript will be ready to show? They're very interested. I think we'll get into a bidding war. You'll be a rich man."

  "I already am." The cold was up to his wrist now, and climbing, and the jasmine cloyed in his nostrils.

  "Peanuts, my boy, peanuts. Now, when can I have a look at it?"

  His arm had chilled to the elbow and the sensation began to move more quickly. "It'll be a while. I'm just beginning the real research."

  "Oh? Taking your time, are you?"

  "Gaylord, I moved in today!" His whole arm felt numb with cold. Chilled fingers edged across his shoulder toward his neck.

  "There is that, isn't there? Well, I'll string them along a bit, then, you know, do the old mysterious bit."


  "Sounds great, Gaylord." Cold oozed into his chest as he spoke. "Any bites for the talk show circuit?"

  "Maybe. Let me do a little more work before I say more. But I'll be in touch soon." He paused. "Have you seen any ghosts yet?"

  "There's one here now."

  That elicited an appreciative chuckle. "Well, if you see Drake Roberts's ghost, you can offer him a cameo."

  "I'll do that. Good night, Gaylord."

  "Good night, David. Sleep well."

  He dropped the receiver in its cradle and moved to the center of the room. The cold, in and around him, moved with him. His body seemed filled with it now and he realized he was shivering. A sudden thrill of fear ran through him and, instantly, the strength of the manifestation increased. "Okay, that's enough," he said aloud. He hadn't meant to feed the thing. He willed it to leave him but, instead, it seemed to grow, filling his abdomen, shriveling his genitals, and stiffening his legs.

  "Amber," he called. "Amber! Come down here!"

  She didn't reply and he remembered her telling him this morning that the house ate sound.

  "Get! Off! Me!" he said, focusing his will. He could see the vapor from his words hanging in the air. His lungs began to feel brittle with the cold. It’s your imagination, Masters. That’s how people like Theo get into trouble with this stuff. Now, concentrate!

  But it wasn't working. A suffocating sensation made him gulp for air. "Amber!"

  He took one unsure step, then another, toward the front door. The chill numbness was in his knees, almost to his ankles, and he could barely feel them. Despite his intent, his fear grew. Get a grip, Masters! Get a grip! He staggered into the foyer, the litany, Get off me, Get off me, Get off me, running through his mind. The sound of his own blood pumping rushed into his ears.

  Grabbing the door handle with unfeeling fingers, he depressed the thumb latch, but nothing happened. He tried again, this time with both hands, and as he struggled, he heard the laughter.

  It surrounded him, deafening him in its proximity. It seemed to emanate from within the cold itself. Feminine and musical, the tones carried undeniable cruelness. Gasping for air, he depressed the latch with both hands, and started to pull as the laughter continued.

  "Dad?" Faintly, he heard Amber's voice. "Dad?"

  Black spots danced in his vision. You’re doing this to yourself, Masters! You're panicking! "NO!" he cried. "GET OFF ME!"

  "Dad! What's wrong?"

  Just like that, it left him, the cold, the suffocation, the laughter. Dizzy, queasy, knees trying to buckle, he gulped at the air, almost tasting the decayed jasmine scent that lingered. Something touched him, just behind the elbow. "No!" he yelled, and whirled.

  Amber stepped back, her eyes wide.

  "Amber, honey, I thought--I'm sorry. I didn't know it was you."

  "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah." He walked slowly to the couch and dropped heavily onto it, wondering if he was going to vomit. "I'm okay now."

  She sat down next to him and touched his hand. "God, Daddy, you're frozen."

  "Yeah." Purposefully, he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. Amber waited, watching him, and in a few minutes, he felt calm enough to talk. "Why did you come downstairs when you did, kiddo?"

  "I heard that laughing again." She made a face. "You know, Pelinore's night warbler."

  "Was it loud or soft?"

  "Pretty loud. I was writing letters and it started all of a sudden. I about jumped out of my skin."

  "Did it sound like it was in the room with you?"

  "Not exactly. It just seemed to be all through the house, especially when I opened my bedroom door. It was a lot louder down here."

  "Well, kiddo, you know how we've played with cold spots in the past?"

  "Uh huh?"

  "Don't do it in this house. It's like playing with fire." He grimaced. "Make that ice."

  "What happened?"

  Briefly he explained, then shook his head. "It took control, Amber. That's never happened to me before. And I couldn't get rid of it. I was trying to open the door and walk outside when I finally got control and it dissipated. Maybe I could have taken control back faster if I had been better rested, but it shouldn't have been able to take it from me in the first place." He gave her a meaningful look. "Just like it shouldn't draw on you. So, if you run into any cold spots, steer clear. Don't play with them."

  "Oh, Daddy, that's your thing. I don't like playing with them like you do. Don't worry." She peered closely at him. "Are you totally wasted?"

  "I've been better."

  "Well, it's only nine. When I went out, I joined the video club in town. I brought back a movie." She glanced at the big set temporarily sitting across the room. "Want to watch it with me?"

  "Sure. What is it?"

  "Blazing Saddles."

  He gave her a genuine smile. "Just what the doctor ordered. Especially after the grease casserole."

  "Oh, Daddy, it wasn't that bad. But speaking of ordering, when are we going to get cable? I mean, we can't even get regular stations out here."

  "We're too far out for cable," he said as she fetched the movie from an empty bookshelf.

  She turned. "What?"

  "I'll call the satellite dish company tomorrow."

  She stopped looking like her world was about to end.

  "Hey, kiddo," he said just before she slipped the movie into the player. "I bought microwave popcorn this morning. Shall we do this right?" He started to rise.

  "Sounds good. But you stay there, Daddy. I'll make it."

  He waited about two seconds, then trailed her into the kitchen, ostensibly to ask if she wanted root beer floats instead. In truth, he just didn't want to be alone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Beings of Light Church 8:00 P.M

  Promptly at eight P.M., thirteen members of the Beings of Light inner circle had assembled for their weekly meeting and channeling session. Old business included a report on their recent sale of crystals and essential oils at the annual Artists' Conclave up in Cambria and new business included finalizing plans for the upcoming Come As You Were fundraiser, cosponsored with the Seaside Preservation Society.

  They had made arrangements to rent the Red Cay Moose Lodge and they expected a good-sized turnout of non-members. There would be no mention of metaphysics or anything else that might scare off locals: it would merely be a costume dance where people would be invited to dress as they might have been in another life.

  They finished the party plans with a few jokes about the number of Cleopatras and King Arthurs that would probably be in attendance, then Reverend Alice Birch announced that Theo Pelinore had a special request.

  "As you know, David Masters and his daughter have moved into Body House," Theo told the others. "I think it would be a good idea to send them a cone of light to make sure they remain safe. I'd like to make a motion to that effect."

  Kevin West, who worked at Greenaway's Market, raised his hand.

  "Yes, Kevin?"

  "Theo, do you think it was smart to sell them the house?"

  "I don't know, Kevin. The house was for sale and the man wanted to buy it. I couldn't stop him."

  Kevin nodded, evidently satisfied. "Then I second the motion."

  Everyone was in favor and, a moment later, the group stood in a circle, hands joined. In the center of the circle, Theo, their best channeler, raised her hands and closed her eyes.

  "Envision white light, see it pour from your souls and into me that I may send it to David and Amber Masters." Theo slowly turned in place, repeating the command over and over.

  Five minutes elapsed, and then Rodger Stern, a graphic artist who specialized in psychic painting--he made his living selling past life portraits--began to shake. "I give you my white light," he intoned. Theo crossed to him as the group raised their clasped hands like points on a crown. Her own arms still raised, she positioned herself against the man, slipping her feet between his, so that they had full body contact from toes to
fingertips. Rodger moaned and trembled, Theo did the same and soft sounds came from the rest of the group. Next, Lydia Mandrake, poet and heiress, called out and Theo went to her. This continued until the energy had been collected from everyone, then Theo returned to the center and, with several more incantations, sent the cone of light over to the new residents of Body House.

  Finally, the Beings of Light members sat down cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the meeting room, Theo joining the circle between Lydia and Rodger. Theo spoke again. "Thank you all for sharing your energy tonight. I've now been in the house several times and I can tell you that there are spirits trapped there, spirits in need of our help." She paused significantly. "I'd like to make a motion that, next week, we begin discussing ways that we can try to send the spirits there into the light."

  "Will Masters allow that?" Art Candell, a marriage counselor, asked the question.

  Theo smiled. "Mr. Masters and his poor misled daughter claim they don't believe in ghosts. So I don't think they'll mind."

  "A horror writer who doesn't believe in ghosts," commented Kate Grabski, owner of a gourmet coffee store up in Morro Bay. "That doesn't sound natural."

  "Nobody who believes in ghosts would go near that place after dark," Art said.

  "I wouldn't go there by myself in the daytime," Kevin added.

  "I'd like to do some paintings in there," Rodger said, pushing his long curly hair out of his eyes.

  Reverend Alice clapped her hands. "Well, now, everyone, shall we begin tonight's channeling session? Theo, dear, are you ready?"

  Theo freed her hair from its pins and shook it out until it fell in glossy waves nearly to her elbows. She took a deep breath, exhaled, repeated the process. "Ready," she told Alice.

  Alice lit a stick of incense and turned on the stereo. Soft New Age music filled the room as she joined the circle. Theo let her head fall forward and, after a moment, she moaned and raised it again and looked around, eyes bright and inquisitive, her whole posture changing from her usual feline grace to something quicksilver and alert, birdlike.

  "Who seeks to speak to us tonight?" she asked in a voice that sounded like a basso profundo chipmunk with a slight Mideast accent.