The Supernaturals (12 page)

“And this one here—Number Twelve—what the hell do you have that aimed at?”

“That’s the first floor ballroom,” Paul answered.

“We’re getting too much of a fisheye effect. The camera is covering far too much space. Either place another one, or only take a partial view with the camera you have. As is, we won’t be able to see anything unless someone walks right up to the lens. In addition, the infrared camera on the second floor landing is cocked at an angle and we can only see the first five or six rooms. I suggest you don’t point it at any of them, but just center it on the hallway. Forget the rooms.”

Kelly wrote the instructions on her notes and shot Greg a look that said he should have known better. Dalton was the best at getting the most out of every piece of equipment.

“All right...We have ten digital sound recorders going and seven still photog stations. We’ll need sound tests. Is our direct link to the recorders operating?”

One of the five techs turned a knob. “Yeah, we have our mics placed next to the recorders. We should hear what it does, unless it’s an EVP.”

They had a stock footage shot of Greg and Paul explaining what an EVP was, for the television audience. Electronic Voice Phenomena were sounds or voices that could only be heard by the digital recorder and not by the human ear.

Dalton checked the strength of the signal that emanated from the telescopic tower on the back of the production trailer. “Okay, we’re getting a good signal from the tower,” he said. The tower, in turn, sent the signal to a satellite. “Send out an audio test to New York, please. This is where you will learn how to do a live feed. Obviously you have yet to work with a qualified director, so pay attention.”

Kelly hated being spoken to like an amateur, but Harris Dalton was the best in the business and had the Emmys to prove it. She bit down on her reply and resigned herself to putting up with his arrogance.

The lead audio technician, a woman Dalton had worked with before, pushed a large red button and sent a signal out—just five beeps and three dashes in electronic language.

“Bright River, this is New York. We have a 100% audio signal from the satellite. It is bouncing well to New York and LA Thank you—we show audio test complete and A-okay.”

“Thank you, New York. We are on schedule for nine o’clock sharp,” Dalton said, looking at the digital readout on the large monitor in front of him.

“Okay. If our hosts will get to their places, we can start,” Kelly said, stepping in to give her team direction before Dalton could have a chance to do so.

Dalton shot Kelly a harsh look. “Take note that all camera angles are subject to change. Handheld number one, are you ready?” he said. It was a not-so-subtle barb, and Kelly caught it. He was reminding her that her placement sucked.

“Mobile camera one, up and ready,” a voice answered over his headphones. The camera man stood in front of the small theater. “It’s really dark in here, and that pure white screen is going to give off one hell of a bright reflection. I think—”

“They pay me to think, they pay you to listen. Just don’t point anything directly at the damned movie screen. Now, number two—infrared handheld—Billy, are you ready?” Dalton asked, again shooting Kelly a look. She supposed he wanted her to have covered the silver screen in the theater with a blanket or something.

“Camera two, on the second floor. Ready,” came the late reply.

“Then say so, goddamn it. Third floor, John, camera three?”

“Handheld three, ready for the fun.”

Satisfied that all of his handheld cameras and their accompanying sound techs were ready, Dalton nodded. “Soundboard, how are you reading your soundmen?”

“Loud and clear, strong signal,” the audio technician answered three chairs down.

“Okay, boys and girls, we queue with the standard
Hunters of the Paranormal
opening narrative and credits, and then Kelly will take the test over, and then we’ll follow Greg and Paul on the tour. Let’s keep chatter to a minimum during the test and only talk when we have a technical issue. I want the recorders started now for detailed tech review later. Let’s do this thing.” Dalton adjusted his headphones and moved his mic close to his well-trimmed, graying beard.

Greg and Paul exited the large van. Summer Place stood before them. With all the interior lights on and the exterior landscape lights burning bright, the house and grounds looked warm and inviting. They were going to have a hard time selling this thing as haunted.

Upstairs, in a
second floor bedroom that overlooked the front yard, Jimmy Johansson watched the van below through a space in the ornate drapes. He had almost been caught looking at Kelly earlier on their brief tour, when the door had creaked and one of the men had turned and looked his way, but he had managed to close the door just in time. Jimmy had snuck into the house after telling his parents he would be late for supper. He loved the way the woman’s ass moved and was excited to see her panty line through her black slacks. Now it looked as if she was going to stay in that big van and not come back out.
Bummer
, he thought.

Jimmy turned away from the large window, narrowly avoiding the large bed in the semi-darkness. As he felt his way toward the door, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. He shook it off as he reached out for the glass doorknob and glanced back at the window and the soft nighttime light coming through the space between the two curtain halves. He suddenly felt as if he were not alone in the room.

He had been in the second floor bedrooms a thousand times before and had never felt uncomfortable. He swallowed and turned the knob. He felt his heart skip—the door was locked. He jiggled it and then turned it harder. Still locked. He closed his eyes and calmed himself, and then reached down and turned the ancient key in the plate beneath the handle. He let out a relieved sigh. He must have accidentally turned the key when he closed the door.

“Idiot,” he whispered to himself. The old-fashioned key protruded a good five inches from the lock. He was happy to hear the heavy release of the lock inside. When he tried the handle again, his smile and self-rebuke faded. It still would not turn.

The large walk-in closet doors slowly swung open with a crawling, squeaky noise. Jimmy could not make himself turn around to investigate—he knew for sure that if he did, he would see something dark and scary. Instead, he started shaking the handle and pounding on the door. The thoughts of Kelly’s ass and of getting caught in the house after dark by his parents were no longer much of a concern.

Outside in the
hallway and only eight feet away from the room where Jimmy was frantically calling out and pounding on the door, Kyle, the effects man, had placed the large cast iron grate back in the wall and screwed it back into place. He hopped down from the stepladder and slapped some of the dust from his clothes. He thought he heard a sound, but decided it was just the old house settling.

Almost directly across from where he was standing in the hallway, Jimmy Johansson was pounding and screaming for someone to let him out of the room. Kyle could hear none of this. He picked up his toolbox, folded the stepladder and walked away, passing inches from the room where Jimmy Johansson was learning the meaning of stark terror.

Kelly opened the
van’s large door and allowed Wallace Lindemann inside, pulling the curtain back to usher him into the control area. She introduced him to Harris Dalton, who just held out his hand without turning from the bank of monitors.

“No, Goddamn it, I want Paul on the outside standing in front of the ornate doors and Greg in front of the damn staircase, then he’ll greet Paul when he comes inside the house for the first time. How fucking hard is that?”

Kelly grimaced, and then nodded at an empty seat for Lindemann. On the broadcast monitor, Greg finally stepped through the front door and then stood with his soundman. He waved, showing Dalton he indeed could follow instruction.

“Yeah, we know you’re there, numb-nuts,” Harris mumbled. “Okay, send the picture test signal out and see if New York can see these dumb-asses.”

“Test pattern is up and New York is receiving,” Kelly said. She placed a set of headphones on her head.

“Cue intro.”

Los Angeles

Peterson watched the test pattern from Pennsylvania go from the old Indian head to the
Hunters of the Paranormal
ghostly logo. Then their theme song began; Blue Oyster Cult’s
Don’t Fear The Reaper
came through the speakers loud and clear while the opening credits and pictures of the hosts and their team rolled. Peterson shook his head. He had never understood why people—viewers
or
sponsors—would waste their time on this sort of programming.

“Well, the signal’s good and clear, at least,” his assistant said as she handed him his drink.

“Great. A good signal is what I live for.” Peterson frowned and looked at his watch.

The sun outside his office window had yet to set, and that didn’t help his suspension of disbelief in the ghost show coming from three time zones away—another problem for west coast viewers that they would have to solve for a live broadcast. Maybe they could push back the show’s normal starting time until at least dusk. “Peterson, are you watching this?” a voice said over his phone’s open speaker.

“Yes, sir, we have a crystal clear picture here,” he answered CEO Feuerstein in New York.

“Good, looks like everything’s up and running. It is a beautiful house.”

“Up, running, and beautiful,” Peterson mumbled. He sipped his drink. “Terrific.”

Summer Place

Jimmy Johansson became still. There was a presence in the room—it was behind him. His breath came in sharp, short gasps of air that he could clearly see in front of him. The temperature in the room dropped below freezing. The glass knob had frosted over.

Light peeked through the drapes from the floodlights outside. The television people were starting their test. But the light didn’t reach him—he saw it being absorbed by a swirling blackness that appeared before the window. The glow in the break between the curtains was dispersing, bending and then darkening, and something large seemed to be assembling before him. It resembled smoke being sucked out of a powerful vent. His body felt limp and he slowly slid down the door to the floor, the skin of his back making squeaking noises as his shirt hitched upward.

The black mass formed into a shape, and then just as quickly spread apart, only to reform once more. The light from the window was completely gone, but Jimmy was seeing the impossible in front of him. A tendril of inky blackness reached out and tentatively caressed his face. Everywhere that the tendril touched, frost formed, producing long streaks of ice across the boy’s cheek and jaw. The mass silently dispersed, blowing apart softly as a dandelion, and then it slammed into the floor almost as if it had become liquid. Then the darkness curled past Jimmy and slithered under the doorframe.

“Hold it, Greg
, we have a malfunction on infrared number five on the second floor,” Harris said. He ordered Camera Six to take its place.

“What was that?” one of his people asked, watching the monitor at his station.

“What was what?” Harris shifted angles. “Greg, hold the intro a sec, we have—”

The color monitor showed the multicolored view from the forward-looking infrared camera, or FLIR. The screen flared bright blue and green as if the air in the hallway suddenly froze, and then it flashed quickly back to its normal hue.

A garbled, deep sound reverberated through the speakers mounted on the van’s interior walls. The crew listened, and watched the gauges on all the sound monitors peg out in the red. Kelly leaned back and smiled at Kyle, who was looking up at the speaker. Then Kyle looked Kelly’s way, and she didn’t like the expression on his face at all. He slowly shook his head and mouthed
that’s not us.
He held out the small device that was meant to trigger his sound effect remotely, and she could see the instrument was dark. He had not even turned it on. She slowly turned away and backed toward the bank of monitors and the angry director. The sound still droned, halfway between a moan and garbled speech.