by Michael West
“What’s wrong?” Tashima interrupted, real concern in her eyes.
Kim didn’t answer. Her feet were already at the office threshold. She grabbed up her backpack and strapped it on. “I’m sorry guys, Professor, but the answer’s no.”
She turned the corner and was gone.
5
Tashima caught up to Kim half-way down the hall to the elevator, grabbing her by the shoulder to stop her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The girl was pale, sweating. Her hand clutched the crucifix that hung from her neck. “We had to do an investigation to pass the course. Fine. It’s done. I don’t need to do another one, and I don’t need any extra credit.”
“So you’re gonna spend the weekend alone in the dorm while all your friends are out havin’ fun?”
Kim frowned. “You seriously call this fun?”
“Well, I’m not gonna enjoy it as much without you.”
“But you’re still gonna do it.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna do it. Maybe you don’t need the extra credit, but I sure as hell do.”
“You think you can? I mean, you were too scared to lie down on a bed.”
“That’s right, I was. You weren’t.”
Kim shrugged. “I thought I could handle it.”
“And you did handle it,” Tashima pointed out. “Don’t chicken out now.”
“Last night ...” Kim shook her head helplessly. She looked close to tears. “I was scared out of my mind.”
“So was I. I wanted to run like hell, but I didn’t. I stayed right there in that room, stuff flyin’ around my head and everything else. I stood my ground and we got ... we got proof. Isn’t that why we took this class in the first place? To find out if there really are spirits out there?”
Kim slumped back against the painted cinderblock wall. “I thought it was because we hated Freud.”
“Fuck Freud.”
They looked at each other and laughed.
Kim wiped at her eyes, then blurted out, “I saw a ghost once.”
Tashima’s laughter died in her throat, then with no hesitation, she admitted, “I talked to a ghost once.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“No, I’m serious.” She made a triangle with her thumbs and forefingers, traced figure eights in the air. “Ouija board. Everybody had me bring it on sleepovers. Most of the time, people would be movin’ it themselves. You can kinda tell. But there was this one night ... we got through to somebody.”
“You never said anything about it before.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
The spirit had been playful. They’d asked it what its name was and the aimless pointer was suddenly given direction. It shot from one letter to the next as all of the girls read them aloud in unison.
M-A-L-C-O-L-M.
Malcolm said he was 15. He said he went to their school in 1975, said that he lived in that very house, Lewanda Sumner’s house. He said Lewanda’s lost earring was under the couch in the downstairs living room.
Tashima remembered her friend going to look, then coming back with the gold hoop in her palm, laughing nervously. And it didn’t stop there. Malcolm knew the combination to the lock on Lewanda’s diary, knew she had a crush on her Algebra teacher, Mr. Rock. When he told her she slept on her stomach at night, Lewanda stood up, shaking, and refused to play anymore.
Sleep did not come easily for any of them that night. They kept the light on and their eyes continuously swept the room, convinced Malcolm was somewhere unseen ... watching them. And of course, he was.
Tashima shook her head, offered an uneasy grin. “It was pretty freaky.”
Kim nodded.
“But in the back of my mind, I always kept this little sliver of doubt, y’know? Somebody was pushin’ it. Somebody knew the answers to the questions and was just tryin’ to freak the rest of us out, but that would have to have been Lewanda, and honey ... she was my friend. I knew her. She was scared. But I still kept tellin’ myself that it was just a game, kept lyin’ to myself, because if it was real ... I didn’t think I’d ever feel safe again.”
They stood in silence for a moment, looking one another in the eye, unflinching, then Kim turned away and said, “I’m scared. I can’t do this. I won’t.”
“Girl, that’s why you need to do this, to get over that fear. Take my advice —”
Kim rolled her eyes and backed away down the hall. “I’ve already taken your advice. I’ve got a date with the nice doctor tonight.” She smiled. “That’s about all the courage I can muster today.”
Tashima didn’t smile back, nor did she say anything.
“Don’t wait up,” Kim told her as she got on the elevator.
Tashima watched the doors close on her friend, then swallowed.
She needed a cigarette.
6
Kim let out a nervous giggle that betrayed her fear. “I’m gonna fall and break my ass!”
“No you won’t.” Tyler led her out onto The Rollerdome’s wooden floor. He rolled backward and his hands held hers tightly. A slight smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes were serious.
Her legs wobbled as she rolled after him. The right skate went back too far and she leaned forward. A horridly girlish squeal escaped her throat, but Tyler kept her upright.
“See,” he told her, “Nothing to worry about. I’ve got you.”
Circles of rainbow light whirled across the walls, ceiling, and floor. Speakers blared the latest Linkin Park song; the one Stanley University’s campus radio station had played every five minutes for weeks now. A group of teenage boys swept by on rollerblades. They wore jeans covered in skulls and embroidered dragons that coiled around their legs. She tensed, afraid they would plow into her and knock her down, but they flew by.
“God,” she said as she watched them pass. “I’m way too old for this.”
That made Tyler laugh. “Twenty isn’t old.”
“Too old to learn to roller skate.”
“Come on.” He brought her hands together and lightly squeezed her fingers. “You might have some of these kids in your classroom soon. You don’t want them to think their student teacher’s a big wuss, do you?”
She looked away from him for a moment and saw a group of girls in tight, low cut jeans that bared the crests of their hips. They had to be all of fifteen, talking and giggling as they skated along. One of the girls saw a cute guy with a goatee and waved at him. Kim found herself wishing to be one of them again, with her late teenage traumas and all the stressful life choices still years away.
The thought of graduation filled her with a sense of dread. Her life had changed little from high school. She would attend lectures by day, hang out with Tashima and the guys by night, and busy herself with her various studies in the hours between. But now, as her college days waned and “real life” loomed large on the horizon, the more she considered her own future, the more she found it to be an ever-changing kaleidoscope, with colors ranging from sunny yellow to a very cold and lonely blue.
Tyler pulled her around the rink, picking up speed each time they passed the DJ. After twenty or so laps, he let go of her left hand and turned to skate beside her. She started to reach out for him, then stopped herself, made a tight fist instead. Her nervous eyes fell to the smooth wooden floor, watching it move rapidly between her feet.
“Don’t look down,” he told her. “Look at me.”
She did as he said, her lips mirroring his smile.
As they rolled around toward the Snack Bar, he gave her a nudge. “Want some ice cream? They actually have the best ice cream here.”
“How much do you skate?”
“Not that much,” he said. “Maybe once a month. It’s great for the heart.”
“So you burn off all these calories ... then you go eat a bunch of ice cream?”
“Yep. Want some?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “If it means I can get off these skates.”
He esco
rted her from the floor. Kim welcomed the friction of low-pile carpeting. It made her feel steadier, less likely to fall flat on her face. When they reached a row of tables, she was even happier to sit down. Tyler brought back two cones, one chocolate chip and one vanilla.
“Chocolate chip is my favorite,” Kim told him. “How did you know?”
“I ... I’m psychic.” He smiled and handed her the ice cream.
After a few licks, she paused, her ears warming. “This was your cone, wasn’t it?”
“It’s okay.” He sat next to her, enjoying his plain vanilla. “I should have asked. Besides, what kind of gentleman would I be if I deprived you of your favorite?”
“Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for the new experience.”
“So, don’t ever make you do this again?”
“Not if you want a second date,” she agreed with a giggle.
He appeared to think this over. “Do you want a second date?”
Kim swallowed a mouthful of ice cream. The cold made her molars ache. Finally, she found her voice. “You have to ask?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were having a good time.”
She smiled. “I’m having a great time.”
“Drip.”
“What?”
He pointed to her hand.
Kim blinked and saw that her ice cream had wept onto the napkin she’d wrapped around the cone. She quickly bent down to lick it, sculpting the custard with her tongue.
Tyler watched her, grinning. “That’s very distracting.”
She giggled and put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
They were quiet for a moment, eating their ice cream, then the DJ’s voice blasted over the speakers, called for a couple’s skate.
Tyler looked at her. “You wanna get back on the floor?”
She waved her cone, threatening. “You wanna wear this?”
He threw his head back and laughed.
7
“Hello?”
Geoffrey Burke sat up in his chair and held the receiver to his lips. “Yes, Miss Saunders ... about this afternoon —”
“I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m busy studying.”
“Yeah,” Tashima Ishmail’s recorded voice burst in, giggling. “Studying.”
“So leave a message after the beep and Kim —”
“Or Tashima!”
“— will call you right back.”
“Peace.” Tashima’s voice was followed by a piercing tone.
“Yes, Miss Saunders ... this, this is Professor Burke. About this afternoon, I’m sorry if I put you on the spot in any way. I can assure you, that was not my intent. I’d like the opportunity to listen to your concerns, and to offer my help if I can. Please call my office or stop by when you have the time. Sorry again.”
Bollocks.
He hit the pound symbol, hoped this was a voice mail service and he would be given the option to erase everything he’d just said. Silence followed, however, so he hung up.
Before devoting himself to the paranormal full time, Burke had used his doctorate in psychiatry to counsel others. He was no stranger to the wounded terror he’d seen in Kim Saunders’ eyes. He’d found it in rape victims who grew physically ill when they approached the scene where they’d been violated, who shied away from being touched. He’d witnessed it in soldiers who returned from combat to flinch at the sound of a car backfiring, who never felt comfortable in a crowd. He’d seen it in tsunami survivors in Asia who saw the wall of water that stole their homes and children whenever they closed their eyes, who woke up screaming, “the sea is coming” until their throats were raw. And when Burke looked in the mirror each morning, he saw it in himself.
He rubbed a hand across his tightly buttoned shirt, felt his scarred chest itch beneath it.
The professor shut his eyes, and for an instant, he was twelve years old again, lying in his bed in their old Wolverhampton flat. He felt the unseen thing’s stare burn through the darkness and swallowed hard. The pain was still so vivid ... as was the sound of his own screams, and the sight of his blood-stained sheets when his Mum finally came to turn on the light. His parents actually thought he’d done it to himself. They’d checked his room nightly for knives, tools, anything he might have used to carve upon his own flesh. The attacks had stopped the moment they’d moved from that place. Scratches healed, bruises faded, but that pain ... that pain lingered still.
Burke opened his eyes once more, wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. He reached for the file drawer of his desk, pushed the folders forward to reveal a bottle of Scotch. He filled a small glass, drank deeply and felt warmth flood his body, chasing the chill from his bones.
He looked down at the research that littered his otherwise pristine desk. Rule number one of an investigation: find out all you can about the history of your site. Consult local papers and town historians to learn the folklore, and most important, the hard facts. Headlines from old news clippings shouted at him. Burke picked one up and read it.
WOODFIELD OPERA HOUSE OPENS TONIGHT
Gorman Promises Big City Gala for Pet Project
The paper was The Harmony Herald. The date in the upper margin proclaimed it to be Sunday, April 14th, 1912, the same night the Titanic met its fate. Below the banner was a faded portrait of millionaire Patrick Gorman. He’d made his fortune in the railroads, but his handlebar mustache made him look as if he should have been tying damsels to the tracks. His eyes were dark spots on the page. This Xerox copy did not do the image justice. When Burke found the original photo, sandwiched between brittle bindings in a library basement, he could see more detail in Gorman’s face, could even see teeth showing between slightly parted lips, but he was amazed to find that, though the paper had yellowed and the newsprint had faded with time, those eyes remained black as coal.
Burke could find no photos of the actual gala, but it was easy enough to envision it. Horse-drawn carriages lined up at the theater doors. Men in top hats, tuxedos, and blinding white shirts. Women in glittering evening gowns. Everyone complimenting Gorman on his amazing creation.
The lavish two-hundred-thousand dollar, 1,800-seat Woodfield contained a first-floor refreshment parlor and a balcony tearoom. The floors in the lobby and washrooms were constructed of solid marble. Statues had been commissioned specifically for this auditorium, and crystal chandeliers hung from every ceiling.
Burke found it quite interesting that the outer walls of the Woodfield were comprised primarily of sandstone. The rock possessed a high quartz content, and quartz had the ability to absorb energy, storing it in much the same way as a common battery. Thought ... emotion ... consciousness ... all forms of energy generated by the human mind, and all found in abundance within theaters.
He set the paper aside, glanced at some of the other photos and clippings before fixing on an article from September 20, 1918,
MILLIONAIRE GORMAN FOUND
DEAD AFTER PERFORMANCE
Harmony, Indiana — “If I could, I would spend every waking moment here for the rest of my life,” Patrick Gorman told a companion about the Woodfield Opera House he built on the outskirts of this rural community. They were the last words he would ever speak. When the curtain fell on a production of Mozart’s The Magic Flute, it appeared the 68-year-old businessman had fallen asleep in his own personal box. In reality, the man had suffered a fatal stroke sometime during the second act ...
The first life claimed by the Woodfield had been its own creator. Burke took another drink and continued to skim his collection of historical articles, building a timeline.
During a performance of The Blue Danube, two years later, a dancer fell into the orchestra pit and broke her neck. The stage was dark after that. Without millionaire Gorman to attract them to the countryside, the wealthy stayed away, and farmers had neither the money nor the inclination for operas and the ballet.
In 1927, the Woodfield was granted a new lease on life as the area’s o
nly movie theater, a status it would maintain for more than sixty years.
The first true spirit sighting was shortly after this conversion. Both patrons and employees reported seeing the outline of a figure sitting in one of the empty chairs. Some said Gorman objected to the bastardization of his cultural Mecca, others claimed the figure was female, perhaps the poor dancer.
These sightings increased sharply in the 1950’s, a decade that saw two noteworthy events in the Woodfield’s balcony.
First, a teenaged girl was murdered by her boyfriend. He’d used a switchblade to slit her throat. When the movie ended, he simply stood up, covered in blood, and walked down to the lobby, where he was greeted by the screams of fellow patrons. Upon his arrest, the boy claimed to remember nothing of what he had done.
Next, a terrible fire in the balcony caused thousands of dollars in damage and claimed a dozen more lives. The blaze was blamed on the improper storage of cleaning materials and a lit cigarette. A Mr. Vernon Armstrong, who was manager at the time, was sacked following an investigation. He later committed suicide in a run-down motel. The note he left behind read, “I’m miserable and long for my cinema. I miss her so much.”
Men always found a way to make the inannimate feminine. A farmer names his tractor “Betsy.” A teenager says of his car, “She’s a fast machine.”
Freud would say it’s because we all have issues with our mums. Fuck Freud.
And then there was Delbert King, the final owner, who turned the theater into a Piccadilly Circus grindhouse before splattering its walls in his own blood. The man socked away money for years, hid it from everyone around him, almost as if he had planned his death for over a decade. The will had been very specific. As long as there was money in the coffers, the cinema had to remain standing.
And it had.
A glossy photo of the Woodfield seduced Burke’s eye and he picked it up.
Patrick Gorman ... Vernon Armstrong ... Delbert King ... What did they see in you?
Burke wanted another drink, but he forced himself to put the bottle away. How would it look if he passed out here in his office?
He had worked hard to build a solid reputation as a scientist. Every dark, mysterious locale was illuminated with the harsh light of knowledge. Each bump in the night was explained, each ghostly photo debunked. Because he approached each investigation with the eye of a skeptic, there were some in the field who fully considered him to be one, stating that if a ghost came up to him and did the hula, he still would not believe.
