by Mark Lukens
“And you still want me?”
“Yes. We already have a team assembled.”
Shane looked surprised. “You have a team?”
“Yes. They’re all ready to go.”
“If you have a team, then what do you need me for?”
Kristen hesitated for a moment, and then blurted it out. “They’re a little … a little inexperienced. They need someone to lead them.”
“So what you’re saying is that you want me to lead a team of rookies.”
Kristen didn’t answer.
“Where is this haunting located?”
“We’ll go over all of the details once you’ve signed on.”
Kristen pulled out a pack of folded forms from her purse and walked over to the coffee table. She found a clean spot at the corner of the table and laid the papers down.
Shane still stood in the same spot at the edge of the kitchen. He glanced across the room at the papers and then he looked at Kristen. “What’s that? A release form or something?”
“Mr. Gorman asked me not to divulge anything until he was sure that you were on board. Once you are, I’m sure you’ll have access to any information that you need.”
“This is crazy. This isn’t how these things are done.”
Kristen turned and headed for the doorway. She looked back at Shane when she reached the doorway. “Think it over, Mr. Edwards. The minute you sign that contract, a third of your fee will be in your bank account.”
• • • • •
Shane watched as Kristen walked out through the doorway, stepping over the lines of salt and iron, and back onto the deck of his boat. She didn’t even give him a chance to answer—she just left.
He walked the few steps over to his coffee table and picked up the thick pack of papers which were folded neatly into thirds.
He closed his eyes and he could hear Kristen carefully stepping from his boat onto the pier.
And then Shane couldn’t hear anything at all, he couldn’t see anything at all, he was gone from his boat for a moment, his mind back at the Cranston House in Ohio …
CHAPTER TEN
Barstow, Louisiana
Shane Edwards stood inside his houseboat, but in his mind he was back in the dark living room of the Cranston House in Ohio.
He was twelve years old again.
Bobby and his friends had dared Shane and Michael Lachance to break into the Cranston House at the end of Dean Stills Road at the edge of town. Everyone knew the old abandoned house was haunted. Bobby and his friends all claimed to have entered the house before—it was part of the initiation to get into their club.
Mike was nervous, maybe even more nervous than Shane was. But both of them agreed to it.
They rode their bicycles to the edge of town where Bobby and his two friends were waiting. It was late afternoon already and the sky was overcast, one of those gray days where it looked like it could rain but never did. A cold mid-October wind was blowing the dead leaves around and they sounded like a thousand death rattles as they skittered down the road.
The Cranston House loomed behind the overgrown bushes and trees, just its roof visible above the dark vegetation. There were no other houses or buildings within a mile of the place—it was just them and that house way out here.
“You guys ready?” Bobby asked with a mischievous grin on his face. He looked at his friends and nodded, all of them grinning.
“Yeah,” Shane spoke up. He had been bullied all throughout grade school by Bobby and his friends, even chased home a few times. They were a year or two older than he and Mike were, two of them having been held back at least one grade, and they were much bigger. Shane had always been afraid of them. But now they were his friends, now they wanted him and Mike to join their gang.
And Shane wanted to be a part of their gang.
“You know the rules,” Bobby said. “No flashlights. And you have to spend at least an hour inside that house.”
Shane and Mike glanced at each other and nodded in agreement. Shane knew he was going to be in trouble for getting home after dark and past his curfew, but this was going to be worth it to be admitted into Bobby’s circle of friends. The days of being picked on in school would soon be over, he was sure of it.
It was nearly dark now, and Bobby gave Shane and Mike the go-ahead to walk towards the Cranston House.
Shane and Mike left their bicycles with Bobby and his friends and they walked across the lonely road towards the brush and trees. The house was set way back in the darkness and it took a few moments to get to the back of the house. Shane found a window that he could reach from the ground. He tried to open it and found that it was unlocked. He stacked up some cinder blocks he found near another corner and then pushed the window open. He expected to struggle with the window, figuring that it was probably stuck in place with layers of old paint or stuck from wood that had been warped by decades of weather. But the window slid up easily as if it had been oiled recently, as if the house wanted them to enter. The open window waited for them, inviting them in.
Shane looked at Mike, and he nodded. Mike’s eyes were wide, his mouth a tight slash in his pale face, his brow already shiny with sweat in the twilight. But he was ready.
They crawled through the window and stood there for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the darkness. It was still somewhat light outside as the darkness of the autumn night was just beginning to take over the world, but even the dim light of early evening didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness of the house very much. They stood in a bare room on a hardwood floor. There were some old paintings stacked against the walls that had strips of wallpaper hanging down in tatters. All of the paintings had the backs of them facing them.
Shane nudged Mike and told him they should get going and get this over with. He was sure that Bobby would ask them questions about the inside of the house to prove that they had explored every square inch of it.
Shane was scared, but at the same time he was excited. He loved the feeling of the adrenaline pumping through his veins. It felt the same as when he rode the gigantic roller coasters at Cedar Point. But Mike didn’t seem to be feeling the same sense of exhilaration that Shane was.
They crept to the next room, and then to the next. There was a lot of furniture left behind in the home even though it had been abandoned for years. Much of the furniture was covered with dusty white sheets that looked like gray blobs in the darkness. The rooms seemed to lead deeper and deeper into the house, and Shane began to feel like he was trapped inside a maze of rooms that had no order or any kind of a sensible layout to them.
He lost Mike in the next room. He wasn’t sure how he had lost him, and he hadn’t heard a sound. Maybe Mike had stayed in the last room that they’d been in, or maybe he had wandered off to another room.
Shane whispered for Mike, but he didn’t hear a reply. Shane stood alone in what looked like a large living room. There was some furniture against the walls where more wallpaper was peeling and plaster was crumbling. There were a few boxes and bags shoved against the couch.
“Mike,” Shane called out.
No answer from Mike.
Then Shane heard a scratching sound in the darkness, like fingernails clawing at wood flooring.
He crept across the large living room, the floorboards creaking with each step he took. He thought that the sound had come from a chair ahead of him. It looked like a large wingback chair with a white sheet draped over it. The chair was facing a corner, like a parent had pushed the chair into the corner to punish a child.
Shane heard the scratching sound again.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Someone was in that chair making that noise. Was it Mike? Was Mike playing a joke on him?
He called Mike’s name again as he stood in the darkness, only ten feet away from the back of the chair.
The white sheet only covered half of the chair now; some of the white sheet was bunched up on the floor by the back wooden legs. When had the white sheet fallen down
? Shane couldn’t remember it falling down.
He heard the scratching noise again. And now he saw what was making the noise. Dangling down from the side of the chair was an ancient, emaciated arm and hand that ended in long yellowed fingernails.
Scratch.
Scratch.
The fingernails scratched at the wood floor …
• • • • •
Shane snapped his eyes open, breathing hard, glancing around at the murky interior of the cabin of his boat.
He didn’t want to remember what happened next in the Cranston House that night. He didn’t want to remember any more of it.
It was okay, he told himself. He was on his boat. He wasn’t in that house.
Just the memory of the Cranston House caused an icy fear to squeeze him.
He tried to clear his head.
He still had the folded contract gripped in his hand.
Shane plopped down on his couch and ran a hand through his dark hair. His eyes settled on the two paperback books on his coffee table. On top of those books was a small stack of mail. All bills.
Overdue bills.
That woman, Kristen had been her name, she’d been right. He needed the money. He couldn’t pay these bills.
He jumped to his feet, pacing, his mind already racing with a list of what he would possibly need, conditions he would demand.
What was he doing? He couldn’t let this opportunity get away.
He searched the coffee table for a pen and then opened the thick stack of papers. He glanced through each page as quickly as he could, scanning the paragraphs, until he came to the last page—the page where he was supposed to sign.
• • • • •
Shane ran down the pier, his bare feet slapping on the wood as he sprinted. He hadn’t bothered to put on shoes or even button his Hawaiian shirt. He still gripped the contract in his hand like a baton in a relay race.
He spotted Kristen just past Krabby’s Korner. She wasn’t hard to spot—she stood out from everyone else around here, dressed in her expensive business suit and heels. Her long brown hair was tied up in a bun, and it looked shiny in the sunlight. She seemed to have an athletic body, and Shane guessed that she was a committed jogger.
“Kristen!”
She stopped and turned around. But she didn’t look too surprised to see him.
Shane caught up with her and stood in front of her, breathing hard, a thick sheen of perspiration on his forehead, chest, and abs from his short run through the humid Louisiana air.
“When do we leave?” he asked as he handed the folded stack of papers to her.
She accepted the papers with a small smile and tucked them down into her purse. “Tomorrow morning.”
“That fast, huh?”
She smiled. “That fast.”
She had a great smile, Shane thought and for a moment he was at a loss for words.
He looked back down the pier that he had just run and hitched a thumb back that way like he could see his boat. “Well, I need to go back and pack a bag. Lock up the boat. Make a few other arrangements. I need to make a list of equipment and supplies we’ll need.”
“I’ll wait for you, Mr. Edwards. I’m staying at the Bayou Moon Inn a few miles from here.” She handed him her business card. “My cell is on there. Call me in the morning. I’ll have a plane waiting.”
Shane’s eyebrows shot up. “A plane waiting?” he asked.
She nodded. “Mr. Gorman’s private jet … one of them.”
“I want a little more information before we leave.”
Again she smiled, but the smile was a little tighter this time. “Of course, Mr. Edwards. I’ll tell you everything I know before we leave.”
Shane nodded. “Just call me Shane,” he told her with a smile.
He couldn’t help feeling a little better about this.
How bad could it be?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Near West Palm Beach, Florida—airport
The Gorman company plane glided down through the air and landed on the tarmac of the small airport ten miles outside of West Palm Beach. After the plane turned around, it coasted towards the hangars and other buildings at the other end of the landing strips.
The plane stopped and the engines wound down. The pilot jumped out and hurried around to the side door. He unlatched it and pulled it down, a small set of steps opening up in the process.
Kristen de-boarded the plane first, then Shane.
The pilot opened a small door at the rear of the plane and pulled out an army-green duffel bag; he handed it to Shane.
“Thanks,” Shane said to the pilot and then slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. He hurried to catch up to Kristen who was already walking briskly towards the hangars.
They walked towards the nearest hangar where Nick Gorman waited for them. Nick wore kakis and a loose button-down shirt that wasn’t tucked into his pants; it was an outfit that looked like it was very expensive yet meant to look casual. He wore sunglasses and his overly white teeth practically gleamed in the sunlight. He stood there patiently, smiling as they approached.
“I’m so glad you took the job, Mr. Edwards,” Nick said, and he offered a hand in greeting when they were close enough. He took off his sunglasses and tucked them down into the pocket of his shirt.
Shane shook Nick’s hand. “The money was hard to resist. Call me Shane.”
Nick erupted in laughter, his laugh lines deep at the corners of his eyes in his tanned face. “I’m sure you’ll be worth every penny.”
Shane glanced over at a larger plane that waited on the tarmac, parked not too far away from the one he had flown in on. Both airplanes had the Gorman studio logo on them, but this plane looked much bigger and more luxurious—a private jet.
“Is that our ride?” Shane asked.
“Yes,” Nick said. “It’s being loaded as we speak. Everything you asked for on your list is already here.”
“That fast, huh?”
Shane glanced at Kristen who smiled at him.
“Kristen sent the list to my office and they handled everything from there.”
Nick walked towards the waiting jet plane and gestured for Shane and Kristen to follow.
Three men carried boxes of equipment and supplies to the cargo hold at the rear of the plane.
“We got all of the camera equipment you wrote down on your list, Shane; the best equipment money can buy,” Nick said as he walked a few steps in front of Shane and Kristen. “Latest technology.”
One man carried a cardboard box filled with cartons of table salt.
“I got everything you asked for—”
Nick plucked a carton of salt out of the box as the man walked by. Nick tossed the carton to Shane who caught it easily in one hand.
“—even all of this salt,” Nick finished.
“It can come in handy,” Shane said.
Shane tossed the salt back to Nick who caught it and dropped it back down into the box. The laborer had waited silently until the container of salt was replaced, and then he continued his march to the plane.
“You ready to meet your team?” Nick asked, beaming at Shane.
“I’m ready,” Shane said.
“They’re in the lounge.”
• • • • •
Shane followed Nick and Kristen into the lounge. A few dozen people sat around at the tables and a small bar. It was dark inside after being outside in the bright Florida sunlight, but it seemed clean and cozy. Two TVs, one at each end of the bar, aired baseball games with the sound turned down low.
Nick walked right towards the nearest table where Warren Savage, Billy Toomer, and Laura Coleman sat with drinks in front of them: Billy had a bottle of Budweiser in front of him, Warren had a can of Coke, and Laura sipped from a glass of iced water.
“I’d like you to meet Shane Edwards,” Nick said to all three of them at the table. Nick’s voice boomed inside the lounge; a few people turned to see what was going on but Nick didn’t even notic
e, accustomed to being the center of attention. “Shane will be leading this investigation,” Nick continued. “He’s had over a decade of experience, and I believe he’s the best there is.”
Warren stood up and extended a hand to Shane. “I’m Dr. Warren Savage. I teach physics.”
Shane shook the man’s hand. Warren looked older and confident, yet there was a child-like excitement in him brewing just under his distinguished demeanor.
Billy stood up next and offered a hand to Shane. “Billy Toomer. I’ll be shooting the documentary.”
Shane nodded and shook the man’s hand. “I should see the other guy, right?”
Billy looked confused for a moment, and then touched the cuts on his lip and nodded. “Yeah. I got in a little scrape, that’s all.” Billy’s eyes shifted to Nick for a moment and then back to Shane. “You want a beer? It’s on Nick’s tab.”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
Billy’s attention shifted to Kristen. “Hi, Kristen. It’s good to see you again.”
Shane watched the two of them. Kristen smiled back at Billy, but it was a tight smile, a gesture of politeness. He guessed that there had been some kind of on-set romance between these two in the past.
“This is Laura Coleman,” Warren Savage said to Shane, breaking the awkward momentary silence. “She’s from Tennessee and she’s real shy. That’s about all I could get out of her.”
Shane looked at Laura who was still seated and smiling at him. “Pleased to meet you, Laura.”
Laura stood up and offered a hand in greeting to Shane. She was about to say something but her words were interrupted by Nigel at the bar.
“And she’s rumored to be a very powerful psychic,” Nigel said without turning around to look at them.
Shane was surprised by the voice. He knew that voice.
Nigel turned around with a cell phone in his hands and a humorless grin on his jowly face. A mixed drink sat on the bar behind him, sweating with condensation on a cocktail napkin. “While we’ve been waiting for you, I’ve been sitting here doing a little research on everyone,” Nigel said. “I found an article in a Tennessee paper about Laura Coleman helping the police find a missing woman’s body.”
