by Tiana Laveen
He looked through the viewfinder.
Click… click…
“Holy shit…” was all he could muster as he watched a video of what appeared to be a white, wispy mist moving about inside the office. It had a human-like form, and behaved as a man would. The desk chair moved away from the desk on its own, and the mist sat down, as if it belonged there. Books began to open, one after the other, their pages flipping in rapid speed from front to back, and then in reverse.
“What do you hear?” Sloan asked in a low whisper.
“Like… crying… a man crying.”
Sloan nodded, lowered his head into his palms, and remained that way for several minutes as Mike continued to look at the photos and footage.
“And that’s not all of the pictures, just most of them. I’ve been taking these for weeks. I set this camera and another one on a tripod and just let them run. I would replace the batteries as needed. Some days, they picked up nothing; other days, I might get strange sounds but no mist, no movement, that’s it. But, the other day, I got this.” He stabbed his finger in the direction of the camera. “I didn’t want to believe it! You know how like you see somethin’ but you don’t believe you saw it so you just kinda go on about your way?”
“No, I don’t, because I would’ve packed my shit and been outta this motherfucker faster than your damn head could spin! I’m not spending the night here, Sloan.” He shook his face so fast, he could feel his jaws wobbling. “I’m going to a hotel. Your house is haunted, man! The guy is sittin’ down reading, boohooing for Christ’s sake! Fuck that shit!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Sloan angrily slapped his palm against his thigh. “I had no idea you were a pansy with a mustache! Jesus!” Mike looked at the man, daring himself to not burst out laughing. He was caught between a wall of fear and one of amazement and amusement all at once.
“I’m not a pansy. I just know my limits.” His lower lip quivered with mirth, but he’d meant what the hell he’d said.
“Please don’t do this to me. I need you here tonight, Mike. Not because I’m afraid to be in the house by myself, but as a witness. I am going to call a professional.” His eyes, filled with sadness and sorrow now, though Mike knew it was a bit of a show just to get his manipulative way.
“Who?” He crossed his arms, wanting concrete answers before he agreed to some shit he’d soon regret.
“Shit.” He shrugged. “I have no idea. I have to look further into that but I want a witness at least to the noises. Hell, something may not even make itself heard or seen today. That happens sometimes, too. But, regardless, it’s worth a shot. You know I’m about evidence and research, Mike. I hate when people put stories out there that are supposed to be factual but are nothin’ but exaggerations or downright lies. What helps eliminate some of that are eyewitnesses. This is important.”
“But they could just say I made it up, too!”
“Yeah, but people can accuse me of doctorin’ the tapes, Photoshopping the pictures. This still gives me more merit. Don’t you see? I can barely believe I’m even saying this! I’ve never seen a ghost in my entire life, Mike.”
“Not that you’re aware of… but trust me, they’re always around.” Mike let his gaze roam around the place again. His paranoia grew by leaps and bounds.
“Always around, huh? So they watch you beatin’ off?”
“Not funny, Sloan,” he snapped, though his lips curved in a grin, telling on him. “I told you years ago how I used to see my dead next door neighbor.”
They marinated in silence for a moment or two.
“I’m a rational guy, Mike. This doesn’t make any sense to me… and yet… and yet, it happened. I knew if I told you why I called you over, told you the truth, you might not have come. I know you believe in the paranormal, like my son… you take it seriously.”
“You’re damn right I do.”
“And that’s why I couldn’t risk you not coming.”
Mike looked at Sloan long and hard and decided he wanted to bash his head in. He’d been set up, but he knew his pal really needed him and this was no time to pull the plug and run with his tail tucked between his legs.
“Well, look, I definitely won’t be down here on the first floor, next to that office!” He pointed a slightly shaky finger in the general direction of that room.
“That’s fine,” Sloan stated wearily, sitting up and slumping forward, as if the whole weight of the world had landed on his shoulders.
Mike sat there and looked at his friend for quite a while, not sure what to say, not certain what to do. His hand hovered over Sloan’s back, inches away like some flying saucer debating on whether to land on planet Earth. After a deep sigh, he rested his hand along the tightened muscles of the man. It was then that he felt him shaking… So strange. He couldn’t see Sloan moving, but he was definitely vibrating ever so slightly beneath the fabric of his shirt.
Damn, he’s real shaken up about this…
“Sloan, is anything else going on, man? What’s happening?” he asked softly.
“Early this morning I saw something that took my breath away.”
“You sure you want to tell me?” Mike teased. “You know I’ve already got one foot out the door.”
Sloan chuckled sadly and plopped back against the couch to glare up towards the ceiling. “I guess I’ll keep it to myself then. You’re already unnerved, so tellin’ you this won’t help.”
Mike shook his head. A part of him wanted to hear the details, to have it all rolled out before him; while another part of him wished for Sloan to simply remain quiet. He argued with himself for a moment or two, then reached a formidable conclusion. “Tell me.”
“No.”
“I’m serious. I can take it. Tell me.”
Sloan stared at him for what seemed like the longest. He didn’t blink, smile, or frown; he just remained in a frozen state. On a resigned sigh, he clasped his hands together.
“Around two this morning I heard a noise in my bedroom. I woke up, expecting to find what I usually do, which is doors open that I know I closed, or vice versa. Sometimes it’s a window. I’ve gotten so used to it that it no longer causes me any concern, though I guess it should. Anyway…” He rubbed his forehead, as if to ease some tension. “I swung my legs over the side of the bed to get up and noticed something kinda out the corner of my eye. I looked over at my small bookshelf and desk in my bedroom.”
“The silver and black one?”
“Yeah, and uh, up on the ceiling…” he said, motioning upward as he relayed the particulars. “I saw a baby.”
“What did you just say?”
“A baby…a see through form, almost like some hologram or something. Mike, I sat there and couldn’t even speak, couldn’t yell, nothing. It was crawling backwards in strange, choppy movements, like a windup toy where the batteries were dyin’… and then it paused and it… it looked at me.”
Mike swallowed and his mouth dropped open, but no words came out.
“I don’t know if it was a boy or a girl, but it looked like a newborn. Newborns don’t crawl, ya know? Seemed it could not have been more than a couple weeks old. It was naked… its eyes glassy, like marbles… and the room was freezing, man! Mike, the windows weren’t open, totally locked shut, but I could literally see air curling out my nostrils from each breath I took. I was in such a state of panic, I couldn’t even move. But then,” he said with a shrug, “just like that, it vanished.”
“Shit, Sloan.” Mike felt suddenly uncomfortable in his seat. He closed his eyes, but a part of him was afraid to keep them shut for too long. “I know you’re not a religious guy, but you believe in God. Or at least you used to.”
“I still do, Mike… just wonder where He was when I needed Him is all.”
That admission surprised Mike, but he appreciated Sloan’s candor. He wasn’t used to his best friend speaking that way, so earnestly.
“Some things we just can’t explain, man. Sloan, sometimes when I think back on my
life, I remember shit that sucked and hurt, but, you know, I realize I still have it better than a lot of people, and that this livin’ thing ain’t so bad.”
Sloan chuckled sadly and nodded in agreement.
“Sometimes I guess the dead aren’t happy being dead, and there are some things we’ll never get, never comprehend, because they’re no longer us, and we’re no longer with them. If you think about it, living and dying overlap. We think we see them as separate states of being, you know, but if there is an afterlife, and I believe there is, then there’s no way the dead can’t watch over us and try to pretend to still be here in their own little way. And there is no way we can’t catch a glimpse of death, as long as they’re still amongst us… and they clearly are. You don’t have to believe in much to know we aren’t alone, man. We have eyes, we have ears, and I’m not crazy. You’re not crazy, that camera ain’t crazy, either. You’re right though; you have to call someone… and now I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.” He shook his head emphatically. “I’m worried, but not enough to leave my house. I put too much work into this place. I’ll figure this out, get to the bottom of it, but I’m staying put. I earned this.” Sloan glanced around the room.
“It’s beautiful, Sloan. You did a kick ass job.”
“Thank you…”
“But no place, no matter how much money you shelled into it, and all the energy you put into it is worth your piece of mind.” After a pause, he added, “I want you to be able to stay here too though, I honestly do.” Sloan nodded, clearly appreciating his words. “I saw big improvements; your mood got better, you started taking care of business again. I attribute it to the move, to this house that you turned into a project. Do uh… do you think that ghost in the office was Peter Jones? I mean, I said it ’cause that’s what came to mind first, but do you agree with me?”
“…Yes.” Sloan hung his head and offered nothing further.
“You know what? You’re a writer, he was a writer. Maybe he’s taken an interest in you ’cause of it.”
“That’s comforting.”
Mike laughed lightly at Sloan’s sarcasm.
“I did call the real estate agent to ask her about the house but she hasn’t called me back yet.”
“And she probably won’t.” Mike rolled his eyes. “She knew this place was fuckin’ haunted.”
“Yeah, she probably did, but I can’t be angry with her because it wouldn’t have stopped me anyway.” He shrugged. “I just would have blown it off.”
“Yeah, probably…”
“So, I’m going to get online and see if I can get someone out here… one of those television paranormal teams maybe. Can you do me a favor though, Mike?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Don’t tell the guys about this. Don’t tell Owen, David, nobody.”
“All right.”
“Promise me.”
“Sloan, I promise to not open my fucking pie hole about it, all right?” He tossed up his hands.
“Thank you.” The big guy slowly got to his feet. “You want some coffee? I’m going to the kitchen to put some on.”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
When Sloan left, Mike took a moment to think, then picked the camera back up and perused the photos again. He hated how his heart beat fast at seeing the pictures, even the second and third time around. He set the thing gently back down on the couch and clasped his hands together.
“I don’t know what the hell is in here. I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever is in this damn house, don’t come near me! Don’t moan and groan and cry and read fucking books and slam doors and windows, either. And leave my friend alone. We’re like brothers. He’s been through enough. You mess with him, you’re messin’ with me!” he hissed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Drafting an Eviction Notice
“The Scream Theater?” Sloan looked up at the massive, slightly sloped roof of the place, all boarded up as it was, reminding him of a large black box that had suddenly landed on planet Earth. It looked ill formed and out of place. Splintered light brown wood covered the windows with crooked, tetanus inducing silver nails darkened with time, and shards of glass glistened around the jagged window frames.
“Yes, it was a movie house that only played horror and suspense flicks.”
“I see.”
“They closed it down because people began to go over to the big deluxe theater instead. It was a fun place though. It’s a historic building and I hope they restore it and open it back up.” After recent days, the last thing he wished to view was such an atrocity; this was nightmare fuel, the type of dwelling that ended up in some bad dream. But, he kept a straight face all the same.
“So you used to go here as a teenager, huh?” Sloan hooked his hand around hers, enjoying their time together despite the uneasy feeling that came over him as he glared at the place.
“Yes, me and my friends, a band of rowdy misfits.” She laughed. “We’d be here all the time.” Her smile was sweet, pure exuberance. “I was never really a fan of horror movies but this was the place to be, you know?”
Thoughts of his own anomalous circumstances and mystical predicament flooded his head. He wanted to ask Emerald certain questions about the geography of the place; perhaps she knew some answers. Besides, she’d lived there for the majority of her life, and from their expedition that day, she seemed quite in the know. She’d been an excellent tour guide, showing him various eateries, small cafes and little shops filled with interesting knickknacks and the like. She’d taken him to the train station, a bustling place that reminded him of Grand Central. One of the best moments was spent on a small, cobblestone paved street that had nothing but book, art, and music stores, bursting at the seams with creative energy. And then, they’d happened upon a grand library that favored the outward appearance of the White House.
The structure sat atop a lopsided hill, the lawn lush, despite winter knocking on the proverbial door. An iron gate wrapped protectively around the thing and the adjoining parking lot was almost full. It was amazing to see such a crowd around a library in this day and age, but Emerald explained there was a children’s’ museum inside as well, and furthermore, some pretty coveted one-of-a-kind books and articles. He’d already made plans to do a bit of research at the county library since the records online pulled more myth and folklore versus hardcore facts. He figured a bit of both may help him along his studies.
Regardless of what comprised fact or fiction, one thing was 100% true: he was living with a phantasm, and required remedies. Oddly enough, Sloan began to believe he was dealing with more than just something, or someone, living out their heyday. The ghost seemed clever, as if it knew Mike’s intent for being there, and it foiled his plans, ruining them as soon as they were set in place. Eyewitness my ass… He’d get none of that—not last night with Mike, not ever. Rather, if he tried to bring in anyone, a long night of mockery would ensue. In that entire time with Mike, not a peep was heard in the house all damn evening as long as his friend remained in the house—no doors opened and closed, no wispy apparitions, floating about into nothingness. Mike didn’t seem the least bit surprised at the turn of events, but he was more than relieved that the restless spirits of the night didn’t make their presence known as he quickly packed up the following morning, wolfed down a continental style breakfast, and promised to touch base after he got back to Manhattan.
Despite the humdrum events of the prior evening, Sloan uploaded the photos as well as the videos online, to a private server, only to discover that most of them had turned out pitch black and blank. He suddenly felt like his friend looking through the camera viewfinder with the damn lens cap on. Even the audio rendered little of nothing, as if the sound had been sucked clean through a vacuum. The images remained clear on the camera, but undetectable online; it was the oddest thing, unexplainable to say the least. After hours of troubleshooting, he gave up the photographic gauntlet, but his efforts to obtain assistance didn�
��t cease. He knew what lurked in the house; actually, he didn’t know what was in that place he now called home. That was the whole damn problem.
The only certainty he had was that something in fact moved about the premises, living with him, watching him inhale and exhale, spying on him from a distance, or perhaps, right by his side. In its own mysterious, hair-raising way, it wished him to know it was there; thus, he wanted to get to the bottom of it, and wanted it gone, too. So, he drafted an email to a local paranormal group after conducting a little investigation that morning. They replied with a form letter in which they promised to get back in touch with him within 72 hours.
He scoffed at this as his situation was an emergency, and surely they had to understand the struggle and torture one could experience in such cases. But, what else could he do? Surely calling 911 would not render any credible results, except a visit from an enraged officer giving him a warning to stop playing on the phone, then bullying him into a sobriety test.
Who do you call when you need immediate help of the supernatural kind? For a toothache, you call the dentist. If you have a car accident, you call the police to file a report, as well as your insurance company. But what about cases like this? Each hour felt like an eternity, for as soon as Mike left, the activity resumed, and it was relentless, as if making up for lost time. To make matters worse, a sense of enragement was felt as the doors slammed doubly hard, then the ruckus suddenly stopped just as quickly as it had begun.
Sloan hated himself for only half listening to Emerald explain the history of one of the nearby gardens at that moment…
Fuck flowers.
They strolled along, and he nodded and smiled at all the right times, but his poor brain was somewhere else, swimming in the sauce of doubt and incredulity at how his life journey had turned from a tour in the pit of resentment to the crossroads of a ghostly encounter.
“And that is why the tulips planted right there are always pink…”
“Emerald?” He paused and held out his arm to stop her, causing her body to do a slight yo-yo as he caught her in mid-stroll.
