by Aaron Polson
“I don’t know, Ben. I don’t think I can. Studies… My work.”
“We won’t be ready until semester’s end. Our week would land right after finals.”
She nibbled her lip.
The waitress returned to the table with a small black tray and receipt. She laid it in front of Ben.
Ben watched her walk away and turned back to Kelsey. “Twelve thousand could go a long way, Kels. I’d even front two grand as a good faith gesture. That would be enough to bring you over, wouldn’t it?”
In Kelsey’s mind, the dead man opened his eyes. They were brown, deep enough to look like empty black pits. She shook her head.
“Well the offer stands.” He opened his wallet, placed a credit card in the tray the waitress had left, and fished out a business card. “Please call me when you come to your senses.”
Chapter 7: Decisions
Kelsey was watching the geese waddle around the pond’s edge in Johnny Kaw Park when Brit found her. She’d been on the bench, watching the birds and mulling through Ben’s offer for almost an hour before she’d called her friend. She needed perspective. She needed the kind of perspective which her father supplied, but he was half a state away and what her mother judiciously called, “not a phone guy.”
“All right dearie, what’s so damn important I had to miss the new Jersey Shore?”
Kelsey cast a sidelong look at Brit. “How can you watch that train wreck?”
“It’s easy. It makes me feel like my life is pretty sane, you know? Don’t worry. This is why they made TIVO.” Brit sat on the bench. “So give. What’s going on in Kelsey-land?”
“I told you about my research, right?”
Brit nodded. “This is about the rat project? Thank God. Maybe I can shake some sense into you and you’ll pick something normal to study like paint color and mood or whatever.”
Kelsey frowned. “Something normal?”
“Sorry. Look—I know you’re attached to those vermin you keep calling ‘research subjects’ like they’re actual human beings. And it sucks the university is going to yank the rug from under you, zip, without so much as a ‘thank you for playing,’ but I know you can think of something. I know you can wiggle your way into some university donor’s back pocket and scam a few bucks.” Brit nudged Kelsey with her elbow. “You know what I mean. Use your feminine wiles while you can.”
“That’s sick. I’m not wriggling into any back pockets. I know you worked the Legends Room at the stadium—”
“Back off the Classy Cats, girlie. Blame it on Jersey Shore. Snooki made me do it. I just want you to know you have options. Don’t bail yet—not when there are options.”
“That’s the problem. That’s why I called you.”
“Options are a problem? Since when?”
Kelsey took in a deep breath. Late September in Manhattan filled the early evening air with a slight chill. A few of the geese honked at each other. Kelsey noticed the smoky odor of a charcoal pit and found a family gathered around one of the park grills. “Yes. There are options, but this particular option involves going to the house again.”
Brit’s forehead wrinkled. “What house are we talking about? I mean, you’ve been to plenty of houses in your life, right? So is this your childhood home, rife with trauma and distress or location of the house party where you first smoked weed? Give me some context.”
“The house, Brit.” Kelsey stood up. “I shouldn’t have called. Sorry. This is a decision I have to make. I have made. I’m not going back there. Not even for twelve grand.”
“Whoa. Whoa. Whooooa. Twelve-thousand American dollars? You’re not talking about pesos or rupies or whatever, right? Twelve thousand?” Brit rose from the bench. “That’s a nice pile of cash—so what, exactly, do you have to do to earn this little windfall? Nothing nasty, I hope.”
Kelsey turned and scowled. “Nasty? No—nothing like that.”
“Thank God. You’ve got this wholesome hometown girl thing going, and I wouldn’t want it to get nasty. So… I don’t see the problem then.”
“It’s the house, Brit. From three—almost five years ago—after the accident. The house where we found the dead guy. The suicide.” Kelsey caught a shiver and forced it away. “The place Jared disappeared.”
“Oh shit. The bizzaro blizzard house?”
“Yes.”
“Jared… Whatever happened to him? Didn’t they find—”
“No. Nothing. Not a trace. The police figured he tried to walk out and got lost in the snow. That he froze to death. I know Jared would have never… God.” Kelsey stared at the ground at her feet. “You can see my dilemma, right?”
Brit nodded. “It’s not the Ritz, is it?”
“No. That place scares me, Brit.”
“The blizzard house… So to get the twelve grand, you need to spend a night there?”
“Seven nights. One week.”
Brit whistled. “A week. Somebody’s going to pay you twelve grand to house sit for a week? Honey, I think you’re looking a rat-loving gift horse in the mouth. Why not hop on the money? I know it’s a creepy place where some bad shit went down, but I’d do much crazier shit for twelve thousand. You know I would. Suicide man is gone, and Jared is too. Tragic, yes. But roadblocks to five figures? Are they making you stay alone?”
“There’ll be several of us there. Cameras, too.”
“Our very own version of Kansas Survivor. Doesn’t have quite the market potential of Borneo or Sumatra or some tropical location with you all running around in bikinis, does it? I guess it could work though. They’ll put on some kind of Wizard of Oz theme and make us look like hayseeds.”
“I don’t think I can stay there after what happened. Something was wrong about the place.”
Brit’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t strike me as superstitious, honey. I can’t imagine you believe in ghosts and goblins and haunted houses. You’re a genuine nerd. A bona fide rat-loving nerd.”
“Thanks,” Kelsey said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “I didn’t say the place was haunted. Just wrong.”
“Wrong how? Wrong as in ‘who was your decorator or wrong’ or as in this place gives me the creeps because it’s haunted?”
“The latter.”
Brit nodded. “You’d just been in a wreck. I’m sure it was just nerves. And now, well you have history with the place—unpleasant history. You don’t believe in haunted houses, do you?”
“Ghosts… No. But a man killed himself in that house.”
“Unfortunately, honey, people kill themselves every day. One suicide doesn’t turn a house into the seventh gate of Hell, does it? And before you start—I can see the look on your face—Jared’s disappearance had nothing to do with the house. You told me you all found the front door open after finding the dead guy, remember?”
Kelsey nodded.
“Wind blowing, snow everywhere. A near white-out. Jared must have stumbled off into the storm, right?”
“Yes, that’s what the police said. But they never found him,” Kelsey said. “They—the county sheriff—searched in a five mile loop. They never found a trace. Nothing.”
“And how hard do you think Sheriff Bumble and Deputy Stumble searched for Jared? Really?”
Kelsey crossed her arms. “I know he’s dead. Inside, I know he’s dead. I tried to hold out some hope… Lately I’ve been having dreams. Bad dreams. I keep seeing him, Jared, in my dreams, Brit. And then Johnny shows up out of nowhere. Ben shows up with this offer. It’s too much for me to process right now.”
“What are you, a computer?” Brit touched Kelsey’s shoulder and fixed her eyes on her friend. “Trauma, yes. Haunted, no. I don’t know much about this Ben weirdo, but from what you’ve told me, I don’t want to know any more. But if the guy comes out of nowhere and wants to drop twelve grand in your lap, I’d say jump on it. One week isn’t going to kill anyone. The only things in that old house are a few bad memories.”
“You think I should?”
“Maybe
it will give you some sort of closure on the whole dirty business.”
Kelsey pulled her cell phone from her pocket and checked the time. “I should go A pile of papers is waiting on me at home. I’m pretty sure they won’t grade themselves.”
“Wouldn’t it be awesome if they could?”
“Thanks, Brit.”
“For what? Convincing you to take the money? Hell, if you’re feeling really thankful, I could use a small loan myself.”
~
The walk from the park to Kelsey’s rental house lasted five minutes. In five minutes, the choice turned over in her mind at least a dozen times. Twelve thousand would go a long way toward finishing her research. It would mean another semester, at least, for the rats to do their tricks. Dr. Cohen had simply said if she could find a grant, she could keep her research going. A donor had dropped in her lap. The timing almost frightened her.
But the loathsome dread of the house wouldn’t leave her, either. She hadn’t told Brit the whole story. She wasn’t able to talk about how clean the place was, or how they found the dead man with no blood. He’d slit his wrists with no blood. She hadn’t told Brit how the police never identified the body and wrote him off as an itinerant who stumbled across the open farmhouse, just as they had, and spent his final hours or days inside. The lack of any evidence of the man’s indigent status hadn’t mattered to the Washington County coroner, but it had stuck with Kelsey for months after the experience. She’d since buried it, but now it fought its way back to the surface.
Brit constructed a solid argument, but Kelsey’s memories offered a strict counter.
Yes, a week was merely a week.
Yes, she needed the money—perhaps it was just enough to give her time to gather the data she needed.
The front door lock rattled as Kelsey turned her key. A puff of stale air—the kind which always reminded Kelsey of an old, grandmotherly woman who must have lived in the house at one time—greeted her. Her apartment would never smell clean. No place was ever truly clean...
She shivered.
“No,” Kelsey spoke aloud. She wouldn’t go to the house, money or no money.
She dropped her cell phone on the table, flicked on a lamp, and flopped on her couch. Her research focus would change, that’s all. She could start over. Her eyes closed, and fingers massaged her forehead, working out the headache which had rooted in her skull.
She wouldn’t go to the house, not for the rats. Her fingers fished Ben’s card from her pocket and tore it in two. The scraps floated to the floor like dying white moths. Done.
Kelsey was almost asleep when the phone rang. She stumbled from the couch and grabbed her phone. She didn’t recognize the number, but the prefix indicated her hometown.
“Hello.”
“Kelsey? Oh my God… It’s Mom. Your father—your father has had a stroke.”
Part 2: Welcome to the Show
Chapter 8: Goodbyes
They held the funeral on Friday after Thanksgiving.
Kelsey wanted to be thankful her father had died because his final months brought enough pain and suffering for years—all the hospital trips, in-home nursing expense, the years which had heaped upon her mother’s wrinkled face in the span of two months… She wanted to be thankful he’d passed on—the safe little euphemism people in Springdale always used for death. In truth, he hadn’t passed anywhere, just dead, and now they were shoving his slick, honey-brown casket into the earth.
Kelsey’s mother wore the stony expression of one acquainted with death. Kelsey wished she could feel the same—the same cold resignation that death was a part of life. Or maybe it wasn’t resignation at all, but a sense of peace. Dad hadn’t been well, the medical treatments expensive, and all of it added a weight to her mother since September. A weight from which Kelsey had been isolated at school.
Her mother’s grey eyes met hers.
Kelsey turned away, fearing the woman would see tears in her eyes and not willing to be a little girl again, crying at her mother’s sleeve. She ground her teeth together and stared at the oblong hole while Pastor Mike gave his final words of prayer. His voice spilled from his thin lips in a constant, plodding drone. Kelsey remembered Pastor Mike’s sermons when she was in high school, how they had plodded from one topic to the next, bowling over the congregation with sheer force of will rather than oratory excellence. A stiff wind rose and sent the remnants of autumn leaves spinning across the faded grass. She glanced away from the small gathering, her gaze falling on the rows of stone markers like grey teeth. Greenwillow Cemetery had always found a way to wrap cold fingers of dread around Kelsey’s mind. Even at her father’s funeral, she felt the pull of childhood nightmares.
She couldn’t shake the weight of the house or what she’d agreed to do after her father’s stroke. She couldn’t shake the weight of his memory, how he had always been the one to carry her when she was weak or tired or finished with the world.
“Kelsey dear,” her mother said, taking Kelsey’s hand. “It’s time to go. We’re all done here.”
They walked to her mother’s car, hand in hand, an awkward pair. Mrs. Sullivan was a good woman, but Kelsey’s birth had been hard and the year after even worse. Treatment included electro-shock and heavy sedation, even a weeklong stint in a state hospital for Kelsey’s mother. No one spoke of such things in the family; no one dug deep enough to uncover painful memories and rub old scars into fresh wounds, but the memories were there, buried under time and distance.
“Thanks, Kelsey. I needed you today.” Her mother stood at the passenger side of Kelsey’s Accord. Her gaze shifted between the trees behind Kelsey and the sky. Wrinkles contracted at the corners of her eyes. “Your father believed in you, Kelsey Ann.”
“I know.” The keys dangled from Kelsey’s hand.
“He saw a spark in your eyes, something neither of us had. Your brother was always a good boy and a hard worker, but you… Your father knew you’d do it. You’d go places no Sullivan had been. He knew it.”
A sob swelled in Kelsey’s throat. “Mom—”
“Just listen.” Mrs. Sullivan wagged a finger over the car’s roof. “A mother’s supposed to love her children, and I have, Kelsey Ann. I have. I trusted that love when you left for college and trusted it again when you opted to chase your doctorate instead of finding a good job or a sensible husband or maybe both. I’ve always loved you, but your father just knew you better. It was like the two of you could talk without speaking.”
Kelsey wiped tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand. “Mom…”
“I know he’ll be watching over you while you finish school.”
Kelsey bit her lip as her head moved from side to side. Her shoulders shook.
“What is it?”
“I’ve lost my funding, Mom. I’ve lost my grant…”
“What?”
“The money for my research. The money is gone. I can’t finish my dissertation without the research—without the money.”
Mrs. Sullivan’s face went pale, a shade of white rivaling the startling pallor of her wide open eyes. “Your father…” Her lips quivered as the sound spilled over them. “Your father… Do you remember how he found you in that cave?”
“Yes.”
“You had a special bond with that man…”
Kelsey glanced behind her toward the rows of granite markers. She took a breath. “I’ve had an offer. It would be enough, but I’ll have to be away for a week. The offer came from someone who would send the money to the university by way of a replacement grant. I could finish, but… I’ll have to be away for a while. I’ll have to stay in a house.”
“Oh, Kelsey Ann, it isn’t—”
“No. No. It’s just a television program. Just a TV show.”
Her mother’s face flushed. “You wouldn’t have to—”
“No. God no. But… I’m not sure. It’s television. I don’t know about the show.”
“You have to follow your head, Kelsey Ann.”
&
nbsp; Kelsey nodded. “I know. It’s broken though, just like my heart.”
Mrs. Sullivan smiled, a warm, embracing grin. “I know, sweetheart. But your father will be with you, always. When we get home I’ve got a little something of his for you… I know he’d want you to have it.”
Chapter 9: From the Land of Sunshine
Ben Wormsley stepped onto the concourse at Kansas City International Airport and followed the arrows toward baggage claim. A smile hung from his lips, a cold, red-rubbery smile he couldn’t peel away, not with everything coming together so perfectly. He had his cast in place—all of the original pieces except for Jared—and two throwaways, young fresh faces to chase the Facebook demographic. All of it was a red herring, of course. All of it just misdirection. He needed time in the house, time to—
“Hey—wait up!”
Ben paused.
Everything about Erin Connolly was long. Her blonde hair and blue eyes screamed a certain California-girl aesthetic; her athletic build and bronze skin would keep the drooling male aged 18-35 nailed to their television screen. What the viewers at home, and the rest of his cast, couldn’t see at first impression was Miss Connolly’s interest in the paranormal and admission to having special “dreams” when she was younger. The others only knew her as a pretty face. Ben knew might be something else there—and where better to place such a potential trigger than the house?
Behind her, Daniel Pinto, dark and handsome and foreign, dripped a certain mystique which Ben hoped would coax the disappointed middle-aged housewife to tune in. He had also identified himself as quite religious when asked, and the potential friction between the psychically inclined Miss Connolly and Daniel’s more traditional, Roman Catholic background might stir a little drama.
Drama made good television.
Erin and Daniel weren’t the focus, though. They weren’t the real cast, the central characters Ben knew would make their stay in the house something special—something he could edit and mix into a masterpiece: A ghost story with no ghosts but plenty of tension and dread and genuine human emotion, raw material with which to make a name.
