Haunted House - A Novel of Terror

by Jack Kilborn

  The website pictures didn’t do it justice. The space was massive, a two story cavernous area that was big enough to comfortably seat King Kong. The light came from three gigantic deer antler chandeliers, hanging from the rafters on thick chains. Each contained at least a hundred antlers, and they were asymmetrical and seemed thrown together. Like big heaps of bones.

  The centerpiece of the great room, a ceiling high stone fireplace, easily utilized several tons of granite. Impressive as it was, it wasn’t lit, and Tom felt a chill when he stared at it.

  Various chairs and tables were scattered around the room, some obviously new, others outdated and in need of repair. Though the chandeliers were big, they weren’t enough to adequately light the space. Plus they threw strange shadows across the walls and floor.

  Seated near each other were two men and a woman. Forenzi led them across a frayed, drab Persian rug and stood in the middle of everyone.

  “Might I introduce our new arrivals. Chicago cop Tom Mankowski, who has worked several serial killer cases, but his claim to fame has to be the part he played in the tragedy at the late Senator Philip Stang’s mansion.”

  Tom remained calm, even though those words hit like a blow. He had no idea how Forenzi found out about that. But he intended to ask him as soon as they were alone. That, and questions about Roy. But for the time being, he needed to just watch and listen.

  “Sara Randhurst survived a terrifying ordeal on Rock Island in Michigan, including several encounters with feral cannibals, and a well-known serial killer named Lester Paks. A sadist who filed his teeth down to points and chewed his victims to death.”

  Tom glanced at Sara, and even in the dim light he could see her face had gone white.

  “And Dr. Frank Belgium, a molecular biologist who actually encountered Satan himself.”

  Sara’s head jerked in his direction. “Frank? Really?”

  “I really can’t talk about that that that, Dr. Forenzi. It’s highly classified. And how did you happen to hear about…”

  “Dr. Belgium, meet Aabir Gartzke, psychic medium, sensitive, and clairvoyant extraordinaire.”

  Aabir stood and gave a theatrical bow. She was a tall woman with dark, Slavic features, her long black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her dozens of silver and gold bracelets jangled as she moved, and the loose blouse she wore wouldn’t have been out of place on an eighteenth century gypsy.

  “I have met you all already, in my dreams and visions. Detective Mankowski, how is Joan’s latest movie coming along?”

  Tom played coy. “If you’re clairvoyant, shouldn’t you already know that?”

  Aabir smiled. “Indeed. The writer acquiesced, changed the scene as instructed. Right now, your girlfriend is in the star’s trailer, discussing wardrobe. And Sara, no need to worry, my dear. Jack will be returned to you soon.”

  “It doesn’t take a psychic to know that,” Sara said.

  “Of course not. I could have easily gotten that through the court records. But you will be pleased to know that Jack is walking now. He’s doing well with his foster family, but he still has memories of you and misses how you used to sing to him.”

  “I… I need to use the bathroom,” Sara’s voice cracked, and she began to walk off.

  “Down that hallway,” Forenzi pointed, “third door on the right.”

  “Sara?” Belgium began to go after her. But she stopped him by saying, “I’m fine, Frank, I just need a minute.”

  “Dr. Belgium,” Aabir continued, “have your friends Sun and Andy told you yet they’re pregnant?”

  He looked at his shoes. “No, they haven’t.”

  “If it’s a boy, his middle name will be Frank. And it will be a boy.”

  “Impressive, Ms. Gartzke,” Forenzi said. “Aabir’s skills have helped police find four missing children, and two murderers. But, like each of you, she is here at Butler House to face one of her greatest fears.”

  “There are many kinds of spirits,” Aabir said. “Ghosts are the residual energy of human beings after they have died. Poltergeists are attached to particular locations. They reenact the same scene, again and again. Usually scenes of violence or death. But the last type of spirit is the dangerous one. The kind that has no earthly counterpart.”

  “Demons,” Dr. Forenzi said, nodding.

  “Demons are malevolent entities that feed on the energy of the living. I have encountered demons in the past. They are extremely dangerous. In some cases, they can even kill. Demons frighten me deeply.”

  “You don’t seem frightened right now,” Tom stated.

  Aabir put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chin. “I performed a cleansing ritual on this room, so they can’t enter. But there are many demons in this house. I can feel them, like eyes on the back of my neck.”

  Tom recalled how he was sure someone had been watching him while he was sitting at Roy’s desk, but no one had been there.

  “Have you ever encountered a demon, Mr. Pang?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said the Asian man sitting next to Aabir. He had broad shoulders and a compact frame, and a pencil mustache on his upper lip. “That’s because demons, like ghosts and poltergeists, don’t exist.”

  “Woo-jin Pang runs a company that specializes in debunking paranormal activity.”

  “Science has been unable to prove the existence of a spirit world.”

  “Science also hasn’t been able to prove it doesn’t exist,” Aabir countered.

  “It isn’t up to science to disprove a wild claim, bro. It is up to the person making the wild claim to show scientific evidence of it. If I say I have a leprechaun in my backpack, the burden of proof is on me.”

  “And you’ve never encountered anything you can’t explain?”

  “Of course I have. But not being able to explain a phenomenon doesn’t mean it should be automatically attributed to the spirit world. I was using my EMF meter at a client’s home two weeks ago—”

  “Excuse me,” Tom said. “That’s the second time I’ve heard those initials. What’s an EMF meter?”

  The ghost hunter rolled his eyes. “It tests for electromagnetic fields. Supposedly EMFs are disrupted by supernatural activity. It’s one of many tools used to measure conditions we can’t see, bro. So I was using the meter, and it kept spiking. We ruled out appliances, cell phones, fuse boxes, the air conditioning. We even killed the main power at the breaker. It still kept spiking.”

  “And you’re saying that wasn’t a spirit?” Aabir asked.

  “It wasn’t a spirit. There was a storm ten miles away. My equipment is so sensitive it was picking up lightning strikes.”

  “Mr. Pang claims he’s never been frightened while doing paranormal research,” Forenzi said, smiling politely. “We’ll see if Butler House changes his mind.”

  Pang crossed his arms over his chest. “If ghosts do exist and they’re here, I’ll find them.”

  “And last,” Forenzi said, “but certainly not least, is perhaps the only person in the world more skeptical than Mr. Pang, bestselling author Cornelius Wellington.”

  Cornelius Wellington was in his fifties, wearing a sweater vest, glasses, and a graying Van Dyke beard.

  “Pleased to meet you all,” Wellington boomed. He pronounced all as awl, and sounded a lot like John Lennon. “I’m very much looking forward to the proceedings, Dr. Forenzi. I’m sure you have quite the little show concocted for us.”

  Forenzi chuckled. “Mr. Wellington is known for his books that debunk the supernatural. Due to his certainty that spirits do not exist, he’s convinced I have turned Butler House into something akin to the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. Animatronic specters and people in masks jumping out to yell ‘Boo!’”

  “I certainly hope so, Doctor. That will be exceedingly more exciting than sitting around waiting for ghosts to make contact.”

  There was a booming knock on the front doors, and everyone turned to watch as one of the guards opened them up, revealing three people, two women and
a man.

  “Ah, the rest of our party has arrived.” Dr. Forenzi smiled so broadly Tom could see his molars. “And so it begins.”

  Mal

  Mal winced at the steak on the plate in front of him. It looked, and smelled, divine.

  But try cutting filet mignon with only one hand.

  The enormous banquet table everyone sat at was one of the original furnishings, according to Dr. Forenzi, who held court at the head of it. He’d been telling stories about the various ghosts said to haunt Butler House. They included:

  Blackjack Reedy, a one-eyed slave master who roamed the hallways with a whip.

  Sturgis Butler, who was charred to the bone and smelled like burnt pork.

  Jebediah Butler, who floated from room to room on a puddle of his own blood, which constantly leaked from his flayed skin.

  Ol’ Jasper, a slave with four arms who dragged a machete around. You knew he was close when you could hear the sound of him dragging his long blade across the floor.

  The Giggler, a masked demon who would mutilate himself in order to instill fear.

  Colton Butler, carrying his bag of ghastly surgical instruments, still trying to conduct his insane experiments upon the living.

  Mal was only half-paying attention. His mood had brightened a little since the awful airport experience, mostly due to Moni Draper’s irrepressible personality. She talked nonstop about unrelated topics—what Mal referred to as diarrhea of the mouth—but was so upbeat and foul-mouthed that it was like watching a stand-up comic.

  But Moni’s energy evaporated once they entered Butler House. As pleasant a host as Dr. Forenzi attempted to be, there was a very real and very bad feeling that hung in the air, like a blanket pressing down upon them all. Mal was nervous, boarding on paranoid. He was also hungry, and staring at the slab of meat before him made him depressed as well.

  A moment later, his plate was switched with a steak already cut into pieces. He glanced at Deb, sitting next to him, and she was now busily cutting her new steak, not even acknowledging what she’d done.

  “A wonderful set-up, Doctor,” Wellington said after patting his lips with a linen napkin. “So now, when we see one of your actors limping through the hallways with a satchel of scalpels, we’re supposed to be terrified. The power of suggestion leaves us more receptive to strange phenomenon, and more susceptible to accepting them.”

  “Indeed, that would be the proper way to conduct a fear study,” Forenzi admitted. “But all I can offer you is my word that I haven’t hired any actors to try to scare you people.”

  “What exactly are we supposed to do to get our million bucks?” Moni asked, her mouth full of baked potato.

  “It is simple. After dinner, my associate Dr. Madison will take a small sample of your blood and conduct a brief physical to ascertain your general health. Then, tomorrow, another sample of your blood shall be taken.” Forenzi winked. “Should you survive, of course. Which is why I’ve had all of you sign waivers.”

  “You’ve conducted this experiment before?” Tom, the cop, asked.

  “Not quite in this way. But we have had guests before.”

  “And what happened to them?” Tom continued.

  The doctor laughed. “Naturally, they all died of fright.”

  There were a few nervous titters around the table, but the cop didn’t join them.

  “Allow me a self-indulgent moment to explain my research, and why each of you are so important.” Forenzi pushed back his chair and stood up, spreading his hands.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re all here today as self-aware, sentient beings. Perhaps some of you believe in the afterlife, spirits, souls, God and the devil. Perhaps some of you find all of it, to use one of Mr. Wellington’s words, poppycock.”

  Mal hadn’t heard the writer use that word yet, but he could imagine it easily enough.

  “But what makes us believe what we believe? Our differences really are tiny compared to our similarities. We’re all made of the same stuff. We’re all 99.9% identical, genetically. Am I correct, Dr. Belgium?”

  “Yes yes yes, you are so far.”

  “Doctor, if you wouldn’t mind, can you provide the group with your learned definition of life?”

  “Life? Well, all living things, in order to to to be considered alive, have to meet certain criteria. These criteria vary, depending on the scientist. But I’d define life as a structure that can reproduce, respire, create energy for itself, and respond to environmental changes. Also, life can cease.”

  “By that definition, fire is alive,” Forenzi said.

  “Fire is a chemical process known as combustion.”

  “But isn’t life also a chemical process?”

  “Well, yes.” Belgium nodded several times. “It certainly certainly certainly is.”

  “We are all made of chemicals.” Forenzi swept his hands across the table, grandiosely indicating all seated there. “Chemical reactions allow us to metabolize food and oxygen, and excrete waste. They are responsible for cell division. Aging. The very thoughts we have in our heads. Emotions. Dr. Belgium, can you elucidate the chemistry of emotion?”

  “Well, in response to a stimulus, or in some cases due to a problem with the limbic system, our body releases neurotransmitters and hormones, which dictate how we feel feel feel about certain things. Watch a sad movie, we cry. When we meet someone we like, we bond. These are chemicals we manufacture ourselves, which we’ve evolved to help us adapt to various situations.”

  “A mother’s instant affection for her child when it is born isn’t due to love,” Forenzi said, focusing on Sara. “At least, not love alone. It is because, during childbirth, the mother’s body floods with oxytocin. Not only does that jump start lactation, but it also forces the incredibly strong emotion of maternal love. Which brings us to fear.”

  Forenzi spread out his palms, like a preacher orating to his congregation.

  “My friends, I have isolated the neurotransmitter that activates the fear response. Which means, very soon, I’ll discover a way to control fear.”

  Mal, who’d been greedily devouring the steak his wife had cut for him, suddenly gave Dr. Forenzi 100% of his attention.

  “You can cure fear?” he said.

  “I’m very close, Mr. Deiter. Fear begins in the amygdala, which is located in the medial temporal lobes of the brain. When you are frightened, it releases hormones and neurotransmitters that stimulate the fear response. You are aware of the symptoms. Paranoia. Increased heartbeat. Dry mouth. Sweating. Shortness of breath. Lightheadedness. The feeling of hopelessness. Because many of you survived some horrific events, your brain chemistry has physically become altered. Which is why you continue to be afraid all of the time. Your mind still believes it is in danger, and it keeps pumping chemicals into your body. “

  “So you’re going to test our blood for these these these chemicals,” Dr. Belgium said, “then scare us, and test our blood again. And then am I to assume you’ll then try to block the fear somehow?”

  “All in good time, Doctor. All in good time.”

  “So why are Mr. Wellington and I here?” Pang asked.

  “Every good experiment needs controls,” Forenzi said. “Your skepticism will provide a baseline metusamine level.”

  “Metusamine?” Belgium said. “Metus is latin for fear. So metusamine—”

  “Metusamine is the neurotransmitter I isolated that is responsible for the fear response. Correct, Dr. Belgium. And I’m synthesizing the transporter protein—”

  “Which will terminate effects of of of metusamine!” Belgium yelled, obviously excited. “How close are you to synthesis?”

  “I’ve been able to induce fearlessness in a primate, a Panamanian night monkey.”

  “I’d be honored and excited to go over your data.”

  “In time, Doctor.”

  “And will we be able to try this for ourselves?” Mal asked. A fear-free life was a gift almost too valuable to fathom. To be able to sleep well again,
to live without the constant paranoia. A drug like that would be a miracle.

  “Very soon. And your presence here, Mr. Dieter, will help speed the process.”

  Deb reached over, touched Mal on the arm. He looked at his wife and saw she was teary eyed. He realized he was as well.

  “So let us finish our meals,” Dr. Forenzi said, raising his wine glass, “and then begin the process of scaring the hell out of you fine people.”

  Everyone toasted. Everyone seemed excited, except for the cop, whose face remained neutral. Mal said to his wife, “Maybe you were right, honey. Maybe this trip was the answer to our prayers.”

  “I love you, Mal.”

  “I love you, too.”

  They shared a quick kiss, and Mal went back to his steak. The cop, Tom, looked over at him, and his calm expression was replaced by something else.

  Concern.

  Did Tom know something the rest of them didn’t?

  Mal’s relief evaporated, and the uneasiness returned.

  After dinner, he’d confront the Detective, pick his brain.

  Maybe this really was as it seemed, a million bucks and a cure.

  But maybe, just maybe, Forenzi was playing them all.

  Like fattening up the turkeys before Thanksgiving dinner.

  Frank

  Dr. Frank Belgium walked up to the second floor with Sara and marveled at the curve balls life threw.

  A few days ago he’d been hating his job, and his life. He’d been lonely, depressed, and living in constant fear.

  Now he was next to a wonderful woman and actually daring to think about the future for the first time.

  Belgium wasn’t prone to daydreaming. Others would consider him a fatalist, but to Belgium that meant a realist who truly knew how bad things were. But there, in Butler House, Belgium indulged in a mini-fantasy where he and Sara and Jack had a house somewhere. They were playing a game of Monopoly, which he used to love as a kid. He saw himself land on Boardwalk with a hotel and start laughing, and his new family laughed along with him, and there was the scent of baked apples coming from the pie cooling on the windowsill. He and Sara took Forenzi’s metusamine pills, and neither were afraid anymore. Life wasn’t something you endured. It was something you appreciated.