The Supernaturals

by David L. Golemon

  Gabriel felt his knees weaken at the memory of that night. He leaned heavily against one of the solid wood support posts in the stable and took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. He thought back to that long climb up the stairs after Warren Atkinson, the brightest kid in the graduate program, had disappeared. At the top of the stairs, he saw the sewing room door close on its own and he heard the laughter—he had never told Damian Jackson, nor anyone in authority. He remembered finding Warren’s glasses at the base of the wall. His class ring was also there; the bulging plaster, the wetness of the wall and paper that covered it. He had gone into shock at the discovery of those items on the carpet runner, and had torn into the wall with one of the table lamps that lined the hallway every thirty feet. He had seen the emptiness of the interior of that wall, and the slat work behind it. Yes, Summer Place had done its own math that night—it subtracted very well indeed.

  When the hand reached out and touched him, Gabriel jumped. Julie Reilly stood beside him with a makeup tissue still tucked into her collar. She looked at him curiously.

  “I would say you looked like you saw a ghost, but that would be a little too cliché, considering.”

  “Past mistakes,” Gabriel mumbled.

  “Excuse me,” Julie said watching his face in the darkness. She reached out and turned on the light. The man did look like he was scared, and indeed looked as if he had seen a ghost.

  “I will not underestimate this house again.”

  “I hope you don’t. Even if I don’t believe like you do, I always cover my bases.”

  “What do you want?” he asked when he got his heart and breathing settled.

  “You’re due in makeup, we only have forty-five minutes to air.”

  “I was already there,” he said.

  “Harris and Kelly said you messed up your makeup and that you have to go back in.”

  Gabriel smiled and looked back at the camera mounted on its tripod. As Julie watched, Gabriel raised his right hand and flipped the camera the bird.

  “Any particular reason you don’t like that camera?” Julie said as she turned to leave.

  “Yeah, but none that I care to share at this particular moment.”

  Kelly Delaphoy stepped out of the production van to get a breath of air. The trailer was air-conditioned to accommodate all the electronic equipment, but she still she found it hot and oppressive. Kelly was used to a small Chevrolet production van and a minimal staff, one reason for Hunters of the Paranormal’s minimal production costs. Being this close to an expensive special was starting to eat away at her confidence. She looked at her watch and the bright lights of a camera caught her eye. When she looked up she saw a network crew setting up on the lawn just inside of the half-moon drive in front of Summer Place. The news division had come on site without having notified her.

  Kelly saw Wallace Lindemann walking toward the network reporter, a woman not far beneath the stature of Julie Reilly. He was being tagged by one of the makeup people, who dabbed at his face as they moved toward the reporter and camera crew. She saw Lionel Peterson standing off to the side, impeccably dressed in a black three piece suit, standing as if he were king of Summer Place. She made a beeline toward the head of the entertainment division.

  “What is this?” she asked Peterson.

  “Well, let me see. From this distance I’m not sure, but it looks like Wallace Lindemann is about to do a news interview.” He looked at Kelly as she came to a defiant stop in front of him. Then he grimaced when he saw Julie Reilly come out of the stables with Professor Kennedy not far behind her. She saw the bright lights of the news team, and then him and Kelly. She ripped the makeup guard from around her neck and sprinted toward them.

  “What the hell is this?” Julie asked. Her question wasn’t directed at Peterson, but Kelly.

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Look, both of you need to get a grip. This interview is going out live on the evening news. As much as I hate the news division piggy-backing us the way they have,” he shot Julie an ugly look, “we need a solid lead-in to the show.”

  “We don’t need a lead-in; all the projections are skyrocketing. And we surely don’t need a loose cannon like Wallace Lindemann walking the news audience through his hoax speech.”

  “And if the network wanted this, why didn’t they have me do it? I could have controlled Lindemann,” Julie Reilly chimed in. As much as she hated Kelly Delaphoy, she knew the producer was right. Lindemann was dangerous with a live camera. She looked into Peterson’s eyes. “You set this up, didn’t you?”

  Peterson looked from Kelly to Julie and shook his head. “Now, why would I try to sabotage a show that has control of the trapdoor underneath my feet?”

  “Because, you sanctimonious son of a bitch, you actually think you can survive this thing,” Julie said before Kelly could open her mouth. She looked beyond Peterson and saw two men who had been with the CEO inside of the boardroom watching the test broadcast. They were standing side by side and seemed quite content with the happenings.

  Julie’s mouth fell open—she realized finally what Peterson’s game was. He had played the dummy, acting his way through the indignity of the special as if he had no choice to do so, while all the while he had been playing a game, making fools out of everyone from the CEO to Julie and Kelly. Julie actually smiled as she turned from the two board members to face Peterson once more.

  “You’re not just out to solidify your position as the president of entertainment, you bastard, you’re out for a full blown coup against Feuerstein, aren’t you?”

  “That’s one dangerous and foolish accusation, Ms. Reilly.” Peterson straightened and removed his hands from his pockets. “As you’ve noticed, there are two board members right over there, and three more are on the way. Now why they are here to observe the special is beyond me, but if you like working in this field,” he looked from Julie to Kelly, “I suggest you keep this coup idea to yourself.” Peterson started to walk away, toward the two men who were waiting for him, but he stopped and turned with a smile on his face. “It seems the CEO’s decision-making has come under scrutiny from the stockholders lately; he may have overstepped his bounds with this very expensive special, something that’s a little out of his area of expertise.”

  “You bastard!” Kelly said loudly, drawing the attention of those around them. She started to go after Peterson, but Julie stopped her.

  “Let it go.”

  “We have got to tell the chairman what’s going on here. At least, the news division has to be notified that they’re being used.” Kelly glared at Peterson, who smiled even wider and turned away to join the board members.

  “Do you think that son of a bitch would ever have chanced this without most of the board and division heads in his corner? He’s not just making his play for control, he’s trying to oust the chairman. The news division is in on it, and who knows who else. All we can do is what we’re here to do.”

  “Yeah, and if Summer Place is dormant?” Kelly said, turning on Julie.

  Julie smiled and shook her head.

  “Then the joke really will be on us, won’t it? I mean, I knew for a fact that Professor Kennedy was a nut and proved it once a long time ago. You, well, you were out to use him. Now we’re both dependent on the nutcase for our professional lives.” She started to turn away, but stopped. “Summer Place is either going to bail us all out, or make the real monster king of his world, wouldn’t you say?”

  Kelly watched Julie Reilly walk away. Then she turned to watch Wallace Lindemann as he extolled the virtue and beauty of his summer home, which just happened to be on the open market for a bargain price. Kelly looked up from the bright lights of the interview to the brightly lit façade of Summer Place. The house seemed to be looking on with only mild interest at what was happening below.

  Kelly knew as well as Julie that they had been played. She also knew that Peterson had started setting her up the moment the CEO and chairman gave her the
go-ahead for the special. She had been outmaneuvered, and she knew this would be her last night in broadcasting.

  Summer Place had already beaten her, and the battle had yet to start.

  eighteen

  UBC Network Headquarters

  New York City

  Abraham Feuerstein stood in the corner of the theater-style viewing room. The entire board of UBC and the top members of the General Television and Electronics Corporation board were on hand for the special. The buffet had been laid out and the drinks were flowing. Feuerstein watched certain members of the UBC board as they meandered from person to person, hardly sparing the CEO a glance. The old man with his bowtie sipped his club soda and watched, knowing the talk was about him. The game was afoot, and Abe knew for certain that Lionel Peterson and his allies were smelling blood. The plan was to oust him as head of his own network, and Feuerstein knew they could do it with the board’s approval. He had stuck his neck out by approving Kelly Delaphoy’s dangerous scheme, but he knew that Peterson and his young bunch could be shoved to the side with no problem if the ratings came in. If not, he would just go back to overseeing his electronics empire.

  The fifty- by twenty-foot screen was the main feature of the room and at this moment it was blocked by the lower members of the UBC board, here to see the fight between the young lion and old. Everything in the world was in Kelly Delaphoy’s lap. He knew young Kelly for what she was—a cheat, a liar—but she was also a showman.

  “Mr. Feuerstein, we have ten minutes to showtime. Would you like to say a few words?”

  The CEO placed his drink on a side credenza and shook his head. The man who asked the question was in Peterson’s camp. Abe had watched him hang up the phone only a moment before; he knew he’d been talking to the shark on location in the Poconos.

  Feuerstein moved to his seat in the center of the room. He nodded at trusted friends from the electronics board as they joined him. These were men and women who seemed genuinely excited for Abe, with the risky venture about to start. Test pattern from the Poconos came up on the screen, and Abe watched as everyone took their seats. The test pattern was soon replaced by the still shot of Summer Place that was to be used extensively in the special. The picture of the house was meant to portray evil, but Abe knew it could hold real horrors for him tonight—it held the power that was to be exchanged between him and his television empire. He couldn’t help but wonder what Peterson was doing at that very moment.

  Summer Place

  Bright River, Pennsylvania

  Lionel Peterson was standing just inside the large gate, looking up at Summer Place. The crowds, both for and against the show, had been banished three miles down the road and the scene was quiet. Peterson was well aware that by now Abraham Feuerstein had to be aware of the board’s consensus that he had overstepped his bounds on the television special. The outlay for expenses would never be recouped, and the old man would be the one to answer for that. Only ratings could save him. If the show was a hit, Feuerstein would survive and would be standing over Peterson’s dead body this time tomorrow.

  The sun had gone down and the threat of the storm—one which the network weather men had assured them would stay far from the Poconos—was building in not only intensity, but in camera-attracting splendor. It could only add to the ambiance of the show. Peterson cursed his luck, but what could one expect from the weather men? They were, after all, part of the news division. When and if he became head of the network, he would make sure those incompetents were all off working for NBC, or at the very least, Fox.

  He watched the house, knowing that the inert structure held his destiny in its hands. But with the Kyle Pritchard incident, he had an outstanding chance of making this look like a Kelly Delaphoy fiasco, designed and carried out by that power-seeking bitch. If only he could pull this off and destroy her, he would never crave anything so much ever again.

  “Mr. Peterson, Harris says we’re fifteen minutes from airtime. He asks that you come to the production van for the final meeting.”

  Lionel never looked down at the small woman. She had headphones on, with the cord dangling at her side. When he looked back up at the well illuminated house without acknowledging her, she shrugged and moved away.

  Peterson concentrated on the windows at the third floor. He felt that he was being watched, but knew it had nothing to do with Summer Place—the feeling came from all the remote cameras around the front of the house. He knew Kelly was in front of a monitor somewhere, watching him.

  A small group of people moved out of the commissary tent. Peterson finally broke his gaze from the house and saw the professor’s group of ghost hunters moving toward the front door. He watched as Kennedy shook hands with each member of the group. The professor actually looked sad as they moved into the house and into position for the start of the broadcast. Gabriel Kennedy stood just underneath the portico and waited for Julie Reilly to join him. Their first cue would be right after the narrative of Summer Place by John Wesley. After that would be the rolling of the opening credits and theme song.

  “Are you coming? I mean, you are the executive producer of the show.”

  Peterson’s spell was broken. Jason Sanborn stood beside him with his pipe in his hand. His other hand held a water bottle, which reminded Peterson that he would have to sneak off sometime in the first hour to get a drink. Maybe when the first segment was pushed upstairs.

  “Yes, I’m coming.”

  “This should prove, at the very least, to be a most interesting evening,” Jason said, placing the cold pipe into his mouth.

  Peterson walked past Sanborn. With one last look up at the yellow and white mansion, he shook his head.

  “I hope it’s at least that.”

  The production van was silent, watching as the last commercial ran before the broadcast’s eight o’clock start. At five o’clock on the west coast, the show was going to be cutting a lot of the Pacific Time zone ratings, but New York had decided that the trade off could not be helped. The Alka-Seltzer commercial started fading to black on Harris Dalton’s orders.

  “Cue up John Wesley,” Harris called, and then, “Roll tape.”

  On monitor one, the view was what would be seen by all of North America on a three second tape delay. That was another decision made by New York, just in case something untoward happened, so that there would be a chance to censor untoward language from going out live over the airwaves. John Wesley, looking resplendent in a black coat, black turtleneck sweater and black slacks, with his distinguished gray hair combed straight back, stood before Summer Place. He smiled the disarming smile he had shown the American public for over twenty years while bringing them the world and national news. He placed his hands together and nodded as if lecturing to a schoolroom. He then released his left hand and gestured toward the house.

  “This is Summer Place.”

  The monologue went on for a full ten minutes as John Wesley explained the history of the giant house behind him. As he moved through the morbid details, still shots of the interior of Summer Place popped on and off the screen. Kelly Delaphoy had won the fight about keeping the house under wraps for as long as they could. The first people seen in the house after the opening credits of the show would be Julie Reilly and Gabriel Kennedy, and even then they would only be standing on the steps leading to the house. Only after the introductions would they move into the foyer of Summer Place.

  Harris Dalton knew these few moments were his last chance to relax. Monitor two was filled with the faces of Kennedy and Reilly as they waited for the cameraman, who would cue them on Harris’ orders. Dalton glanced back at Kelly and Peterson. They sat quietly, both looking like ghosts, themselves. In the darkened far corner of the trailer, Harris saw the gleam of stainless steel flash in the glare of the monitors as Wallace Lindemann raised his flask of whiskey. Harris Dalton thought about reminding Lindemann that they were just as live in the van as out in front of the cameras. Instead he just eyed Kelly and Peterson until they saw Lindemann dr
inking. Kelly nodded to signal that she understood; if Lindemann acted like a jerk, Kelly would hustle him out of the van.

  On monitor one, John Wesley gave a fatherly look toward the house, then slowly turned and faced the camera once more.

  “So sit back, relax if you can, and join the greatest team of ghost hunters ever to work the field of parapsychology—welcome to the live Halloween broadcast of Hunters of the Paranormal.” He gestured once more at the bright, glowing house, and the camera panned away from the retired anchor to bring Summer Place to full focus on the screen. “Let the hunt begin!”

  “Cue intro, cue music,” Harris called out calmly. The regular lead-in started and the opening strains of Blue Oyster Cult came through the speakers. Don’t Fear the Reaper played while famous still shots of the show’s former hosts and scenes of their adventures flicked by.

  “Camera Two, close in. You’ve got a little too much space showing on the sides. Get Reilly and Kennedy framed up right!”

  On monitor two, the shot of Julie and Gabriel tightened up.

  “Okay, Camera Three, tight on Julie. You’re up first. I repeat, just Julie for the initial shot.”

  Kelly smiled. After a full week of agony and planning, Dalton was now in his element.

  “Cue three,” he said as the music wound down. Kelly’s opening started, and it sounded better than she had hoped. The song stopped like someone had placed a hand on the old recording and dragged it to a stop. At that exact moment, the live television broadcast kicked in with a still shot of the former hosts of Hunters of the Paranormal.

  “Good evening and happy Halloween,” Julie said. She looked into Camera Three for the close headshot. “Greg Larsen and Paul Lowell,” she continued as the screen split in two—one side showing Julie, the other the still shots of the hosts, “will not be here with you tonight. While investigating the stories surrounding this house, this summer home of the world famous Lindemann family, one host vanished and the other stepped down after the traumatic night of October 17th. One host returned only to commit suicide, the other never to return to investigative work again.”