by Jason Arnopp
A ripple of childish laughter. I chuckle along with everyone else at Spence’s antiquated use of the word, even though bewilderment, realisation, hurt and alienation cross his face, in that order. The man really is a relic here, and yet he is the sole voice of reason in this room.
No one listens any more.
Only when it’s far too late do our ears open wide.
The whole getting-laid-back thing proves awkward for the group. The Paranormals are not your typical Californians. They’re caffeinated misfits on society’s touchlines. So the process of creating a convivial, carefree and gay atmosphere in this sterile, corporate room feels contrived to say the least. And when it’s not contrived, it’s plain wrong. Howie the Waster’s rants about his allegedly homicidal neighbour may be heartfelt, but they hardly encourage the right vibe.
We discuss Mimi’s threadbare life story, over and over. Her drab existence as Seattle office worker and unappreciated wife, brightened only by her connection with co-worker Jeremy (Jeremy! I did not suggest this name). Their eyes would meet across the office each day. Snatches of forbidden contact, building to something. Mimi’s death, as it happened. Because in the dead of winter 2004, a truck flattened her as she ran across the downtown area for a secret rendezvous with Jeremy. See ya, Mimi. And hooray for my truck suggestion eventually being used. Elisandro and Howie are especially keen on the scenario. Reading between the lines, I’d say they’ve both been cheated on and Mimi’s their whipping girl.
Our story might be corny junk, but Mimi is now the boulder from Raiders of the Lost Ark. She’s rolling and there’s no easy way to stop her and rethink what she’s all about. We must stick to the character we’ve created. Besides, we’re dying to get to the interesting part.
So we skim over the specifics of Mimi’s loveless marriage to some austere guy who Johann (Soldier Boy), in a rare moment of lucidity, decides to call Ivan. The marine is still all jumpy and spaced out, but slowly eases up as the unfurling fiction of Mimi leads him away from reality. Maybe this is what the experiment means for Johann: sheer escapism. I never manage to get him to open up, but I also never try all that hard.
Between Mimi chats, we’re all far more comfortable talking about ourselves and our interests. I tell everyone about my stupid attention-seeking pogo-stick journey from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Then it’s my turn to zone out while the others say something or other. But now, in this hotel room, as I play the audio file I recorded during that session, I find myself more inclined to listen.
Her big brown eyes wide, Ellie talks about natural remedies. Says she got all that from her grandad, back in New Orleans. ‘He was a medic in the navy. Always kept his medical box full, even after he left the gig. We called it Grandpa’s Dispensary. When me and my sisters was kids, you daren’t talk about a cut or nothin’, because then the iodine would come out.’
Elisandro is the only one engaged as he drones about what he’s learned of digital projection during his time working at the local Arclight cinema. Astral entertains only himself with talk about some ‘cool new chain’ that’s sprung up locally to rival In-N-Out Burger. None of us give two shits about Johann’s ambition to front a series of fitness DVDs, having been inspired by Shaun T’s Insanity series. Still, these monologues present a good opportunity to check social media.
By the end of the afternoon, nothing supernatural has happened. The table remains un-rapped. Professor Spence hasn’t spoken since we laughed at him. As I watch the old academic approach the lifts at a speed belying his age, my instinct is that he won’t be back. And I’m right. Tomorrow morning, he’ll check out of his hotel and fly back to Toronto at his own expense. A decision that almost certainly saves his life.1
The Hollywood Paranormals will never mention him again.
Before anyone else can leave, I announce my big news. ‘Last night,’ I say, ‘I discovered that the YouTube video’s boiler room is in my hotel.’
Leaning themselves forty-five degrees back, unblinking, they all do a great impersonation of people caught in a wind tunnel. I swear it’s almost convincing.
My paranoia, you see, has mushroomed into suspicion. When I first told Astral I was coming to LA, he shot back a link to a pre-filtered list of ‘cool’ hotels. Which seemed very kind and helpful at the time.
Guess which hotel, at the top of that list, was by far the most appealing and most reasonably priced?
Yeah. Exactly.
Astral, the fat magician. Forcing that card on me like a pro.
As I stand before the Paranormals, I believe they shot that video themselves. Maybe they have a confederate at the Castle. Maybe Johnson isn’t half as stupid as he makes out.
When the Paranormals caught wind of the Italian exorcism and my new book’s theme, they pounced upon their chance for a big publicity drive. Pascal hacked into my YouTube and dumped the video there, then Astral launched his tireless campaign to draw me to LA. Probably had a Plan B if I didn’t choose the Sunset Castle. Some plan to get me there anyway, so I’d make my big discovery. They also managed to get me to fund most of the experiment. I’d never have admitted that before, but now who cares? The Mimi Experiment was far more important to me than I’d let on. I really needed to know if I could have imagined Maria and the smoke cloud in Hong Kong.
The story they want to tell is pretty dumb, which just makes me feel all the dumber for literally buying into it. Journalist becomes obsessed with scary video, only for some spectral force to draw him to the very hotel where it was filmed. Enter the Paranormals to save the day and dispel the Sunset Castle phantom! Not to mention piggybacking on my fame and followers and bank account. All afternoon they’ve badgered me for online ‘signal boosts’ and shares and all that crap, but I’ve started ignoring these requests.
‘Astral Way invited you to Like his page Astral Way.’
Ignored.
‘Lisa-Jane Spinks invited you to Like her page Lisa-Jane Spinks.’
Ignored.
‘Elisandro Alonso Lopez invited you to Like his page Elisandro Alonso Lopez.’
You get the idea. Anyway, I decide to play along with their little storyline, just to see where it goes next.
‘Can I interest you guys,’ I ask, ‘in conducting a séance in that boiler room tonight?’
The words ‘Hell yeah!’ soon lose all meaning.
‘Pretty sure I can get it straight with the manager,’ I say. Then I add innocently, ‘Unless any of you know anyone at the hotel?’
Everyone looks blank.
Good work, guys. Oscars all round. But I want to bust through your defences and make you confess. Because for all your pseudo-scientific trappings, people like you give others false hope.
As I stand before the Hollywood Paranormals, I want this book to end with them fully exposed and the internet’s most authentic-looking ghost video debunked. I want these people on record, telling me how they shot the video and what they hoped to achieve.
I don’t know it, but I’ve become Sully Strong.
Remember Sully Strong, from chapter six of Jack Sparks on Gangs? The guy I tried to talk sense into during our moonlit alleyway chat, sitting on two upturned crates. The Detroit Crips guy who thought he was a noble warrior, fighting the good fight, bulletproof 4 life. A hardcore rebel who rejected any other value system. When in fact he was just a glorified serial killer whose days were numbered.
I don’t know it, but these are the levels of self-denial at which I now operate.
My hair is a freeway fright wig when Sherilyn Chastain calls the car phone. I drive everywhere with the Chrysler’s hood down, even in November. Feeling in the mood for humouring crazy Sherilyn – this woman who in just a few days’ time will represent my final hope of salvation – I actually pick up.
‘Jack, I’ve seen the posts and blogs about this experiment. Don’t do it. Seriously. Pull out.’
‘What’s the matter, Shez? Don’t want the Paranormals taking up more space in my book than you and your scary bottle?’
I hammer my horn and swerve around a Daimler that has bolted through a red light. ‘Wanker!’ I shriek back over my shoulder, then don’t bother to tell Chastain I didn’t mean her.
Her tinny, digitised voice persists. ‘It started with the exorcism, Jack. And trust me, it’s far from over. Have you realised yet, about the words on the video?’
It takes me a while to answer. ‘That’s just the drugs. I’ve fucked my brain. Thought I saw Maria Corvi in my hotel room in Hong Kong too. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m driving.’
My finger hovers over ‘End Call’, but something stops me. Even here, in my state of blinkered arrogance, some shred of sense lingers. I want to hear what Chastain thinks about me seeing Maria.
‘It’s not the drugs and you know it,’ she says. ‘The video, seeing Maria again, this experiment – they’re all linked. Listen, before you burned the book . . . did you read the chapter about you?’
My focus blurs in and out. I clamp my hands on the wheel and try to hold it together. I didn’t dare read that chapter. I only read Di Stefano’s foreword, which referred to my existence in the past tense. That was enough to freak me out on the flight back from Rome. Half of me still thinks the book’s a sick prank, but combined with a plane and the smell of burning, it launched a panic attack. Wish I’d never changed my mind about torching the whole thing in my Brighton bedroom.
If that chapter survived the Zippo flame, did Chastain read it? Does she know how I’m supposedly going to die?
I punch ‘End Call’.
Chastain redials three times, but I ignore her and retreat into my cosy shell. I tell myself once again how Chastain is a con artist trying to win back my trust. Maria Corvi may be a killer, but she’s not possessed by Satan. Tony Bonelli probably isn’t even dead, let alone making threatening phone calls. The YouTube video was the work of a bunch of manipulative ghost-chasing LA dicks. The Mimi Experiment’s just good fodder for the book.
And I can safely forget about the three words only I hear on that video.
Everything’s fine.
My self-preserving world view is safely back in place. This is how most people get through their lives, and I can hardly blame them.
If you thought my excuses for not investigating the hospital murders and Maria’s disappearance were feeble, you were right. I tell myself the same justifying, reassuring crap I told you in these pages, but the idea of returning to Italy scares me. From the moment Maria Corvi somehow followed me to Hong Kong – actually, from the moment she said ‘Enjoy your journey’ through Tony’s mouth – I wished I’d never met her. I felt like I’d activated something and now the walls of the world were closing in.
I plaster over these lurking fears with bravado. Thick layers of bravado that do their damnedest to smother the Nirvana lyric, ‘Just because you’re paranoid / Don’t mean they’re not after you.’
Remember how I wrote that I wake up laughing off the recurring dream? Pure bravado. Every night at 3.33 a.m., without fail, that dream reduces me to a quivering mess. Can’t get back to sleep without pills and fat vodka slugs.
The Exorcist has always terrified me. Even the cover of Slayer’s Reign In Blood unnerves me.
I think of ghost trains as fear aversion therapy. I could never face one of those things without Bex to hold on to.
Until Bex arrived in LA, I was sleeping with the lights on. Told myself it was so I wouldn’t hurt myself while stumbling to the bathroom drunk.
In fact, I’ve been telling myself that since adolescence.
The lies we tell ourselves. Comforting justifications, designed to try and fill the holes in us.
I may have reassured myself that the church exorcism was The Truman Show, but my bones still felt cold inside.
I may have given myself all manner of explanations for Maria’s appearance in that Hong Kong suite, but when she vanished into the floor, I cried tears of confusion.
I may have told myself that Dead Tony Bonelli’s phone call was an online prank, but I’ve still never felt so alone while surrounded by people.
And of course, I’ve written all these reassurances down.
While lying to you, I reinforced the lies I told myself.
The numbing power of cocaine works wonders for bravado. Without a noseful, I could never have followed that voice down to the boiler room.
More than anything else, though, my secret mission keeps me going. Keeps me investigating, instead of running back to Brighton and hiding under my bed. The mission I’m finally ready to reveal to you when the time comes.
As I cruise over to see Dr Santoro in Burbank, I might still be cushioned by denial, but deep down, marrow deep, I know Sherilyn’s right to warn me. What’s going on isn’t solely the product of psychological connections, connections. I did start something on Halloween. Speaking from a watery grave, Tony Bonelli told me I’m going to get what I deserve. And according to the pages of a Father Primo Di Stefano book that shouldn’t yet exist, what I deserve is death.
But hey, Jack, just keep driving. Keep snorting the chemical euphoria. Keep bullishly posting online about how the supernatural doesn’t exist.
Everything’s f-i-n-e.
During the session, my full metal jacket of denial stays tight despite Santoro’s best efforts. I’ve only turned up because I want to see if there’s a rational explanation for ‘Adramelech’, ‘Mephistopheles’ and ‘Baphomet’, but of course he knows where the real meat lies and starts gnawing at it.
‘How would you characterise your childhood?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
Santoro also failed to get me to talk about my parents during our first session. Today, I refuse to discuss Maria Corvi too. I know I should open up, I really do, but I can’t handle it. I would, I tell myself, but not on two hours’ sleep. Maybe next time.
Sully Strong would be proud.
Sharon the pit bull is present again. Funnily enough, as I write this up on a bloodstained hotel bed, documenting all the amusing things she does during the fucking session no longer seems important.
‘Everything’s connected,’ says Santoro. ‘You’ve obviously no obligation to talk about your childhood. But it is analogous to visiting an osteopath with a bad neck, then not letting her touch your shoulder blades. It all links together.’
Connections, connections.
‘Like I said, I want to talk about the video. Remember, the—’
‘The YouTube video, yes,’ cuts in Santoro, referring to his notes. This is the world we live in now, where even your shrink won’t let you finish a sentence.
After I explain about the three words only I can hear, I feel like he has no clue what to tell me. ‘I guess you realise that these are the names of devils?’
Off my nod, he adds, ‘How do you feel about the Devil?’
‘Same way I feel about God,’ I say, wondering if I’m exhibiting any of the giveaway micro-expressions that tell experts you’re lying. ‘They’re just imaginary friends for adults. Or imaginary enemies.’
‘But does the concept of the Devil scare or disturb you?’
Maria Corvi, the puppet, rising from the dusty church floor.
Maria Corvi, the hitch-hiker, whispering ‘Enjoy’ through the mist.
Maria Corvi, speaking each of those three words on the video – shut up, shut up.
But you know it’s her, don’t you. The girl of your dreams.
You know.
Shut up!
I swallow down the dread. ‘Concepts are just . . . concepts.’
Three dollars’ worth of clock ticks are augmented by the tap-tap-tap of Santoro’s pen on his notepad. Now that I’ve noticed this habit of his, each tap becomes a hammer to the skull.
‘What kind of voice is it?’ he asks. Sweat clams up my palms: is he reading my mind? ‘Male, female? Young, old?’
‘I
don’t know.’ I just want this over with. Can’t stop thinking about my next two lines of coke, white and fluffy as angel wings.
Santoro frowns at his pad again. Tap-tap-tap. And I just know he’s making the connection. That’s what shrinks do. They piece together a narrative, just like journalists or believers in the supernatural.
‘Does the voice sound at all like Maria Corvi?’
Shut up about M**** C****, Santoro, or I’ll Die Hard you.
I contort the muscles in my face to feign surprise. ‘Hmm! Hard to say.’
Get out, Jack. Get out of here and never look back.
Tap-tap-tap. ‘Are you hearing any other voices at all, outside of the video?’
Oh, here we go. The voices. Shrinks love those voices.
What about the calling of my name that led me down to the boiler room? God, let’s not make this worse. I’ve already admitted to hearing three words that shouldn’t be heard. Devil words, at that. The wacko klaxon is blaring.
Voices. Brain scans. Disease. Schizophrenia. Tumours.
Calm as a baby lamb, Santoro talks about referring me to a medical centre. I could just walk into one of these centres myself and pay, apparently, but he knows a really good one. He’s saying ‘strictly routine tests’ and tapping that fucking pen as I push myself up to stand on numb clay legs and stagger for the door.
Yes, I get up and walk away. I walk fast until I can no longer hear Santoro calling my name and asking, ‘Don’t you want to find an explanation for all of this?’
I walk until gulping LA’s toxic air seems to save my life.
Because when the chips are down, walking away is the one thing you can rely on Jack Sparks to do.
1 Professor Stanley H. Spence would die three days later in the early hours of 18 November, after falling downstairs at his Toronto home. Despite what certain sections of the internet might have you believe, there is no reason to doubt the coroner’s eventual verdict of ‘accidental death’. Upon arriving home, Mr Spence had written a polemic article railing against ‘the YouTube generation and its catastrophic emphasis on self-expression over learning’, which would be published posthumously in Time magazine – Alistair.
