by Tracy Lane
She shifted a bit in her seat. “That was how he did it,” she said. “That was how he managed to kill all those people.”
“Atticus Granger?”
“He waited until they were all in the ballroom,” she explained. “He locked the doors, and as soon as the band was playing and everyone was distracted, he set fire to the lobby. They were trapped, Jake. They all died in there.”
Jake looked away; he was still feeling cold even as he stared into the flickering flames of the dancing fire. His throat grew tight with emotion as he said, “They’re still trapped.”
Frank appeared at his side then, solidifying from a wavering mist into his handsome, rakish self. “Not if I can help them out of there, Jake.”
He looked up at his ghostly friend and offered a sad, crooked smile.
“And that’s just what I intend to do,” Frank continued, nodding to Jake and Tank. “With a little help from you two, that is.”
Chapter 10
Jake heard the toilet flush and looked up from the stack of Monster Makeup magazines by the window. His dad straightened his hospital gown and limped out of the bathroom wearing a weak smile.
“Jake,” he said, nodding his head in his son’s direction.
“You’re lucky Mom’s not here,” Jake said as Mr. Weir settled back into his hospital bed. “I didn’t hear you wash your hands.”
Mr. Weir snorted. “They’ve got that hand gel in there now.” He smoothed the covers over his legs. “Don’t even need water anymore.”
Now that his dad was back safely in bed, Jake slumped deeper into the chair beside the bed. Mr. Weir looked ten years older now, and it wasn’t just the bad hospital room lighting. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, and the grizzle on his chin was a salt-and-pepper gray. There were lines around his eyes and his cheeks were hollow from having lost a good ten or twenty pounds during his stay.
“Aren’t they feeding you in here?” Jake asked. He knew they were because his mom often complained about the hospital food, but really, he just needed a reason to start a conversation with his old man.
Mr. Weir nodded. “I’m just not hungry lately, Jake. You ever feel like that?”
“Just before and after a test,” Jake admitted, and his dad laughed. It was good to hear him laugh. It had been far too long.
“So how’s the episode going?” Mr. Weir asked.
“You mean since Mom showed you a rough cut, like, a few hours ago?” Jake teased.
His dad shrugged aimlessly. “I’ve just never been out of the loop so long,” he said. “I feel helpless in here.”
“You’re hurt, Dad. You can’t be anywhere else.”
As if on cue, Mr. Weir winced while propping up his pillow.
“Here, let me do that,” Jake offered, leaning forward.
Mr. Weir waved him off. “I’m not a complete invalid,” he huffed, already out of breath from the effort. “Besides, I’ll be going to rehab soon and I need to get ready for that.”
“How soon?” asked Jake. He hoped his voice didn’t register the same alarm as he felt. His dad could barely make it back from the bathroom; how was he going to get through intense physical therapy?
“Not soon enough,” his dad grumbled, scratching his whiskers. “I feel like I’ve been in here forever.”
Jake stayed quiet. It had been a while, he was right – and it felt weird, not having him at home. Aside from the common cold or that one time he got food poisoning, Jake had never seen his dad sick for more than a day or two. Now, it had been weeks.
“I’m worried, Jake,” Mr. Weir said as he turned to face his son. Jake simply watched him, waiting for the slightest sign of pain from the movement. “That house, it’s a bad place. If it weren’t for this new contract with the Scream Channel, I’d have called the episode off.”
That was when Jake sat up and blurted, “No, Dad! You can’t—you can’t do that…”
Mr. Weir chuckled and waved his hand again, weak, pale and veiny. “I’m not,” he wheezed. “I’m not, Jake. I can’t. Too much is riding on this first episode. There’s a clause in the contract, and if the Scream Channel doesn’t like it, they could pull the plug on the entire season.”
Jake’s stomach clenched. No wonder his mom had been working so ridiculously hard on the show. Tank too. Had she known about the contract loophole all this time?
Suddenly, he felt edgy. He had thought that moving to the city, renting the big apartment in the sky, working for a new TV channel – a real TV channel – would solve everything. Instead, it had made everything worse. The ghosts were bigger here, in the city – meaner too, and much more plentiful. For once, Jake needed his dad around; and for once, Mr. Weir couldn’t be there.
“How has it been?” Mr. Weir asked, as if reading Jake’s mind. “I mean, in the hotel?”
Jake feigned casualness and shrugged. “Okay,” he said, figuring it would be best not to tell his dad about the ballroom.
“Tank tells me you had a…incident the other day.”
A hot spike of fear and embarrassment shot through Jake, but he managed to compose himself and just rolled his eyes in response. “It was nothing,” he said quickly. Then, “Why, what did she tell you?”
Mr. Weir let a teasing smile slip loose before he shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, and then winced again. “Just an old trick you fell for. Now, tell me all about it.”
Jake’s heart was racing, but he was at least relieved that Tank hadn’t spilled the beans about the ballroom after all. “It wasn’t much,” he lied. “I just…we got some weird readings in the ballroom. Some spooky voices; I thought I heard old-timey music playing.”
“Old-timey music?” His dad arched an eyebrow. “You mean ragtime? It was called jazz in later years.”
Jake nodded impatiently. Frank had already told him as much.
“How loud was it?” Mr. Weir asked. Jake didn’t miss the way the muscles in his face seized up in pain.
“Are you okay, Dad?” he asked, feeling increasingly helpless as he sat there staring back at his dad’s tired face. He’d never seen his father like this before. In many ways, it scared him more than all the ghosts at the Balthazar Hotel combined.
“How loud was the music?” his dad pressed, ignoring Jake’s concern.
“Not too loud,” he said, avoiding his father’s eyes. “I mean, it was kind of muffled.”
“They’re getting restless, and more dangerous. I wish I could be there.”
“Me too, Dad,” he said, throat sore with emotion.
“And I wish you didn’t have to be,” said Mr. Weir. His gaze dropped to his lap and the crisp white hospital sheet that covered it.
There was an awkward silence in which, for the first time, Jake noticed the hissing of his father’s many monitors, tubes, and dials.
Mr. Weir cleared his throat and said, “And I hate that you go there alone.”
Jake finally raised his eyes to look at his father again, and he was almost startled to see Frank standing on the other side of the bed, a concerned expression hardening his face.
“Tell him,” Frank said as Jake tried not to stare at his stately white suit. “Tell him you’re not alone. He needs to hear it.”
“Jake?” Mr. Weir asked, probably noticing how his son had gone rigid.
“I’m not alone,” Jake said. However, staring back at Frank, he knew it was the biggest lie he’d told all day, and Frank knew it too.
Chapter 11
Jake walked into the Balthazar Hotel, stepping back in time to a simpler, darker age. It was late afternoon, the chill of fall already in the air, and Tank and his mom were back home in the condo, editing what they’d filmed of the “Haunted Hotel” segment so far. Although the episode wouldn’t air until Halloween, when the first season of Paranormal Properties on the Scream Channel would officially begin, time was running out to tape all the material needed to make the episode as solid as possible.
His mom had asked him to scout out a great location for the ending, something vivid
and picturesque that would strike the tone they were going for. So Jake had his digital camera clutched tight in one hand as he crept deeper into the lobby, noting the way the light that poured through the dirty windows had turned a golden, syrupy orange.
He wanted something special as a backdrop for his mom, something that might help convey what he had seen in the ballroom just before Tank had caught him there, dancing, whirling around with himself.
If he could capture that, if he could find a corner or a room or simply a part of the lobby that still held a spark of light from that haunting moment, he knew the episode would end on a high note. Really, that was what they all needed. If they could sell this first episode, make it strong, then all the pain and drama they had encountered at the Balthazar so far would be worth it.
But how was he supposed to show that to “normal” people? People who couldn’t see how Jake did, with one eye open to one world, one eye open to another?
He strode around the lobby, which was quiet this time of day – quiet any time of day – and saw a snug little corner in a parlor off to one side that seemed to have just what he wanted. Half of it was burned; singed curtains tattered around the window above a severely molding footstool. An overturned wastebasket lay crumpled and black on a carpet stained by decades-old ashes. But the other half was nearly pristine, as if there had been an invisible force separating one half of the room from the other and the destruction had never touched it.
A faded parlor chair sat in the corner, next to it an end table on which sat a book, half-open, like someone had dropped it midsentence. A teacup, long since empty, sat atop a matching saucer, both featuring a delicate array of spring flowers the name of which Jake knew his mother would surely know.
He smiled, and then hauled out his camera to start taking shots; with each photo, he adjusted the lighting with his flash and gently inched the singed curtain over to let in more natural light.
When he had about a dozen pictures in hand, all from different angles, all bathed in that golden afternoon sunlight, Jake turned to go, satisfied, only to find a figure leaning against the front desk in the lobby.
Jake gasped, freezing in place. Atticus Granger.
He stood there with a nonchalant stare, his charcoal vest snug about a tight white shirt, bowtie stiff against his throat. His hair was slicked back, and it set off a bland, unattractive face that looked downright frightening this close up.
Live – sort of – and in person.
“H-hello,” said Jake. He realized that if he could see the ghostly clerk, Atticus Granger could see him as well. “I…I didn’t see you standing there.”
Atticus ignored his rambling and nodded with a weak, greasy chin toward the camera in his hand. “What’s that contraption you’ve got?” he asked, his voice nasally and grating.
Jake looked down at the camera in his hand and winced at the oversight. How could he be so stupid? “Oh, it’s a…it’s a camera,” he blurted.
As if to prove it, he quickly snapped a picture of Granger, wondering if it might actually develop. The ghost waved a hand, too late, to avoid his picture being taken.
“Not like any I’ve ever seen before,” Atticus sneered suspiciously. He was eyeing the camera in Jake’s hand as if it might jump out and bite him.
“My dad’s an inventor,” Jake said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. After all, Mr. Weir had built tons of camera rigs, just never an actual camera. “He asked me to try it out.”
However, Jake still slid the thin device into his back pocket to avoid further inspection.
“And what are you wearing?” Atticus pressed, as he looked Jake up and down with a dissatisfied squint. “Is that some new style the kids are wearing these days?”
Jake glanced down at his grubby sneakers, tube socks, khaki cargo pants, and Paranormal Properties T-shirt, and he had to wonder what everyday modern wear might look like to someone out of the past.
Jake remembered what time of year it was in the Balthazar Hotel – a kind of permanent October. “I’m trying out my Halloween costume,” he said, and cringed at how lame it sounded. Atticus merely arched one carefully manicured eyebrow, nostrils on either side of his long, sharp nose flaring.
“Are you staying here, boy?” he asked.
Jake looked back at the man, the ghost, and the first ripple of fear spread through his body. He seemed so solid, so real, like he could reach out and grab Jake’s arm at any moment.
“I—uh…” He crouched back toward the velvet chair he’d just spent the last few minutes photographing.
As if sensing Jake’s fear, Atticus stepped forward, looking far too firm and fleshy and not ghostly at all.
“We’re thinking about it,” a voice boomed from behind Atticus, and Jake exhaled loudly with relief.
Frank stood in front of the registration desk, resplendent in his sharp zoot suit and fedora. Atticus Granger seemed to shrink in his presence.
“Well…” hemmed the clerk. It was his turn to stammer now. “Welcome to the Balthazar, sir. Would you care for a tour?”
Jake had never seen anyone snivel before, but he knew that was what Atticus was doing: sniveling. Not for Jake, who was smaller, younger, weaker, but for Frank, who was pinning him with a cool stare that would make any old gangster proud.
“Naw,” Frank said, nice and easy. “The boy and I’ll just wander around, if you don’t mind?” The glint in Frank’s eye left no doubt that he would go anywhere he pleased in the hotel, whether Atticus Granger minded or not.
“Absolutely, sir,” said Atticus, nodding his head in short bows as Frank came to Jake’s side and they walked slowly through the lobby toward the front doors, as if nothing had happened.
Jake started to speak, but Frank put a finger to his lips. They walked in silence, staring at faded pictures on moldy walls, Frank a wispy blur in the corner of his eye.
At last, Frank apparently decided he had carried the charade out long enough, and he turned back to face the only other ghost in the room. “A good day to you, sir,” he said, doffing his cap and waving it at Atticus Granger as Jake reached for the door.
“Not finding the accommodations to your liking?” Atticus sneered, summoning his gall once more now that Frank wasn’t so physically close to him.
“It’s a beautiful hotel,” said Frank, “but we’re sampling several sites before making a decision. Good day, sir.”
“Good day,” Atticus said dismissively, and then he buried his beak in the registration book on his desk without sparing them another glance.
Frank and Jake shared a look before walking out the lobby door, down the steps, and onto the street. Jake began to speak again and Frank shook his head, instead leading him around the corner to a small park where Jake sank down onto an empty bench.
“Thank God you came when you did,” he gasped when Frank signaled it was safe to speak. “I thought he was going to attack me.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there earlier,” said Frank in a low voice. “I—I’ve been neglecting you lately, Jake. I’m sorry about that.”
Jake laughed maybe a little louder than he’d intended. “I don’t care if my feelings get hurt. It’s when my body gets hurt that I get a little concerned.”
“I was fearful for you,” Frank confessed. He sat next to his friend, leaned back on the bench, and crossed his legs. It was nearly dark now; the park was deserted, and the row houses that lined the street flickered to life as folks returned home from another day’s work.
“I’ve never encountered such evil in my afterlife before,” he added.
Jake sobered and studied the sidewalk at his feet. “Is that why he seems so much more, I don’t know…solid than you?” he asked cautiously. Like Tank about her weight, Frank was very sensitive about being a ghost, about not being as physically present as Jake and his family.
Now he merely looked thoughtful as he nodded and worried his lower lip. “I suppose so,” he said. “He certainly is angry, and the more emotions present in a spirit, the
more physical they appear to be.”
“You’re not the emotional type?” Jake joked, looking up at his spectral friend.
“What do you think, kid?” Frank chuckled back.
They sat like that, quietly, for a moment, but Jake was troubled, and Frank seemed that way too.
“Now what?” Jake asked, hoping for an easy answer.
“You need to dress more appropriately,” Frank remarked. He frowned down at Jake’s clothing.
“How do I do that?”
Frank stood up, a signal it was time to go home. “Tomorrow we can go to the thrift shop and pick you out some old-fashioned duds. We don’t want to make Atticus any more suspicious than he already is.”
“You mean we’re going back to see him?” Jake asked. He tried not to sound panicky, but he wasn’t sure if that was such a good idea.
“There must be a reason he’s so visible to you,” Frank said gravely. “We need to find out why.”
Chapter 12
“This?” Jake asked. He held up a pair of vintage shorts that felt so brittle, he thought they might fall apart between his fingers.
Across the aisle, Tank stared back skeptically. Frank stood beside her. They both had their chins in their hands, and if only they could see how similar they looked.
“Let me see.” Tank frowned, scrolling through her ever-present tablet for help. “Those are more 50s pants,” she said, and showed him a picture on the screen of what he should be going for. “Try harder.”
“You try harder,” grumbled Jake. He tossed the pants onto a growing pile of rejects. “All you have to do is wear your regular clothes.”
“Gee,” Tank muttered, quiet enough so the salesgirl at the front of the store wouldn’t hear, “I’m sorry I can’t be seen by ghosts. If I could, I guess I’d have to wear pigtails and a hoop skirt, huh?”
Her face was red, making Jake feel bad. She had high blood pressure, and doctors said it wasn’t healthy for her to get too emotional.
Too bad for Tank, getting scared was in her job description.
