“Pete. Owner/manager.”
“Nice picture. Funny thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Ever since you installed the new cable, something funny’s been going on over there.” He pointed to an empty group of tables where a TV was being ignored. “Some sort of double picture or something. Puts people off. They say it’s a ghost.”
“Ghost?”
“Oh, well, you know how it goes. There’s an old ghost story about this place. Former owner hung himself. That’s true, but the ghost part. . . I dunno.” He shook his head. “A few people like to blame broken glasses and so forth on the ghost, but nothing spooky’s ever happened here before. It’s all been talk. Go have a look. Some of the customers say they can see a dead guy hanging there, sort of superimposed over the screen.”
Pete snorted, then walked over and looked.
And saw it. “Holy shit.” Shimmering transparently before the screen, which was playing the Angels/ Padres game, was a dim image of a man, hanging by a noose. Pete shuddered slightly, glad he couldn’t see it better; the tongue lolled, the eyes bulged, he could even see that the face was purple with trapped blood. “Incredible,” he muttered, walking from side to side. The form seemed to be almost in front of the television, though some of it went through the set itself. Looking up, Pete saw that a dark-stained open beam lay in precisely the right spot to hold the spectral rope. “I’ll be damned. I’ll be Goddamned!” He reached up and snapped off the set, then looked away, clearing his vision. When he turned his gaze upward again, the hanging man was still there, even with the set off. “I’ll be fucked six ways to Sunday. This isn’t supposed to. . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He waved off the bartender, who had followed him. The Tingler microwaves were meant to disrupt thought, to bring out and prey upon the frailties of an individual human mind. The waves piped into places like this via the new cable held no subliminal messages, they were simply a tweaked-up frequency that messed with brain function.
These particular extra low frequency waves rarely, in earlier Tingler experiments, produced anything in the shared-hallucination camp, and although it was possible that a person could, after a long enough exposure, be plagued by hallucinations when the set wasn’t transmitting, it wasn’t expected.
In fact, it was fucking rare as hell.
And here I am, seeing somebody else’s hallucination and the goddamned set isn’t even on.
He and the bartender returned to the bar. “A lot of people see it?”
“Yeah. Most people.” The guy used a remote to turn the set back on. “It’s less noticeable when the TV’s on. So what is it? You’re the expert.”
“You got me. Get me another beer, will you?”
The bartender nodded, filled a fresh glass and set it before Pete, who asked, “You can see it?”
“Yeah, but I don’t like to admit it, not unless somebody else says they do and they’re not soused, you know? I sure never saw anything like it before. It’s like one of those Disneyland things—like in the Haunted Mansion, you know, where the ghost gets in the cart with you at the end?”
“Hologram. Yeah.”
Somebody called the bartender away, which was good because Pete wanted to stare at the alleged ghost while he finished his beer. The phantom was sort of in the television, but sort of outside of it. Damndest thing he’d ever seen. The barkeep was right; the thing looked like a faint hologram.
He drained his glass, then went out to the SUV and phoned Nedders.
“Got a mass sighting of an apparition.”
“Where?”
“In a bar.”
“Real funny,” Nedders said. “Pink elephant, is it?”
“No. Something’s hinky. I saw it, too. Evidently, it’s been there for days, appeared right after we installed. It’s a dead guy, hung himself on a rafter. It’s a ghost. And it doesn’t go away when the tube is off.”
“Well, fuck me,” Nedders said. “I didn’t really think that would happen. Shouldn’t happen. The boys at the top haven’t figured out how to make a ghost appear.” He barked a dry laugh.
“Well, one did. You sure there’s nothing subliminal programmed in?”
“As sure as possible. No. It’s just the Tingler wavelength. Subliminals belong to the other guys. Project Sybil’s subliminal messaging. Project Medusa is visual hallucinations.”
“Right. Any crossovers from Medusa on the Tingler team?”
“No.”
“By the way, we installed at Colonel Tilton’s house last week. Remember that old bastard?”
“Sure do. You have him bugged?”
“No. Not yet. Is the old silver eagle knowledgeable about anything anymore?”
“No. Completely out of the circuit since retirement. Old boy never really wanted in in the first place.” Nedders cleared his throat and spoke tersely, “Nevertheless, something has happened.”
“What?”
“You’ve been breached.”
“What?”
“You left your home office open, Chief.”
“I did? How do you know?”
“Because your wife walked in. She didn’t see the camera that watches the room, that’s for sure.”
“Felicia went in there?”
“She sure did. How much did those boobs set you back? What a looker.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She walked in naked. Looked like she’d been working out. I’d say it looked like she’d been fucking but that came later.”
“She’s cheating on me?”
“Yeah. With your secretary. She brought her in and showed her your screens. Your secretary—calls herself Labouche?”
“Yeah.”
“Labouche was all over her. I couldn’t see the screens, but they were watching you do some woman and they were grooving on it.”
“Felicia’s no lezzie. Neither’s Labouche.”
“Then you better smell their breath, Pete, because you are wrong, wrong, wrong. And you didn’t background check Labouche, did you?”
“With that mouth?”
“With that mouth. You let your dick do too much of your thinking for you. That’ll get you in trouble every time, Bucko. I checked her out. Can’t be sure yet, but she might be a spy in your ointment.”
“Spy? What do you mean, spy?”
“Military. Anti-Tingler people. Same ones Tilton used to be friendly with. Can’t be sure yet, in fact, it’s mostly a hunch—she was in the Air Force for one tour—but I think she was handpicked to keep an eye on you.”
“Shit. I better take care of her.”
“No. They’re going to take care of you. They’re pissed at you for cheating on them.”
Pete suddenly got a hard-on, wondering if they’d go for a three-way.
“Don’t even think about it,” Nedders said, knowing how he thought. “Don’t go home. Don’t go to the office. Go blow yourself or something. Just don’t be where they could find you for now.”
“My wife is no killer.”
“You didn’t know she liked pussy, either. But you’re right, she probably isn’t a killer. But Labouche is a cipher. I had a lipreader look at the video. They want revenge.” That dry laugh again. “From what we could tell reading lips, it’s too bad you went and shoved it up Labouche’s ass.”
“Jennifer Labouche is a dumb blonde, Captain. She seriously thinks that swallowing sperm will make her boobs grow.”
“Pete, you’re an ass if you believe that. Put your goddamned dick away and give those women some credit. Male chauvinists are a dying breed, Chief. Smart women are killing them. We have three women on Tingler and I wouldn’t want to cross them any more than you.”
Emotions roiled up. Nedders was saying he was as harmless as a woman, and he didn’t like that. But he was right about everything else, so he was probably right about the women—Jennifer, Felicia, and the gender in general. “Shit.” He dug in his glove box for Rolaids.
&nb
sp; “Don’t do anything until your Uncle Neddy says so. Just stay low. Wouldn’t hurt if you got out of town until the intelligence boys find out what we need to know.”
“I’ll stay low.”
“Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“I know you like to masturbate on that satellite receiver.”
“How do you—”
“You think I don’t keep an eye on you? I’m your Charlie, you’re my Angel.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hey, cool off. You can spew on that dish all you want, what do I care? But not until I give the go-ahead. Stay away from Felsher Hill.”
77
“So you live in Baudey House?” Maggie said as she, Will, and David Masters held on to their coffee cups. They sat at a small round table on the windy pier just outside the little white frame shack of a fish and chips stand toward the end of the pier. Baudey House and the lighthouse were visible on Byron’s Finger, cliffs jutting out into the ocean as far or farther than the pier. It was hard to tell.
Masters smiled a little shyly. “That’s home.”
“Is it haunted?” Will asked.
“Residually, yes.”
“Residually? That’s like the old perfume on a handkerchief example you gave?”
Will’s eyes slid briefly toward Maggie, a half smile on his lips. The man was telling her he’d beat her to the punch—if he’d paused for an instant, she would have piped up with the cat crap simile.
“That’s what I mean,” Masters said. “Once quantum physics gets involved in these things, parapsychology will lose some of the onus that surrounds it. I say that because of the look on your face, Doctor.”
“Will. It’s true, I’m a skeptic.”
Maggie rolled her eyes for Masters. The writer grinned. “I’m a skeptic myself.”
Will nodded. “I have to admit, I was very impressed with what you said in your interview. But I’m more skeptical than you are.”
“Only because you haven’t seen as much as I have.”
Will smiled. “That remains to be seen. The thing is, Mr. Masters—”
“David.”
“David,” Will continued. “I’ve seen things that I can’t explain. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for them, something rational.”
Masters sipped his coffee. “Have you ever thought about this: What we consider rational today was irrational a century ago. Go to the moon in 1900? Totally irrational. Now? Been there, done that. I believe there’s a rational explanation for everything, Will. Absolutely everything. The problem is we don’t have a rationale for some things yet. Like ghosts. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”
“Right. And you make a very valid point. It’s easy for me to fall out of a neutral state about such things.”
“Same here. It’s easy for a skeptic to slip into a state of disbelief that causes him to think everything paranormal is fraudulent. Some magicians who specialize in debunking call themselves skeptics, but they’re way to the right of that. Because they can do a trick—make a ghost appear, for example—they assume that the appearance of an apparition is always a trick.
“A magician who performs that trick has proven one thing, and one thing only. That he can mechanically make us see a false apparition. He has not proven that there is no such thing as an apparition. Unfortunately, if the magician has become narrow-minded, he asserts that his trick is proof there are no real apparitions. And you know what?”
“What?” Maggie asked, pushing hair out of her face.
“Somebody who bends the facts to suit his personal beliefs can’t be open-minded, can’t be a skeptic. The debunker has a set of beliefs that are as strong and solid as those of the believer. Each must sway everything to fit in with his or her own personal world view.” He looked at Will. “So, do you feel you can still call yourself a skeptic?”
Will didn’t answer for a long moment. Seeing strain in his face, Maggie took his hand under the table and held it.
“We’re having problems with apparitions and other phenomena in Caledonia.”
“As your patient mentioned.”
“Yes. I haven’t experienced her, uh, ghost, but we,” he glanced at Maggie, eyes hopeful, “have experienced a couple of them—apparitions—at our friends’ home. A few other patients have mentioned the same kind of thing. And I’m having a huge upsurge in my practice. People are exhibiting schiz-oidal symptoms from hearing voices in their heads to, well, you name it.”
David nodded and sat forward, arms on the table, coffee forgotten. “Any ideas about what’s going on?”
“Animals were affected,” Maggie said when Will glanced at her. “At first, it was wildlife, but that’s tapered off over the last few days. Pets are still affected. I was thinking about geomagnetic anomalies, but from what I could find out, nothing strange is going on.”
“Holograms,” Will said. “But why would someone beam holograms into a few peoples’ houses?”
“It’s possible,” Masters said, “but it doesn’t explain the other phenomena.”
Will nodded. “There’s an idea about schizophrenics that I’ve never given credence to that maybe deserves some attention. A few of my collegues believe that schizophrenics are ultra-sensitive—which they do tend to be, to be fair. They believe they pick up on things that are normally beyond the five senses.”
“Like ghosts?”
Will studied David. “Ghosts, yes. Schizophrenics are people who are overloaded with input, whether it’s real or imagined. They lack the filters most of us rely on.”
“Filters,” Masters repeated. “Your filters are being damaged by something.”
Will and Maggie traded glances. “That makes sense,” Will said. “How’d you do that?”
“Because I’m not living in it and because coming up with stuff is how I earn my keep.”
Beneath the table, Will’s hand tightened around Maggie’s, almost squeezing too hard. “My brother died when I was ten. He was sixteen. It was a shooting accident. I only recently remembered that I caused it to happen. It was my fault. For the last few nights, he’s been whispering to me from under my bed.” His hand squashed hers. “If that doesn’t sound like a case for a psychologist, nothing does. I’ve assumed it’s all due to dealing with the memory, and I’ve tried to apologize to him even though I have believed it’s my own subconscious that is acting as my brother. I’m telling you this for three reasons. The first is that I’m desperate. The second is that I’ve been insisting I’m dreaming the voice, but when I try lucid dreaming, it doesn’t work because I’m not asleep.”
He paused, letting up on Maggie’s hand. She stroked the back of his with her thumb.
“And what’s the third reason?” the writer asked.
“My cats won’t sleep in the bedroom anymore.”
“Well, whatever it is, I don’t think you arguing with your subconscious in the privacy of your own mind would scare your cats.” David Masters finished his coffee. “Okay if I come by?”
“Just say when.”
78
Pete Banning, his feet on Mickey Elfbone’s coffee table, sucked on a bottle of Bud he’d helped himself to and watched a snowy picture from a shitty little local station that almost came in without cable. Mickey was out on the job, and Pete had let himself in the same way he’d let himself into his brother’s house after leaving the Pigskin. A little sleight of hand and—voila—locks opened up for him like Heather Boyd’s legs.
He’d earned the Bud by staying in Will’s house long enough to install a camera and bug in the living room and another in the bedroom, just for fun.
The fucking place gave him the heebie jeebies from the moment he broke in. It looked okay, downright homey in fact. Will had two fucking cat posts, so kitty was probably the only kind of pussy he was getting, but Pete didn’t catch sight of a whisker. That was normal; animals usually took off when he was around. He’d started to chuckle over that then stopped, his laugh swallowed instantly by the house.
For the life of him, he didn’t know why he felt like the house was watching him. It was the same feeling he had back on some of his missions, squatting in a jungle, hoping the enemy wasn’t watching him take a shit. It was like that; it wasn’t just the being watched, it was feeling helpless while being watched, the sensation that something was going to shoot at him while he was squeezing out a loaf. He hated it.
First thing he did to fight back was check the house. Cable was off. No security cams. Maybe it was just the fucking cat watching him from some hiding place. Goddamn cats would stare down anybody. They had no respect for authority. Fucking cats. He didn’t much like dogs either, except for the well-trained ones, but at least they did what you told them.
Pete belched long and deep then got off the couch to grab another beer. Will’s entire house creeped him out, but it was when he was in the master bedroom that Pete practically turned tail. It was when he thought he heard something.
His name.
Pete. Michael’s voice.
Pete had whirled from the television and looked around the room. The place was empty. Hurrying through the job, he told himself it was something outside or maybe the mystery cat hissing, something. He even started thinking that maybe, although Will’s set was off, something was going on like it was at the Pigskin. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it. And he couldn’t stop thinking about Michael. Michael the golden boy. Michael, who was taller, handsomer, excelled in school and at sports. Michael with girls coming out of his ass. God, he’d hated that bastard. The only thing he ever did for Pete was die.
Back on Mickey’s couch, he flipped off the cap off the beer and chugged half the bottle. If he’d lived, what would Michael say now? Pete had the money, the business, the charm, the women. “Fuck you, Michael,” he muttered, and finished the beer. “I piss on your grave, big man.”
Bored, but not quite enough to risk effects of the new cable, Pete got up and started going through Mickey’s racks of DVDs. “Christ, fucking goddamn pussy.” Everything was in order, almost prissy, and there were a hell of a lot of musicals in there. “Goddamn faggot? Mickey? Are you a faggot?” He chuckled, thinking about the ribbing he would give the guy when he came home. He knew Mickey wasn’t a fag, but he thought maybe he could make him wonder about himself. That would be fun.
The Forgotten Page 25
