Kelly looked around the ballroom and was tempted to reach for one of the bottles and break her own self imposed rule about drinking; instead she looked over at one of her assistants — an intern who had witnessed the small confrontation at the bar. Her certificate said that she was a qualified make-up artist; she was also an associate of Kyle Pritchard’s. Kelly gathered her clipboard, turned and made her way from the bar. On the way by the young tech, she allowed her pen to fall from her hand.
“Three o’clock,” she whispered as she stooped to retrieve it.
Kelly continued to the cocktail table where Harris Dalton was working on his notes. She sat down, smiling, and greeted Harris with all the enthusiasm that had been missing from her act for the past two weeks.
All Dalton could do was wonder why the circling vulture had settled on him.
At 12:30 am, Kelly stood at the open double doorway of the ballroom and stared out into the expansive living room. The twenty-foot-wide fireplace was cold and empty. The sixteen couches, chairs and loveseats were arranged neatly and covered with fine white linen in preparation for the yearly ritual of winterizing the interior. Kelly placed her arms over her chest and watched the house as if she were studying a potential ally, or an enemy.
Her eyes settled on the stairs, wide at the bottom and narrowing as the staircase rose to the heights of the second floor. At the base of the wooden banister two electric lamps burned, but all they managed to do was cast eerie shadows on the risers that made their way to the ominous floors above. Kelly was trying to get a visual on how she could play the darkness to the advantage of the show. She smiled, leaning forward until she could see halfway up the broad staircase. She knew the low-light cameras would pick up the way the scene stretched away and then vanished after a certain point. They could use that angle to good effect. Her eyes roamed to the portraits lining the living room walls. Most were brightly painted and colorful — too damn cheery. However, there were several old black and white photos in old fashioned bubble-glass frames that she could get good angles on; possibly get some warped reflections of Kennedy and Julie Reilly off of those for a chill or two.
“Can’t sleep?”
Kelly flinched. She wanted to scream out loud when the voice came from behind her, but she knew she couldn’t admit to any fear, even just fear caused by being caught off guard. Harris Dalton’s hair was a mess and his ever-present vest was missing, leaving only the rumpled flannel shirt that always seemed a part of him.
“Are you kidding? I won’t sleep until I get the ratings in.”
“No matter what happens, I think people are going to tune in. If not to see a ghost, then to see a large network screw-the-pooch and fall all the way from number one to laughing stock.”
“That’s real encouraging,” she said sourly.
“I’m not here to blow smoke up your ass, Kelly, I’m here to direct a show, that’s all.”
Kelly stared at the staircase that rose before them across the room. “In case you don’t, or choose not to realize it, Harris, your reputation is also on the line. You’re a major part of this, and if it fails you’ll go down with the ship. All they’ll know at corporate is that it was you who steered the ship into the iceberg.”
“I think I can handle anything corporate has to throw at me. Besides, dear, they can only fire me, they can’t eat me like they can you.” Harris stepped by Kelly and into the expansive living room. Hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, he looked around and then up into the blackness of the ceiling three hundred feet above. He felt the producer step out with him and stand at his side.
“Still, you have to admit that this place has angles for some great shots, and you’re the one who can pull it off,” she said.
Harris smiled. He didn’t favor Kelly with a glance, or even a typical roll of his eyes.
“I can make looking at rocks entertaining, Kelly, just as long as that’s what the viewer tuned into see.”
Kelly Delaphoy smiled at the mischievous way Harris toyed with his words.
“Look, you were here and you know what this house is capable of, so why don’t you give the magnanimous director thing a rest; at least when it’s just us.”
Harris nodded. “I need you to change the opening of the script. The house has to be the star, not Julie Reilly. I called in a favor to a friend of mine and he’s going to record a voiceover in Los Angeles tomorrow morning. He’ll recite the history of Summer Place as we show angles of the house, never the full frontal view. We’ll record those instead of doing it live. I’ll have the camera crew out before the sun comes up in the morning and get the shots for editing later. I don’t want the audience to get a full view of Summer Place during the narration scenes, only snippets. That will solve concerns about the damn place not looking haunted.”
Kelly was stunned. She almost panicked when she realized she didn’t have her clipboard or notepad to write Dalton’s ideas down.
“So you are on board, you want to make this work. That is a marvelous opening. Who did you get for the voiceover?” She loved the fact that the opening monologue had just been taken away from Julie Reilly.
“Our retired anchor, John Wesley, is doing it as a favor — but I had to give up my Super Bowl ticket allotment for it,” he said, looking at Kelly sternly.
“I’ll get you a damn suite for the game if we pull this off.”
“You’re damn right you will.”
Both continued to examine the downstairs. Dalton was wondering when Kelly was going to broach the subject heading upstairs, at least to the second floor landing. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Why don’t we see what kind of angles we can get on the stairs? I think that’s a creep factor we’ve yet to explore.”
Harris laughed.
“Well, that didn’t even take as long as I thought it would. We’re staying right here. You couldn’t get me up there tonight with a platoon of fucking Marines backing me.”
“This place has gotten to you, hasn’t it?” Kelly asked, amazed that this man who had been all over the world, was frightened by Summer Place.
Harris looked around, and his tired eyes settled on Kelly’s. “Frightened, yes. Let me tell you something, in case your exterior has grown so tough that you haven’t noticed, or in case you’ve faked so much ghost crap that you’re immune to your own senses: this place is wrong. It’s like touring a battlefield after the fact, and believe me I’ve done that a lot. There is death here, past, present and future. I can feel it. If you brought a combat veteran in this house, he would feel it also. It’s a sense that you’re being watched and the watcher wants nothing more than to do you harm.”
“You’re right. I don’t get that sense. That’s what worries me about tomorrow night. Summer Place could fuck us all and be as dormant as your grandma’s house.”
Dalton removed his hands from his pockets and strolled over to the giant fireplace. He stared into it.
“This place is like an animal; a wild predator I think. It may go all night and just watch, or it could explode into a violent attack against what it may perceive as a threat, even though it’s not hungry. Either way, this place is ruinous Kelly, don’t you understand that? If I hadn’t heard all the stories, I still would have felt it.” He turned away from the cold fireplace. “The one thing I’m not prepared for is for the full potential of this black hearted house to reveal its secrets. I can see Kennedy feels the same and if it weren’t for his missing student seven years ago, I bet he wouldn’t come within a state of this place — ever.”