Another pause, and Tom began to wonder if Rich was going to balk. But then he began.
“It was nearing midnight. I was doing my intro in Butler House’s great room—this huge space in the front of the house when you walk in. Two story roof, curved staircase, weird tapestries on the walls. It looked like the set of a Roger Corman Poe flick from the sixties. We’d gotten there in the daytime, did some establishing shots, set up our equipment. EMF, IR, EVP, full spectrum motion cameras.”
Tom didn’t know what any of those abbreviations were, but he didn’t want to interrupt the story to ask.
“During set-up, one of the camera guys caught an RSPK on tape. That’s recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis. Poltergeist activity. A painting fell off the wall, right in front of us. Portrait of that serial killer, Augustus Torble. We checked the nail it was hanging on—a big, thick, six inch nail. Bent right in half. We’d never gotten footage like that before. In hindsight, we should have left right then.”
Rich grabbed something and lifted it to his face. A bottle. Beer? Whiskey? He tilted it and swallowed, and then began to gag and cough. More evidence of being drunk.
“At midnight, I’m set to do my first piece of the night. Explore the basement of Butler House. We were using the dual head cam. Have you seen the show?”
“No.”
“It’s a two way camera, mounted on my head. One lens is pointed ahead of me, where I’m looking. One is pointing at my face, so the viewers can see my reactions. It’s mounted on a helmet, and with the batteries… it’s pretty heavy. So… we had a… a… thick strap around… my chin… to keep the rig steady. Right after I started my segment… the batteries…”
Rich’s voice trailed off.
“What happened to the batteries, Rich?”
He didn’t answer.
“Rich?”
“They… exploded.”
He reached off to the side, and then the lights in his room came on.
Rich’s face looked like it had strips of half-cooked bacon glued to it. Eyebrows burned off. No nostrils, just a gaping hole for his nose. Part of his upper lip missing, showing his teeth, which explained his slurring. He wasn’t drunk. He was Frankenstein’s goddamn monster.
“Lead batteries contain sulfuric acid. So my helmet was both on fire, and leaking acid down my face. And because of the chin strap, I couldn’t… I couldn’t get it off. I couldn’t get it off…”
“I’m sorry,” Tom said. It took everything he had in him to not turn away from the screen.
Rich lifted the bottle—a water bottle—to his face and took a sip, gagging again, some of the water running down his ruined chin.
“The network sued the company that made the camera. But when they took the rig in for testing, no one could find anything wrong with it. No faulty wiring. No bad parts. It’s like it exploded for no reason at all.”
Tom felt terrible for the guy, and he didn’t like making him talk about it. But for Roy’s sake, he had to ask. “But you think there was a reason.”
“Something in Butler House did this to me. I’m sure of it. Something evil. That’s why I begged Roy to stay away. And you should stay away, too.”
Tom pursed his lips.
“Look, your partner, your friend, Roy. He’s dead, man. Butler House got him. And if you go looking for him, you’re going to die.”
“Thanks for your time and insights, Rich. I’ve got to get going.”
Tom disconnected, guilty about his lie. He didn’t have to leave. He just couldn’t stand looking at Rich’s disfigured face anymore, and the conversation had greatly disturbed him.
Tom’s hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood at attention, and he had a very strong feeling he was being watched. By who? Eavesdropping co-workers?
Or was someone else watching? Someone, or…
Some thing.
Tom swiveled around, seeking the staring eyes he knew were on him.
But no one was there.
At least, no one he could see.
Realizing he was letting his imagination mess with him, Tom called Joan’s cell phone. Thankfully, his girlfriend picked up on the third ring.
“Tom? I’m in the middle of something. Director wants a rewrite on set, writer is throwing a hissy fit. Is this important?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice, babe.”
“That’s sweet. Can I call you back?”
“Yeah, sure. And hey, wait… Joan… you still there?
“Yes?”
“Did you write anything on my mirror?”
“What?”
“My bathroom mirror. Someone wrote I’m watching you on it.”
“Wasn’t me. Gotta go, lover. Call you soon.”
His long distance romance hung up, and Tom’s creepy feeling got a whole lot creepier.
THE NEXT DAY
Charleston International Airport
Frank
Dr. Frank Belgium walked out of the baggage claim area and onto the sidewalk, the warm blast of summer air welcome against his overly air-conditioned body. The plane had been chilled to meat-locker temperature, so cold he’d had to ask an attendant for a blanket. The airport had been similarly refrigerated.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the temperate heat warm him. But he couldn’t feel the sun’s rays.
Belgium squinted up at the overcast sky. The clouds were an ugly swirl of gray and black, but the air didn’t feel humid or sticky. It didn’t look like rain. It just looked ominous.
A man of science, Belgium publicly scoffed at the paranormal. Omens. Superstition. The afterlife. These didn’t hold up to the scientific method, and had no empirical evidence to support them.
But privately, he feared the supernatural. Because he had, in a way, experienced it. To Belgium, the sky looked like a warning meant specifically for him. Like a big sign that said GO BACK WHILE YOU STILL CAN.
Something reddish brown darted toward Belgium, swooping into his peripheral vision, and he dropped his carryon bag and ducked down, emitting a less-than-masculine yelp as he did. Covering his head with his hands, he prepared himself for another attack.
“It’s a finch,” a female voice said from behind him.
Belgium turned, squinting through his fingers. “What?”
“A house finch. They won’t hurt you.”
Belgium stared at the woman. She was maybe in her late thirties, short hair, baggy sweater, no make-up. He could guess, on a good day, she’d be cute. But it didn’t look to Belgium if she’d had any good days in a while.
He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.
“Oh. Thanks. I I I thought it was a…” he let his voice drift off, and then picked up his bag and stood up, warily searching the area for more dive-bombing finches.
“You thought it was what?” the woman asked.
“Hmm? Oh. A bat.”
“A red bat?”
Belgium frowned. “You’d be surprised.”
The woman shrugged. Belgium glanced around, trying to get his heart rate under control, wondering why there weren’t any cabs. Shouldn’t an airport have cabs?
He watched a traveler cross the street, where he was met by a blue Honda. A woman got out, they had a quick but poignant hug, and then he loaded his suitcase and got into the car and they drove off.
“Where are the taxis?” the finch lady asked.
“I don’t know. I’m waiting for one one one myself.”
Another minute passed. Belgium considered renting a car. But he didn’t want to go back into that freezer of an airport. In fact, he didn’t want to be in South Carolina at all. The thought of being arrested for treason began to hold some appeal. At least, in that case, he knew what to expect. Knew who his enemy was.