by Leo Hunt
“Are you OK?” whispers Holiday.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You’re all tense. Are you, like, scared?” She grins.
“As if this is going to be scary.”
I’m swiftly proved wrong by the face that appears on-screen. Hair falling back across a shiny scalp, hair growing across cheeks and chin like an unmanicured lawn. I’m very glad that I’ve inherited more of Mum’s genetic material than Dad’s. He’s wearing a lime-green shirt and is lit at close range in the dark by a powerful white lamp, which makes him look embalmed.
“In all my years as a paranormal investigator,” he says, “I cannot remember another case quite like this one. What you are about to see is disturbing, and may make you question everything you think you know about life . . . and death.”
The credit sequence begins. It’s pretty lackluster, and I find myself wondering how big a budget Dad was given. The opening rolls over what is presumably stock footage of forests and castles, mixed in with some night-vision shots of basements and dungeons. The music is low and ominous-sounding, occasionally rising to a crescendo when the camera focuses on a full moon or a sinister-looking empty doorway. Eventually the screen freezes on a night-vision shot of a skeleton lying on the ground, and the word Nightwatch comes up in green Gothic lettering accompanied by a screaming effect.
The scene changes. It’s daylight, under a lead-gray sky. The camera is in a moving vehicle, driving through a forest. The plants are dull and autumnal. The camera glides around a bend in the road, and we see a squat stone building standing in the midst of an unkempt lawn. The trees lean over the house in a silent canopy.
“This is Coldstane Rectory,” says the narrator, “built in the late eighteenth century. The building has had a ghastly reputation for more than two hundred years. Current occupant Michael Aulder thought that the house would be the perfect rural getaway for his family. Michael says that he never believed in ghosts, but after buying the rectory, the Aulder family have changed their minds. Please note that all footage on this show is real. Nothing has been faked and no special effects are used. We do not use actors in our reality programming.”
Mr. Aulder is hard-faced, with a full head of graying hair, his stout body barely contained by a white oxford shirt. He’s standing in bright sunlight under a wide blue sky. It’s obviously summer, in notable contrast to the earlier shots.
“Well, of course, people said things to us,” says Mr. Aulder, “warning it was haunted, giving me all the talk. Never listened to them, though, did I? I’ve never believed in all that, ghosts and such.” He laughs, exposing gray teeth. “I’ve a different view now.”
“The Aulder family lived in the property for a little over a month before the paranormal events began,” says the narrator, “mainly occurring around three o’clock in the morning — the traditional haunting hour.”
Cut to Mrs. Aulder, blond and round-faced, wearing a yellow dress. She stands in the kitchen in front of a brass kettle and a green stove. She’s nervous, looking away from the camera.
“I thought at first it was kids,” she says, “messing around. That was bad enough. There were noises, you know, in the roof and outside in the yard. Our daughter, she’s only six, she was scared. She said she wanted to go back to the old house. My husband thought it was rats.”
Cut to Mr. Aulder. “I often slept through the early occurrences, if I’m honest. I have a heavy workload, and I’m a heavy sleeper, too. I thought she was making things up.”
Mrs. Aulder: “It wasn’t until things started moving around that Michael began to take it seriously.”
“What kind of things?” asks a voice off camera.
“Everything.” She swallows hard.
Cut back to the outside view of the rectory. It’s autumn again. A pair of white vans pull into the gravel driveway and grind toward the house.
“The Aulder family have not had a night’s peace since summer,” says the narrator. “They report unnatural noises at night, poltergeist activity, ectoplasm leaking from the walls, sensations of extreme cold, food in the house rotting within hours of purchase, excessive junk mail, shadowy figures stalking the garden at night, orbs of spiritual energy disrupting Christmas dinner, and, in one memorable occurrence, the television set leaked blood.”
“I think that was the most disturbing manifestation,” says Mr. Aulder in his sunlit garden. “I was watching the news, and the set began to dim. I walked over to adjust the picture, and I discovered there was a thick liquid running down the plasma screen. When I put my hand on it, I realized it was, in fact, blood.”
“And this is when you decided to call the Nightwatch team for help?”
“Yes. Yes, it was. I can’t live like this.”
Cut to a van door opening. A pair of bright-orange shoes step down onto the gravel.
“Dr. Horatio Manchett is Britain’s most respected paranormal expert,” announces the voice-over, “with more than a hundred hauntings successfully exorcised.”
“Dr. Manchett owns Britain’s campest collection of shoes,” I say, “and has plans to purchase many more flamboyant shoes in the near future.”
“Quiet,” hisses Holiday, giggling.
Dad is on-screen, wearing a dark-red suit.
“— and this has frightened you?”
“Very much so,” says Mrs. Aulder.
“Well, it seems,” says Dad, turning to the camera, “that this family is experiencing a paranormal event of some magnitude. What we are going to do is take a look around the house, a preliminary look, as it were, and see what occurs. We’ll be taking an especially close interest in the kitchen and living room, as these are the rooms where the family reports the most intense activity.”
Dad gestures at the cameraman, who follows him as he sweeps through the low square doorway and into the kitchen.
“Well, this is an excellent example of period architecture,” he remarks, “and the family has kept it in really beautiful condition. The question is, Are we going to feel any kind of presence here?”
The Aulders stand, looking on, nervous while Dad strides around the kitchen in his garish suit, opening cupboards and muttering in what I assume is Latin. As he rummages under the sink, asking them about auras they may have experienced in the house, I see a figure standing in the corner of the room. It’s a woman, gray-faced, wearing a very old-fashioned dress. She’s looking at my dad with a vacant expression. The Aulders, as well as Holiday and her friends, see no sign that she’s there at all. This confuses me enormously. You read all kinds of stuff about ghosts appearing in photographs, but this is the first time I’ve even thought about it. Are they giving off some kind of energy that’s beyond the normal visible spectrum? How are the cameras capturing it? I remember what the Vassal said to me when I first asked him about life after death: Better minds than yours or mine have chased their own tails for lifetimes regarding such questions. Some of these things I’ll never understand.
“I think maybe we should try to address the spirits directly,” says Dad to the camera, “to see if I can get any idea of how many there are and what they want from these people.”
“How will we do that?” asks Mrs. Aulder nervously.
“They’re often responsive to a confident voice,” Dad says. “Are there any spirits within this house?” he asks loudly.
Nothing.
“I said,” he shouts, “are there any spirits within this house? If there is a presence within this house, I demand that you make yourself known!”
Dad raises his hands and makes some kind of gesture. I notice the sigil on his right finger and quickly hide my right hand in my pocket. I don’t want anyone noticing that we’ve got the same surname and wear the same ring. There’d probably be some questions about that.
“Make yourself known!” yells Dad. The Judge and the Prisoner come in through one wall of the kitchen. The Prisoner grabs the female ghost by the hair and drags her out of the room through the opposite wall. Before I have time to thi
nk about what’s happening, they’re gone. The Judge kicks the stove as hard as he can with his boot. Holiday jumps and grips my leg like a vise.
“Did you hear that?” she says.
“It’s just a bang. They edit those noises in.”
“That was so a ghost. Don’t be a spoilsport!” The other girls are laughing and shrieking.
“Tell me what it is that you want,” proclaims Dad in the rectory’s kitchen, “and I can let you leave in peace.”
The Judge strides to the kitchen counter and with some relish lifts an unwashed pot up into the air. The cameraman notices and audibly gasps, shifting his gaze from Dad to the pot hanging in the air.
“Uh, Dr. M,” says the cameraman, clearly unscripted, “by the sink.”
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” says Dad, turning toward the Judge. “Either you talk to me, or I shall expel you from this place.”
The Judge rolls his eyes and throws the pot at the wall.
Holiday and her mates shriek.
“I’m not sure about this,” says the cameraman. “Like, are we insured for this?”
“Everything is fine,” says Dad. “Nobody panic.”
The Judge picks up a knife and slowly waves it about. Mrs. Aulder starts to hyperventilate.
“I think maybe we should all go outside,” says Dad, placing himself between the floating knife and the couple. “Let’s go outside and regroup. I think I have the measure of the haunting now: There is definitely a hostile presence here.”
The camera crew don’t need to be told twice and make an undignified exit, running out the door and into the daylight. This part is clearly unrehearsed, and several members of crew, including the sound guy, are caught on film as they make their escape. The Aulders join the crew on their lawn at a run. Dad comes last and the Judge slips out after him, lighting another cigarette. I’m guessing Dad neglected to tell the camera crew that the ghosts are real. There are no live actors on the show, but there are plenty of dead ones.
In the background I can see the Prisoner moving toward the woods at the back of the house, dragging the female ghost — presumably the ghost that was haunting the Aulders in the first place — along behind him by the hair. While Dad talks Mrs. Aulder down, I watch the struggle in the background. As they reach the tree line, I see something else, just for a moment, something that looks like a moving shadow, darkness that flows out from behind a tree and engulfs the rectory’s original ghost. The hairs all along my arms stand on end, but the camera cuts away before I can get a good view of what happened. I look over to Elza, to see if she saw it as well, but she’s not in the room anymore.
In the next scene Dad and Mrs. Aulder conduct a sort of séance in the family room, trying to contact the spirits and pinpoint how many there are so they can be exorcised. The Judge provides some restrained raps on the table and walls, and then the Prisoner walks through the wall and starts running his scarred hands over Mrs. Aulder, gurgling softly. I stiffen in my seat.
“Oh, I feel,” she gasps, “I can feel something. Oh, no. Oh, I just . . . it’s so angry. They feel so angry, so full of hatred.”
The big climax of the show is a midnight exorcism of Coldstane Rectory, with night-vision cameras and heat sensors and something called a Spectral Reader, which looks suspiciously like a Geiger counter with extra parts soldered on. My father, wearing a purple robe, chants and burns various herbs, and then waves his hands around while the camera crew follows him from room to room. The Judge bangs stuff and throws furniture about, occasionally, to my amusement, missing his cue. The Vassal and the Heretic put in guest appearances for the benefit of the heat sensors, walking through the walls and moaning. At the climax of the exorcism, someone cuts the lights in the rectory and the Shepherd himself appears, emitting an aura of green fire that you clearly don’t need second sight to see. Holiday and her mates scream.
“Luke,” Holiday says, “did you see?”
“It’s CGI,” I say.
The credits roll, luminous against a moonless night. Some text informs us that the Aulders remained in the house after the show and have not reported any further paranormal events. The exorcism was successful.
I’m left utterly confused. Dad raised terrifying spirits from the dead so that he could exorcise houses of their resident ghosts? Wouldn’t it be easier to just fake it? What happened to the actual ghost haunting Coldstane Rectory anyway? Where did she go? What was that moving shadow that came from the tree line?
Was that Dad’s demon?
“So do you guys believe in ghosts?” one of Holiday’s friends asks.
“After that,” Holiday says, “I’m not sure. That was, like, the scariest one yet.”
“When the knife was floating —”
“Come on,” I say, “are you serious? Those were the lamest effects I’ve ever seen. It was so plainly on strings.”
“You’re such a cynic,” says Holiday, punching me in the arm.
I just kind of grin and shrug and then we watch some reality show about people with fake tans yelling at one another. They all live in this house by the beach, and the weather is always sunny. There’s still no sign of Elza. I’m not sure what she’s doing, if she’s scoping out the rest of the house or what. I’d like to know what she made of Dad’s show, whether she thought there was anything useful in there. We shouldn’t be separated anyway: The Host might show up any moment, and then I’d need the Book. Holiday’s leg is resting against mine, and I really wish I could just relax and enjoy the night. On TV the tanned people are arguing in their bright kitchen. It doesn’t look like the people on the show ever think about being dead.
By half past ten Holiday’s house is packed. Everyone who’s anyone in our year is dancing in her front room or mixing drinks in the kitchen. Mark and Kirk are here, with the rugby team in tow. They’ve got me surrounded in Holiday’s garden, and they’re all chanting in a tribal way. I’m holding the bottle of vodka they gave me. I lost any hope of finding Elza the second they arrived, and for all I know, the Host is already here, and I can’t explain any of this to them. I end up taking the smallest mouthful of the stuff I can get away with and passing it to the next guy. The drink sears my nose and throat. I’m coughing. Kirk, who’s dressed as Superman, grabs me and pulls me out of the circle.
“Manchett, where’ve you been this week?” he’s asking.
“Ugh. Bleh. Mum’s ill, man. I’ve been at home.”
“Headaches again?” Mark asks. He must have ditched the circle, too. Mark is Captain America. His shield is a painted garbage-can lid.
“Yeah. She just needs me around.”
Behind us the drinking circle is roaring so loudly that I can barely hear what anyone’s saying. I keep scanning the drunk faces around me, waiting to see one of the ghosts, waiting to feel the chill. The vodka isn’t doing my mood any favors.
I feel sick.
“You want to get some home help,” Kirk’s saying. “Get nurses in. You shouldn’t be looking after her by yourself.”
“I’m really fine, guys. Thanks.”
“Only you missed all the practices this week,” Mark’s saying.
“Ah, sorry, man, you know? Really. My head’s just not been in it.”
I try to smile. Neither looks that convinced.
“You’ll have to get back in it,” Mark says. “Coach is about to go nuclear on you.”
“Are you really all right?” Kirk asks. “You look bad, mate. Where’s your costume?”
“Ah, I forgot.”
“Alice was saying you came here with Elza Moss?” Mark says.
“We just walked the same way,” I say. “Barely know her.”
“Alice said you were talking to her yesterday, outside school,” he’s saying with a grin. “She said you were acting really shady about it.”
I’d like to find Alice Waltham and strangle her. I force a laugh.
“Elza just asked me for a cigarette,” I say.
“You’re sly,” Kirk’s
saying, laughing. “I know what you’re up to, Luke. You’re trying to get into Elza, aren’t you?”
“You don’t have to be ashamed, mate,” Mark says. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”
“She written a poem for you yet?” Kirk asks.
“I need a piss, lads,” I say through a rictus grin, and turn away back to Holiday’s house. Behind me, obviously preplanned, the rugby guys break into a chorus of “Manchett and Elza sitting in a tree.” We mess with one another like this all the time, but I’m really not in the mood for it tonight. They’ve got no idea what’s happening here. Elza’s risking more for me than any of them ever has.
I push my way into the house, through the crowds of people in the back room and kitchen, half of them guys from the year below who didn’t even come in costume, just wore tracksuits and sneakers with neon laces. There are hip-hop videos blasting from the TV in the front room now, no more Nightwatch. I find Elza sitting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s staring into space, about as glum as I’ve ever seen her.
“You all right?” I ask.
“Absolutely horrible, thanks.”
“No sign of the Host?”
She shrugs. I sit beside her.
“You think they’re actually going to come?” I say.
“I’m starting to hope they do. I’ve been standing around on my own for two hours, listening to people have the most inane conversations on the planet, except half the time they’re drowned out by the worst music on the planet. Not to mention everyone looking at me like I sprayed myself down from a septic tank rather than showering this morning.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“How are you friends with these people? A guy told me to take my Halloween costume off. We’re at a Halloween costume party. Like, the other three hundred and whatever days of the year aren’t enough for you to use that insult?”
“We’re here because of the Host . . .”
“But that didn’t stop you from having a few with your rugby mates.”
“I’m trying to act normal? Fit in? I can hardly explain to anyone what’s going on.”
