by Mark Lukens
Nick was also known for his daredevil hobbies: skydiving, spelunking, racecar driving. He’d rented the Daytona Beach Speedway for a whole day for a birthday celebration a few years back and wrecked his racecar into the wall on the third turn. Even though the crash into the wall had been horrendous, Nick Gorman had come out of it with only a few bumps and bruises—that wreck had been a microcosm of his life; even when what seemed like a disaster struck, Nick Gorman seemed to come out of it unscathed. In a later interview after the racecar accident, he made light of the whole thing, shrugging off his miraculous survival and vowing to keep pushing the envelope. Many people in the media either loved Nick Gorman or they hated him.
Mr. Templeton didn’t love or hate Nick Gorman—he really had no opinion of the man; he’d only met him briefly a few times at some gatherings where his business and Hollywood had overlapped. He had seen many of Nick’s early films, but he didn’t have the time or interest to bother with movies anymore. Mr. Templeton just wondered what Nick Gorman was doing in his office unannounced.
“Your latest project,” Nick finally said as if answering the question in Mr. Templeton’s mind as he walked past the obscenely large desk towards the twelve foot high plate-glass windows and the multi-million dollar view of New York City. “The Thornhill Manor.”
“The Oceanview Resort,” Mr. Templeton corrected. “That’s what it’s going to be called when we’re finished with it.”
“If you finish it,” Nick said with his back to Mr. Templeton and Spivey.
“We’ve had a few setbacks.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about the accidents,” Nick said. He looked back at Mr. Templeton, flashing him an unnaturally white smile, showing him that everything was still friendly here, no need to get ruffled.
Mr. Templeton never got ruffled. Still, he was curious about what Nick Gorman wanted. But he would play this game of mental jousting and remain patient for a few more moments. “How did you hear about the Oceanview, Mr. Gorman?”
“Please, call me Nick. I’ve heard a lot of things. I’ve also heard that two of your renovation crews had to leave the island … quite suddenly.”
Mr. Templeton nodded. No sense lying about it since Mr. Gorman seemed to know the truth anyway. “We can’t keep a crew down there long enough to get anything done. The locals won’t even go near the island so all help has to be flown down there from the U.S.”
“That’s because the island is haunted.”
Mr. Templeton chuckled. “That’s what the locals say. They call it Devil’s Island.”
Nick looked back out the window like some petty concern down there among the masses had just garnered his attention. He was silent for a long moment as he stared out the window.
Mr. Templeton and Spivey glanced at each other. Spivey just shrugged slightly. Mr. Templeton was growing weary of Mr. Gorman’s theatrics … he was done with the game, ready to get to the point now. “So why are you here?” he asked with a smile. “You’re obviously interested in the Oceanview. Do you want to film a movie there?”
“Actually, I’d like to buy it from you,” Nick said as he turned and walked back towards Mr. Templeton.
For the first time in quite a while Mr. Templeton was shocked, and for a moment he was at a loss for words. He usually tried to keep a stoic poker face during any kind of negotiation, but he was sure that Mr. Gorman saw the surprise on his face. He felt flustered, caught at a disadvantage … and he didn’t like feeling like that.
“But I have a few contingencies,” Nick said.
Mr. Templeton nodded, his curiosity certainly piqued. “Go on.”
“I’d like to inspect the island first,” Nick said as he approached Mr. Templeton. “I want to go down there with a team of my own.” He pulled out a folded stack of papers from an inside pocket of his suit coat and slapped them down on Mr. Templeton’s desk. “This is my offer. I think it’s fair. And like I said, everything is contingent on an inspection of the property. I have twenty days to retract the offer if the investigation turns up anything not to my liking.”
Mr. Templeton picked up the papers and leafed through them. The offer was a little more generous than he had anticipated, but he didn’t dare let it show on his face.
“Come on, Mr. Templeton,” Nick said. “Let’s not play games. We both know that’s more than fair. You’ll be rid of your problem and make a nice little profit at the same time. You’ll be able to move on to other projects that won’t be such a … headache to you.”
“How soon do you want to go down there?”
“As soon as I can. I already have a team ready.”
Mr. Templeton stared at Nick with an amused expression for a moment. With all that had happened down on the island, he could see the allure for someone like Nick Gorman, a chance to prove the existence of the supernatural which he had brought to life so many times on film throughout his career. Funny how things could change so quickly … here he had an island he thought was worthless only moments ago and now it had some value to someone else. Maybe he could get out of this headache, as Nick Gorman had called it, unscathed … yet he couldn’t let on how eager he was to dump this property.
Nick was apparently done with their negotiation, already walking towards the double doors. “Sell it to me,” he said over his shoulder, “Or you could always send a third renovation team down there.”
Mr. Templeton had already made up his mind to sell to Nick Gorman. He believed successful people made decisions quickly and they trusted their gut feelings and acted on them. “Give me some time to look the offer over.”
“Talk with your lawyers,” Nick said when he reached the doors that Spivey had already opened for him. He looked back at Mr. Templeton with a smile. “But please get back to me soon. As you’ll see in the paperwork, my offer’s only good for the next twenty-four hours.”
• • • • •
Nick left Mr. Templeton’s office and headed for the private elevator after nodding at the secretary who gave him a sickeningly sweet fake smile.
He pressed the button for the elevator doors and they swished open automatically. He stepped inside and pushed the button for the ground floor. His car and driver were waiting for him out on the street in front of the building. His driver would take him to the airport where his private jet, the smaller one, was fueled up and ready to take him back to Los Angeles.
As Nick rode down in the elevator, he could hardly contain his excitement. He was so close to closing this deal and purchasing the island; he was sure Templeton was going to sell. But Templeton obviously didn’t know that Nick had tried many times to purchase the island from the Thornhill family in the past, but the Thornhills had vowed never to sell to him. They seemed to despise not only the sci-fi and horror movies he’d directed and produced over the years, but they actually seemed to hate him personally, like he was some kind of gutter trash who had swindled money out of people over the years by pedaling his perverse films onto them. Nick didn’t come from Old World Money like they had, like Templeton had, and the Thornhills made sure that it was plainly obvious he wasn’t in their league. They also made it obvious that they suspected that Nick had nefarious reasons for wanting the island, perhaps to turn it into a sideshow circus, a freak show horror entertainment park.
But now, through Templeton, the island might finally be his. His offer was fair, but he would’ve paid double that amount, triple … and he had to be prepared for a counteroffer from Templeton in the next few hours.
Obviously Templeton hadn’t done his research about the island, or if he had, he didn’t believe the rumors about the place.
But Nick believed the rumors, he believed in the secret on that island … a secret that could change the world.
CHAPTER TWO
Los Angeles—Nick Gorman’s studio offices
“I need that team!” Nick told Kristen as he entered his offices off of Wilshire Boulevard. He marched past the main reception area into a large office where Kristen sat typing on the computer at a
n L-shaped desk molded into the corner.
“Yes, sir,” Kristen said. “Good morning, Mr. Gorman.”
“Good morning, Kristen,” he said as he walked back out of her office and then marched towards his massive corner office. “And I thought I told you a thousand times not to call me sir.”
Kristen nodded and smiled. She finished up the e-mail she was working on, sent it, and then spun around in her office chair to the desk behind her. She opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of files.
Nick entered his office and closed the door behind him. He shed his sport coat and laid it over the back of an antique eighteenth century French chair. He walked to his desk which already had a few scripts stacked up on it—gifts from Kristen. His office was huge, it took up the whole corner of this modern building and a wall of windows looked out onto a sprawling Japanese garden dotted with ponds of koi fish and arched bridges constructed from redwood that spanned them.
The wall to the left of the windows was made up entirely of bookcases with a large flat screen TV built into the middle of it. Some of the shelves were stocked with books, but most of the shelf space was taken up by scripts with the titles scrawled on the spines in black marker. More scripts and coverage reports were stacked up on the floor in the corner. His office was tasteful, but a little cluttered and disorganized compared to Kristen’s work area. He left things on the floor and tucked away in the corners with strict orders not to neaten his office or organize anything. He liked the disorganization—it was a system he had cultivated over the years; an order to the chaos that only he could see. There was always chaos in the world and he believed that one needed to be part of that chaos to survive in it, not fight against it.
The walls of Nick’s office were adorned with framed posters of movies he’d made, all of his early hits including Ancient Enemy. There were signed photos of the greatest actors and directors he had worked with. A few pieces of original artwork hung among the posters and photos. He had a signed Rolling Stones album cover sealed in a frame behind glass. He even had a small piece of the wreckage from the racecar that he’d crashed at Daytona mounted on the wall … a testament to how fragile life was, a testament to how many times a person could press one’s luck.
He paced his office floor, waiting for Kristen to get the presentation ready. He’d told her who specifically he’d been looking for to join his team and he’d left it up to her to find each one of them and convince them to sign on. She was great at her job, the best production assistant he’d ever had. She had an instinct for knowing exactly what he wanted, like she could read his thoughts before they had even formed fully in his own mind. A P.A. like Kristen was a rare find in Hollywood, especially someone who didn’t seem to have ulterior motives and career desires of her own.
Templeton’s people had called while Nick was in the air somewhere over the Midwest. They claimed that their team of lawyers had looked the paperwork over and approved it, but Nick imagined that Templeton had made up his mind right there in the office when he’d presented his offer.
And now, after a two day inspection of the island, it would be his.
Nick couldn’t believe he was actually about to go down there to that island. He’d tried so many times to make a deal with the Thornhill family for the island and the manor built on it, but they would never budge on their decision. The island and the manor had been abandoned for nearly a century now and it had remained in the Thornhill family all of that time. With the island’s remote location and its dark history, the island was practically unsellable—and it had always been unattainable to Nick.
Until today.
Somehow Templeton had talked the Thornhill family into selling. Nick didn’t know how he had done it, and he didn’t care. All that mattered was that the island, and what was on it, was practically his now.
Templeton didn’t know what he had on that island; if he did, then he would’ve been sending every resource at his disposal down there to uncover the truth.
Nick walked back to his desk, and even though he felt a little queasy from his latest treatment, he couldn’t contain his energy right now. He was always pumped up after a successful deal; it was a natural high for him, as thrilling as a freefall from an airplane or driving two hundred miles an hour at the Daytona Speedway.
Kristen entered Nick’s office. She wore a gray business suit that fit her athletic body snuggly, yet didn’t reveal too much. She stood arrow-straight, the files clutched in her hands—she was professional, the epitome of efficiency.
“I’ve got everything set up in the screening room,” Kristen said.
• • • • •
Moments later Nick sat in the screening room. He sat in his usual seat, in the third row of the six rows and right on the aisle. The lights were low and the screen was still dark. Kristen sat across the aisle from him, her laptop and some files set on a small plastic folding table that she’d brought into the screening room. She had a remote control clicker in her hand. She pressed a few buttons on the laptop and the screen at the front of the room turned a bright blue, ready for images to be displayed.
“This is the team you asked for,” Kristen said. “All of them have been contacted and all of them are ready to go.”
She clicked the button on the remote control and a photograph appeared on the giant screen. The photo was of a middle-aged African-American man. A bit of gray was beginning to show in his mustache and goatee, and his hairline was starting to recede a little. His face was lined with wrinkles that circled his intelligent eyes. His expression was neutral and a small smile showed no humor. There was a sadness in his eyes.
“Dr. Warren Savage,” Kristen said. “A childhood prodigy who attended Cal Tech at sixteen years old. He has a PHD in quantum physics and he’s published several important papers on quantum theory and string theory. He’s had seven bestselling books, countless speaking engagements, and he even had a PBS special about quantum theory six years ago.”
Nick nodded as he leaned back in his theater seat, studying the man’s face on the screen.
“But everything changed for Dr. Savage after his only child, a daughter named Erin, died a year and a half ago at the age of seventeen. His work took a bizarre turn then. He had been openly skeptical of all things paranormal his whole life, but after what happened to his daughter … he changed his mind. A year ago he and his wife divorced and he went to the University of Texas to teach. Some have criticized his lectures for being rather … controversial.”
CHAPTER THREE
University of Texas
“I ask you … what is reality?”
Dr. Warren Savage paced back and forth in front of his class, all of the students hunched forward, hanging on his words.
A white screen was pulled down in front of the blackboard that took up most of the wall behind Warren, the blackboard filled with equations. The overhead lights were dimmed just enough to see the images on the white screen easily.
Warren stepped over to his laptop and pressed the mouse pad. On the screen appeared a digital illustration of a cardboard panel set on top of a table which was several feet away from a blank wall. In the animation, a strong beam of light was shined at the cardboard panel which had one long vertical slit in it about an inch wide. The light shined through the slit creating a slit of light on the wall behind the cardboard panel.
“This is a simple experiment to perform,” Warren said as he looked at the animation on the screen and paused it. “It’s called Thomas Young’s Double Slit Experiment. As we can see here, when we cut one slit into the cardboard panel and shine a beam of light through it, what happens?”
Warren looked at the class.
Most of the students had their hands raised.
“You,” Warren said and pointed to a blond-haired male student.
“There’s a slit of light on the wall behind the cardboard,” the student said, smiling like this was some kind of a trick question.
Warren smiled back at the young man. “Obviously that�
�s correct. But what if we cut out another vertical slit exactly like the first one right next to it? Two vertical slits, the same size, an inch or two away from each other, side by side. What will we see on the wall when we shine a light through them?”
The student looked around at the other students for help with a bashful smile. “Two slits of light?” he said and shrugged.
“Wrong,” Warren yelled. “If we cut two slits in the cardboard and shined a light through, we would see many slits of light.”
Warren pushed a button on his laptop and the animation changed; there were now two slits in the cardboard. The light beam shined through the two slits, creating many slits of light beyond the cardboard. Then the computerized animation showed the experiment at the quantum level, showing the photons that passed through the two slits in the cardboard, the photons colliding with each other, eventually producing a wave of light that caused ripples and lines of lights to appear on the wall instead of only two slits of light.
He walked away from the laptop, pacing again in front of the class. “Why are there so many slits of light on the wall from only two slits in the cardboard panel?” He asked the question almost like he was asking himself.
The class mumbled among themselves—no one ventured a guess.
“This exercise proves that there are other particles interrupting the photons as they travel through the two slits in the cardboard.” He paused for a moment. “Antiphotons.”
Warren hurried back to the laptop and pressed a button. “And it gets even stranger when you make four slits in the cardboard.”
Professor Heinz, a short and balding man with a potbelly, entered the classroom and stood by the door. His clothing always seemed to look wrinkled and disheveled. He watched as Warren continued his lecture.
Warren glanced over at Professor Heinz, but he didn’t acknowledge him in any way. He already knew why Heinz was here, and he knew what Heinz was going to say to him.
