“Naw,” Moni said.
“Neither have I,” said the Brit.
“You told me you saw an orb,” Pang countered.
Wellington shrugged. “I saw a flash of light in the hallway, while I was walking to the loo. You called it an orb, Mr. Pang, not I.”
“What’s an orb?” Belgium asked.
“Ghost lights,” Pang said. “Also known as orbs, ignis fatuus, will-o’-the-wisp. One pervading theory is that hauntings are residual energy that lingers after a traumatic event. Another is that the energy leaks into our dimension from another one. Like in quantum theory, where a particle can be in more than one place at the same time. In this case, our world, and the afterlife.”
“I thought you were a skeptic, Mr. Pang.”
“I am, Mr. Wellington. But skepticism requires me to be aware of the hypothesis I try to debunk.”
“There are reasonable, scientific explanations for everything that has happened so far,” Wellington said.
“A ghost assaulted my wife, Mr. Wellington,” Mal said, his chin out and his voice clipped.
“It could have been a man who said he was a ghost,” Wellington said. “Or, perhaps, Mrs. Dieter might be mistaken in her account.”
Mal stood up, his fist clenched. “Are you saying she’s lying?”
“I’m not saying anything, Mr. Dieter. Only that I don’t know. I haven’t met anyone here before today, so I can’t voice for anyone’s honesty. But even if I trusted your wife was speaking what she believes to be the truth, couldn’t her account of the events be colored by her past traumas?”
“So now she’s not a liar. Now she’s insane.”
“I’m simply calling attention to the obvious. We have ample proof of liars in our society, as well as ample proof of mental dysfunction. But we don’t have any proof of spirits. So if I’m being asked to dwell on what is more likely—either supernatural activity, or lies, hoaxes, and hallucinations—I think Occam’s Razor bears me out. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”
“Let’s all of us take it down a notch,” Tom said. Dr. Madison was attaching a sticky pad to his neck, and the conducting gel was cold. “But I think that anyone who wants to leave Butler House, should do so.”
Moni snorted. “And give up a million bucks? You’re on crack.”
“Dr. Belgium?” Tom met his eyes. “Do you and Sara want to leave?”
They exchanged a look. “I believe we’re staying.”
“Mal and Deb?”
Mal faced his wife. “We should go, hon. We don’t need this.”
Deb shook her head.
“Deb…”
“I’m done running away,” she rasped. “Go if you want. I’m staying.”
Deb crossed her arms. Mal pursed his lips, and then he walked away, to the other side of the great room.
“Cornelius?” Tom asked.
He folded his arms across his vest. “Naturally, I’m staying. I don’t believe we have anything to fear here, except our own overactive imaginations.”
“That leaves you, Aabir. Do you want to stay, or go?”
The psychic’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
“Can you speak up?”
“Paper,” she whispered.
“Paper? Dr. Madison, can you give Aabir your clip board?”
“Certainly.” The doctor placed it in front of the psychic, and put a black marker on top.
Her face still devoid of expression, Aabir began to write. Frank moved in for a closer look.
I IS JASPER
The words were in block letters, almost childish in their scrawl. They also took up most of the page, so Dr. Madison flipped to the next one.
I WORKS THE FIELDS AT BUTLER HOUSE
“What’s she doing?” Moni asked.
“Psychography,” Pang said. “Also known as automatic writing. She’s channeling a spirit and writing what it’s telling her. Sounds like it’s the ghost of Ol’ Jasper, the slave that Colton Butler sewed two extra arms on. Shit, my EMF meter is going berserk!”
Tom remembered the Butler House website. The picture of the scarred, old slave with the extra arm.
THEY HURTS JASPER BAD
Dr. Madison flipped to a fresh page.
NOW JASPER GON’ HURT DEM BACK
Frank realized he was holding the armchair of the loveseat so tightly his knuckles were white.
I... IS...
Aabir’s eyes rolled up into the back of her head.
HERE
Aabir screamed, and collapsed onto the floor.
Then the lights went out.
The great room was very dark with the chandeliers out, but enough dusk was peeking in through the cracks in the shudders that Tom could still make out some shadows. A moment later, Pang’s camcorder light went on. Tom followed suit, digging his tactical flashlight out of his pack.
“Cornelius, you’re near the front doors.” Tom pointed the beam in his direction. “Try the light switch there.”
Wellington found the wall panel and flipped the switch, to no effect.
“Nothing. Might be the circuit breaker. Or the generator.”
Tom waved the light across the group, taking a head count. He saw Deb and Mal, Moni, Frank and Sara, Pang, Aabir—”
“What’s that sound?” Frank asked.
Everyone went quiet. Tom was acutely aware of how silent true silence actually was. Living in Chicago, silence was an anomaly. There were always sounds. Traffic, heat or air conditioning, birds, constant human noise from talking, yelling, playing music.
But this house was completely devoid of noise. The only thing Tom could liken it to was when he put on his ear muffs on the shooting range. Silence had its own sound; the steady, inaudible hum of consciousness, which made you realize how alone you really were in the universe.
And then, like a slap to the face, he heard it.
Something dragging across the wooden floor.
Like a claw. Or a—
“Machete,” Tom whispered.
A machete like Ol’ Jasper was supposed to carry.
Tom twisted his flashlight to widen the beam, and then did a slow pan across the great room, trying to locate the sound.
He saw empty chairs, the fireplace, an old piano, a wall, a hallway, a table, another hallway, another wall…
“I think it’s near me,” Wellington said in a metered tone.
Tom turned the beam on the author.
A few meters away from him was—
“Sweet Jesus Christ,” Moni whispered.
It was a black man, muscular, shirtless, shuffling across the floor in a slow, steady gate, dragging a rusty-looking machete behind him.
At first, Tom thought it was Roy.
But Roy doesn’t have four arms.
The two extra appendages sprouted from his back like angel wings, and hung, limply, over his shoulders.
“Well,” Cornelius Wellington said, “I certainly do commend the make-up artist. That’s quite a special effect. And the pure black eyes are a nice touch.”
Ol’ Jasper kept walking toward him.
Tom drew his Sig. “I’m a police officer. Drop your weapon and put your hands up.”
“All four of his hands?” Wellington asked. Tom detected the bravado, but it seemed forced.
Ol’ Jasper didn’t stop.
“Halt right now, or I will shoot.” Tom aimed his 9mm at the man’s center mass, supporting his gun hand with the flashlight.
Wellington tried to smile, but it looked more like a wince. “Oh, let him come, Detective. I’ll pull off one of those phony arms, and we’ll expose this for the farce it is.”
Ol’ Jasper got within two meters.
“Last warning.” Tom placed his finger in the trigger guard, and cocked the Sig with his thumb. “I will shoot you.”
Ol’ Jasper stopped an arm’s length away from Wellington.
Then he slowly raised the machete.