“Just circumstantial. We’ve been trying to get a man on the inside of Forenzi’s operation, but security is tight. However, we do know he has been inviting people to participate in his experiments. People who have undergone a particularly frightening experiences. We’ve done a background check on you and your partner, and you both certainly qualify.”
No shit, Tom thought.
“We’d really like to know what’s going on, Detective.”
“And you want me to find out.”
“We’ve gotten permission from your boss, Captain Bains, to work with you on this.”
That seemed odd to Tom, as Bains didn’t like working with the Feebies. And justifiably so. They were territorial, smug, and often looked down on city cops. But Bains also had an almost paternal sense of responsibility toward his men. If Roy was missing, the captain would want him found.
“And you can’t do this yourselves because…?” Tom asked.
“We weren’t invited. You were. You could poke around, talk to Forenzi, try to get some evidence. We’ve tried to interview him, but he lawyered up. And we’ve found obtaining a warrant to be challenging. He apparently has friends in high places.”
“Where is Forenzi?”
They exchanged another glance. “He’s set up his laboratory in the Butler House.”
“The Butler House?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
Next to the house made famous in the Amityville Horror, Butler House was probably the most famous paranormal site in America. Tom even remembered streaming a low budget Netflix movie about it. Located in South Carolina, an insane doctor—the brother of a plantation owner—built a laboratory-slash-dungeon underneath the estate, where he performed horrible experiments on the slaves they owned. Tom watched ten minutes before turning it off. Even though it was poorly acted, and the special effects were shoddy, the ghosts in the movie were hideously deformed and reminded Tom of a real night he spent in the real basement of a real mansion, and he didn’t need to be reminded of that.
“Supposed to be haunted,” Tom said.
“Forenzi is apparently convinced it actually is haunted. And he believes the fear of the supernatural induces the purest terror response in his volunteers.”
“Have you talked to any of these volunteers?”
“No. We’ve tried to track down those we know of, but they’ve… disappeared.”
Tom almost laughed at that. Almost. It was ridiculous enough to be the punchline for a campfire ghost story. But neither Feebie looked amused.
“How many people are we talking about here?” he asked.
“Two or three dozen.”
“Including the missing military men?”
“In addition to them.”
“So you’re saying there have been… how many?… maybe fifty people who have disappeared in Butler House since Forenzi moved in?”
“That number might be low.”
“And no one has done anything?”
“We’re trying to do something, Detective. Which is why we’re at your apartment at three in the morning.”
Tom rubbed his eyes. “I need to think about this. Do you have a number I can reach you at?”
One of the agents produced a card and held it out.
“We really would like to see that invitation,” he said, pinching the card so Tom couldn’t take it.
“When I find it, I’ll show it to you.”
The Fed released the card. Special Agent John Smith. Go figure.
“We’ve heard that Forenzi is conducting another experiment this weekend. Our informant says guests are being picked right now.”
“Who is this informant?”
Neither agent answered. Obviously the Bureau had their need-to-know info just like the military did.
“Goodnight, gentlemen,” Tom said. “You can find your way out.”
They left without so much as a nod. As soon as the door closed, Tom went to his cell phone and called Roy.
It went straight to voice mail.
“Roy, it’s Tom. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
It was too early in the morning to call Gladys, Roy’s ex-wife, so instead Tom went into the bedroom and found the FedExed invitation. He snapped on a pair of vinyl gloves he kept in his drawer, and pulled the invite out of the blue and orange cardboard mailer. It was a standard 8.5” x 11” sheet of paper, off white and a heavy stock. The writing on it appeared to be calligraphy.
Survive the night in a haunted house and receive $1,000,000. Call 843-555-2918 to confirm.
Invitation 3345
Tom turned the paper over, finding nothing, then looked for a nonexistent water mark. Next, he sniffed it, and it smelled like paper. Finally he took out a magnifying glass and studied the script. It was inkjet, not handwritten.
It said nothing about this being a gameshow or a reality show, but those were the possibilities he and Roy had brought up during the fifteen seconds they’d discussed it. But this seemed more likely to be a joke, hoax, or scam.
And yet the Feebies were extremely interested in this invitation, and they didn’t think this was a put on.
Tom switched on his computer monitor, saw he was still on the Skype program he used to talk to Joan. She was offline. He frowned, then Googled Dr. Emil Forenzi, spelling it like it sounded.
He found him on the Linkedin social network. Born in Brazil fifty-six years ago, his father Italian and mother a native. Moved to the US when he was a child. Full scholarship to Brown. Doctorate at MIT. Then he went to work for the DoD, and apparently still did. Specialties included a bunch of technical and science skills that Tom had to scroll down to read completely.
So why does a genius scientist believe in something as ridiculous as the supernatural?
Tom squelched the thought. If he described some of the very real things that had happened to him, the majority of the world would think they were ridiculous as well. Trying to keep his mind open, he searched for Butler House on Google and found a website dedicated to it.
Tom settled back in his desk chair and began to read.
Building History
Butler House was built in 1837 by wealthy landowner Jebediah James Butler on a cotton plantation in Solidarity, South Carolina, fifty miles outside of Charleston. Boasting more than one hundred and fifty rooms in the neoclassical antebellum style, it was home to Jebediah, his wife Annabelle, and his younger brother, Colton, until their deaths in 1851.
Construction began in 1835 and faced many setbacks, including a severe storm, a fire, and the deaths of three workers. One died when a pallet of bricks crushed him. Another was scalded to death by hot tar. A third fell into the concrete foundation when it was being poured, and drown there. A generally accepted rumor is his body wasn’t discovered until the concrete had cured, and it was unable to be removed, so Butler indicated more concrete be poured on top of him.
Many point to this lack of a proper burial as the beginning of the rumors that the property was haunted. Others contend that the source of the problems was the land itself. In the late 1700s it was a thriving village of Cusabo Native Americans numbering over two hundred. The village was burned, its people massacred, by white settlers desiring the fertile land.
During the lengthy and troublesome construction, Annabelle had been heard to say, “Maybe the Lord doesn’t want us building this house.”
The slow completion time is also attributed to the architectural demands Butler made. He hired three different architects, each to design a different part of the building, so no one but Butler knew the exact layout. This was especially important because the manor was outfitted with many secret rooms and passageways, false walls, staircases that lead nowhere, a labyrinthine basement with several kilometers worth of tunnels, and a torture chamber.