by Aiden James
Ricky continued to sulk, and it was one of the few occasions where I felt quite grateful for Tom’s no-nonsense approach to keeping the program moving forward. Without waiting to see if Fiona could un-ruffle Ricky’s feathers, Tom moved on to the Carnton investigation. I immediately tensed up, wondering if I would have my own meltdown moment when Angie’s angry glare appeared on the screen.
“You all have heard about the ghost of the little McGavock girl…correct?”
“We actually got her photographed? Are you frigging kidding me??” Justin’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Man, I’ve got to see this!”
“Okay…here it is,” said Tom, pointing his red laser into the top right portion of the screen. The image on display was of the Carnton’s grand staircase, and he circled the laser in a tight circle just beyond the top of the staircase on the second floor landing. “Say hello to the first full image ever recorded of Mary McGavock’s ghost.”
At first, there was nothing definable atop the stairs. But a moment later, I could make out movement…and then what looked like a child’s nightgown from that era. Still, it could’ve been a curious trick of light and shadow—the hallmarks of what the human brain will use to find a familiar form, such as a face. A subconscious attempt to impose logic on an image that is incomplete, and nothing real.
But then we saw the eyes of the little girl…just for a moment. But long enough to see their luminous reflection as one of the cops’ flashlights suddenly threw a beam toward the top of the stairs. Perhaps it was influenced by the lawman’s gut instinct, and that he suddenly sensed a presence lurking above.
Regardless of the reason, when the light hit the little girl’s eyes, they lit up like a cat or raccoon caught rummaging in an attic.
Everyone gasped.
“Oh, but this gets better…much, much better!” Tom enthused. “Watch what is going on across the hall, on the other side of the stairs.”
“Holy shit!” whispered Michelle. Ghost hunters and professional camera people alike soon echoed her sentiment around the room.
I admit, even I wasn’t ready for the bigger apparition to make its way to the ‘lost’ little girl. The turban and heavier build were as telling as this ghost’s darker features. Known to some researchers as the McGavock’s nanny, my wife’s friend knew the spirit only as ‘the kitchen ghost’. But no matter, this one smiled and bowed toward the stationary camera, as if knowing we would eventually see her and the little girl’s image. Then she took the little girl by the hand, and the two specters vanished before our eyes.
“Oh my God, that’s amazing! Just frigging incredible!!”
Ricky was the one to say this, and I was pleased that he had all but forgotten the earlier slight he had felt in regard to his impressive photograph from Stones River. But even he could see where the more recent images we witnessed were of a higher caliber. Only devout skeptics who believe in nothing outside our physical senses, and who would readily bury their heads in a pile of sand could deny such evidence.
“You said we have one more ghost, when really it’s two, right?” I asked, thinking that the only thing we had not gone over yet was the image of the Confederate officer and Angie peering in through the back porch windows at us. “So, really there are two more, and we have a total of four ghosts from this investigation…right?”
“Wrong.”
Tom pulled off his glasses to rub his eyes as he said this. When he replaced his specs, he regarded me solemnly.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner, Jimmy,” he said. “And I guess I assumed that Fiona would’ve told you the news on the way over here.”
“News about what? What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Hon’, I wanted to see it first to make sure…and I still haven’t seen it for myself,” said Fiona, reaching over and grasping my right hand with both of hers. “Apparently we were mistaken the other night. There was only one face and not two captured by Tom’s camera.”
“What?! But, we all saw it…we all saw Angie’s glaring face!”
I was trying very hard not to get mad, and without warning, Tom ran the footage for us. Soon the back window was visible through his infrared camera, as was the aforementioned Confederate officer. In fact, the officer’s image was even more lucid than I recalled it being last Sunday night. Just as I also remembered, he was looking in the window with his hands pressed against the glass around his eyes, as if he were a physical being affected by the glare from our flashlights and camera lamps.
But where Angie—the devilish Delores Cabrini—had been, there now was only a shadow. Maybe one could make out the contours of an expensive patent leather bodysuit…but more likely not. There was a reddish hue near the shoulder of the officer, but it was too vague to tell if it surrounded a woman’s head or not, or even if there was a head there at all.
This was a terrible development.
Had the image I swore I saw the other night been in reality a matrixed composite that my brain had invented? In truth, had we all done that?
“I think I’m feeling sick…we should go home.”
Just like that, the wind had been knocked out of me, and the robust feeling of joy from just minutes earlier had been replaced by terrible nausea. My wife and I had been duped by some misguided desire to see my tormentor…or at least I had.
The way Fiona looked at me told me that she shared my disappointment, as well as the bitter feeling of betrayal. It was as if Angie had figured out how to put one over on us once again.
Chapter Nine
I call it a paranormal hangover.
What else could define the feeling of being duped by a ghost? After all, if everyone said we saw her image in the camera’s infrared display that night, how could it no longer be visible when it came time to process the evidence a week later? It made no sense, and unfortunately, my brain desperately needed for it to make at least some sense.
Not unlike a hangover from a night of bingeing on booze, I had a horrible headache for much of Monday. Never one to call out for that sort of thing, I suffered through it as best I could at the bookstore that day. Praying my smiles didn’t look like grimaces to my customers, Four-thirty couldn’t get there quickly enough.
But finally it did arrive, and then it was on to dinner and our show. Yeah, you better believe I was petitioning God for just a few pain-free hours, as in no way did I want to blow anything for my wife and the rest of my ghost hunting pals.
“Welcome back, NVP!”
Nick was in a particularly bright mood. He didn’t seem in a hurry this time to shoo us on stage and be rid of our presence. If Jackie hadn’t already announced that our ratings had nearly doubled in one week—especially in regard to the re-airing of last Monday’s show on Wednesday and Friday—I might’ve thought our least cordial of the show’s two producers had stumbled onto some Hillbilly Speed.
“Got a moment, Jimmy? Let’s talk.”
He loosened his tie as he stepped away from the stage and over to the hallway that led to his and Lisa’s offices. Nick Rhodes had said maybe five words to me during the past four and a half months, and most of those came on the day we signed our contract for Paranormal This Week. He preferred speaking with the gals in our group—mainly Jackie, but also Fiona. Other than Tom, the rest of us guys were just props for NVP’s triumvirate leadership. And, yet, we had been told on several occasions that the playful banter between Justin and me was what had sold the suits in New York on our show’s potential. So…maybe the latest six words he spoke to me had something to do with that dynamic. Unless this was like in pro ball, when a statement like that was soon followed by “and be sure to bring your playbook with you.”
“What’s up, Nick?”
I made sure I had stepped out of earshot of everyone else, who were making their way up onto the stage to join Lisa. The curtain call would come in just a few minutes for tonight’s program.
“Rumor has it that Justin isn’t fond of our adding the Pulaski Paranormal Posse to t
he mix,” said Nick, lowering his voice while his deep blue eyes darted back and forth as if looking for some secret clue in my facial reaction. “A confrontation on the set would be most unfortunate for him… as well as for everyone else. Do you agree?”
He wasn’t going to find confirmation in my nonchalant expression, and I could’ve kept him on the hook indefinitely. But since I knew all too well what he was getting at, and with the show about to begin at any moment, I told him what I assumed he wanted to hear.
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Usually all it will take is to keep things light…and if that doesn’t work, I’ll threaten his life.”
Oh, how I wish I had worn the tiny pen camera Tony bought me for my birthday a few months ago. Nick’s mortified expression would’ve been fantastic fun and created some great laughs in private with my best buds.
“Just kidding, Nick. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Besides, I heard him cutting up with Jerry and Jason the other night at Stones River.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah…seriously.”
I offered a slight smile and then he excused himself from my presence while reaching for his cell phone that had just buzzed. Rather than wait to see if he wanted to discuss anything else, I rejoined the others on stage. Our diminutive announcer, Dino, had already begun welcoming the crowd that sounded much larger than last Monday’s record setter.
Everyone else was looking at me as if my tardiness was my fault. But before the curtain rose, I had taken my place next to Justin and was ready to rock n’ roll.
“So what was that about?” asked Justin, quietly.
“Apparently, our benevolent producers want me to muzzle you a bit.”
“What the f—”
“Shhhh! Just be kind to the Blondie Twins, and life will be grand.”
“For real?”
“Boys!” Fiona hissed, just as the curtain began its ascent. The crowd roared, and Fiona silently mouthed ‘shut the hell up!’ before turning her attention and loving countenance toward the audience.
Fortunately, neither Thomas twin seemed to notice Justin’s reaction or our conversation. They seemed enamored with the stage set up and the huge crowd greeting us. I must say that Nick and Lisa’s infatuation with the brothers was partially well founded, since their radiant smiles seemed to engender a few admiring catcalls from the females in attendance. And the pair ate that shit up!
Everyone in our group noticed this, but only Ricky seemed annoyed. The rest of us—including Justin and Tony—knew better than to resent another aspect that could mean bigger bucks for us all, and played up the excitement.
“Good evening everyone!”
Fiona’s greeting was met with a few admiring remarks as well, which have never bothered me. That happens to us both from time to time, and our golden standard has always been “lookin’ and admirin’ ain’t the same as touchin’.” Our love and devotion to each other is on solid ground, and I imagine it always will be. So whistle away, boys... My only irritation was when they kept whistling after she finished her introduction to the night’s agenda, and Tom began his review of our Stones River findings. That’s rude as hell, man, and it reminded me of how some folks will talk all the way through a movie when inside a theater.
Probably the very same assholes sat in our studio audience that night. We have another contest going on where the winners will get to go on a future ghost hunt—possibly the B&B tour in the spring. It better not be the frigging talkers tonight, since they’d likely scare the spooks away.
Anyway, I could tell that Ricky was hoping for a bigger reaction to his ‘face photo’ after the crowd gave the same awed response as we had last night for the immense dark shadow that pursued us out of The Slaughter Pen. But, apparently ghostly mists that could represent one thing or another must be fairly common these days among those who pursue the mysteries of the paranormal. I actually felt sorry for him when the tepid claps and near silence was the only response his cherished photo received.
“Well, I don’t know about y’all, but I think that picture sort of reminds me of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse,” said Jerry. “I believe it deserves better audience participation. Don’t y’all agree? I mean, this ain’t a golf tournament, so don’t be shy!”
Wow. I don’t think any of us expected anything beyond a couple of dumb country boys sharing the stage with us that night. Even Justin was grinning in surprise next to me, although a few folks in the audience looked as if they were trying to decide if they should be offended or not.
“Ahhh, come on, everybody! Let’s have some fun tonight!” added Jason. “If it ain’t fun, it sure as hell won’t be scary…and I understand there’s some pretty scary stuff comin’ up!”
Okay, I was sold. Especially when the audience responded with a wave of applause and more catcalls and whistles amid more laughter than I believe we had ever heard before in that small auditorium.
It did set things up well for the next segment, which was the introduction of Fiona and Jackie’s close friend in their paranormal research circle, Pauline Jones. The majority of our audience apparently was quite familiar with Ms. Jones’ accomplishments in life. The founder of Wraithland Press in southern Indiana, she had written twelve books on ghosts and other aspects of the paranormal in her illustrious career that was on its third decade. She had been featured on a variety of television programs, including one of Loretta Lynn’s Halloween specials and three shared investigations with the members of TAPS. In other words, she was who we aspired to be someday.
A slender pretty brunette with bright green eyes, she received a standing ovation as she stepped onto the stage. She treated the event seriously, I’m sure, since she was dressed in a business pantsuit that would make Lisa proud. Our studio bosses had arranged for her to sit between our Pulaski cohorts, who were dressed in torn blue jeans and oversized sweatshirts, ala Nirvana from two decades ago. This was where I expected some resentment to surface among our problem children, but the recent lighthearted moment kept the Thomas brothers in high enough esteem among Justin, Tony, and Ricky.
“Thank you for joining us, Pauline,” said Jackie. “We’ve got some video footage that we will run by you and our audience in just a moment. I think you’ll be surprised.”
“And, pleased,” added Fiona.
“Tom told me earlier that he will forward me the video clip of Todd Carter…I take it that what we’re about to see isn’t the same evidence?” said Pauline.
She looked perplexed just enough to let me know that no one had briefed her on the agenda. I thought she might’ve been listening in from backstage, but apparently not. I don’t necessarily look at that as a snobbish thing, since sometimes when my band has followed other groups on stage that are friends of ours, I haven’t heard a damned thing from behind the stage—especially when makeup artists and other folks are trying to get everyone ready to go. It’s even worse in this type of situation, where the live performance has to be as perfect as possible the first time through, without any additional takes available.
“No…this one comes from the Carnton, from our visit inside the plantation house after dark,” advised Jackie, proudly.
“Oh, yes…you did mention this investigation last week,” said Pauline, nodding as she recalled this previous conversation with Jackie. Ms. Jones looks like she’s barely forty, but Fiona told me this attractive lady would be sixty-four in November. She reminds me a little of my mom back in Denver, whose begun to have a few senior moments now and then, as well. “That’s one place I have never been inside after dark. How did you ladies and gentlemen get them to cooperate?”
“They jumped at the chance to be featured on our show, since proof of ghosts is big money these days,” I said.
Well, it’s true. Most of the Franklin haunted locales have been ‘hush-hush’ for years. But the boon that ‘ghost interest’ has brought to the local tourist industry has been significant; to where haunted tours that include every battleground site—including the Carn
ton and Carter House—are a highly profitable business.
Our guest nodded thoughtfully, while Jackie shot me her own evil eye. I guess this wasn’t one of the spots where the rest of NVP could participate. Oops.
“We’re grateful for the Carnton’s board of trustees for allowing us that access,” said Fiona, purposely ignoring me, although I damned well knew I’d be hearing about this gaffe of mine before the night ended. “From what I understand, they were excited about the video we captured when Tom showed the clips to them last week. So, if you’re ready, Jackie and Tom, let’s show everyone gathered here tonight what we found.”
Nice job, darlin’. While the lights dimmed for the night’s video finale, Fiona shot me a look that told me that I was now in her debt for some favor yet to be determined.
“I’d say you’ve got a pretty serious moment of reckoning to look forward too, Jimmy,” Justin whispered, as I joined everyone else in looking at the incredible images of Mary McGavock and her nanny looking out into the audience. The ghosts looked enormous on the theater-sized monitor above the stage behind us. “I don’t know if you can charm yourself out of this one or not, man…. Good luck to your ass.” He snickered.
“Yeah…thanks. I think.”
Justin shot me a grin and then looked back up at the view of the Carnton’s staircase. The crowd mimicked our gasps and verbal responses to the letter, and I’m sure it will be beep-city for nearly a minute of the show, until the censors catch the very last ‘oh shit!’ from our audience. I chuckled at that thought.
“What?”
“Nothing, man…just wondering how much of this will get nixed tomorrow by the editors.”
“Because a hundred people just said ‘Oh Shit?’”
