Darkhouse (Experiment in Terror #1) (10 page)

“Plus the writing. You’ve got a real knack for getting people to want more. Have you taken writing classes?”

Was she kidding me? Did she not read over my resume when she hired me?

“Yes, I have. In advertising school.” I raised my voice over the last few words.

She mulled that over. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. You went to Oregon State.”

“That’s what it says on my resume.”

She nodded slowly, not getting it. She straightened up and clapped her hands together.

“I have to tell you, Perry, this certainly helps your situation.”

“Uh, what situation?”

She cocked her head at me. She obviously thought she was keeping me up to speed on things around here. She did remember I had been gone for the last few days, right?

“Can you fill me in to use the Pacific boardroom for next Monday at nine a.m.?” she asked, turning her attention to my Outlook calendar.

What situation???

“I would like to have a meeting between you, me and John,” she continued, “so we can plan on our next steps here.”

John Danvers was the CEO of the company. If she wanted a meeting with him and me, this definitely meant I was in a “situation.”

“Sorry if I seem to have missed something here, but what are these next steps about?”

“Your job, sweetie,” she gave me a quick squeeze on the shoulder. “But you don’t have to worry as much anymore. Things should turn around now.”

And with that, she left the reception area.

What the hell was that all about? Don’t have to worry as much? Was I worried before? Things
should
turn around? I was in a situation?

Oh God, was I going to get fired? Suddenly it all started making sense. Maybe she sent me home on Monday so they could try out a few temps while I was gone and see if any of them were better than me. Maybe Alana wasn’t filling in for me after all. Only one way to find out.

I dialed Alana’s extension.

She picked up with a dry, “Yes?”

“Hi, Alana. Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to thank you for taking over the phones while I was sick.”

“I didn’t answer your phones,” she spat out, clearly insulted. “They hired a temp for that.”

“Oh,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible.

“Yes, someone who doesn’t suffer from ‘ghost’ disease.” And at that witty remark, she hung up.

Very mature, Alana,
I thought. It was safe to say now that everyone in the office knew about my newfound ghost fame.

I just couldn’t believe they hired a temp while I was gone.

Calm down,
I told myself. Alana probably refused to do it and claimed she was overloaded with business card orders or something like that. A temp didn’t mean I was going to get fired.

Unless the temp did such a good job that they realized what fools they were to keep a slacker like me on the payroll and were planning all week to let me go.

Until today, of course, when my boss finally realized that I may actually be better suited to roles in the company other than answering phones and setting up meetings.

It was funny how I suddenly cared about keeping my job. I dreamed about this opportunity for such a long time, to be free of this horrid place and nine-to-five utter boredom. But even on welfare, which wouldn’t be much, I knew I would have to get another job. And dealing with finding another job was beyond me. So as much as I hated it, I needed this job.

There was that glimmer of hope on Monday, though. I started fantasizing. I know I said I didn’t want to stay in advertising, but it would be better than nothing. And who knows, I might actually be able to do something really cool with myself. Plus, my paycheck would be bigger and I would finally feel proud to answer the question “what do you do for a living?” without having to justify being a receptionist.

Still, the uncertainty was nerve-wracking, and I was in a bit of a downer mood when I arrived home after work. The reality was coming in cold and hard. I tried to keep an optimistic outlook but the jaded part of me kept telling me to expect the worst.

I walked into the house and heard my mom call me from the living room. I came in and saw her lying on the floor doing Pilates to a DVD. My mother was forever after the best at-home DVD workouts.

“Some man called for you,” she said without looking up. I absently watched her leg rise up and down in time with the instructor.

“OK...” That was a bit strange. I couldn’t remember the last time a man called for me, especially at the house.

“I gave him your cell number though. I thought he might have called you.”

I fished my phone out. No missed calls.

“Nope. Did he say what he wanted?”

“He said his name was Declan...something. And he was interesting in speaking with you about your blog,” she continued her scissor kicks. “I didn’t know you had a blog now, too.”

“I don’t,” I said slowly. Declan? Who the hell was that?

My heart started to beat a bit faster. Maybe it was someone like a book agent who saw my blog and wanted me to write a book. I know that’s pretty far-fetched but it happened a lot to bloggers and my hopes were suddenly, naively, sky-high.

“His number’s on the kitchen table,” she continued. “He said for you to call him as soon as you could.”

Well, it was at least intriguing. I went into the kitchen and picked up the pad of paper.

My mom had scrawled a number with a Seattle area code on it and the name Declan Foray.

Dex Foray?

I reached into my wallet and pulled out the business card he had given me. Sure enough it was the same number, though I had no idea his full first name was Declan. The way the name is usually pronounced (DEE-Clan) it didn’t even make sense.

I got strangely nervous when I had to call people I didn’t know. You would think that being a receptionist would have helped me get over that hump but it hadn’t. I tried to mentally trick myself into thinking I was making just another business call.

With my heart beating a tad faster than normal, I dialed his number from the house phone. It rang so many times that I was about to hang up when the other line clicked.

“Dex here.”

Ah, his voice; low, deep and rich, like a polished instrument.

“Hello?” he said more impatiently.

“Uhh,” I stammered. “Hi. Um, this is Perry. Perry Palomino. You…called me?”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. Well… just…calling you back!”

“I got that much,” he replied matter-of-factly.

This was off to a horribly awkward start. I rubbed my forehead and thought of what to say next.

“So, yeah, I—” I started.

“Listen, Perry. Can I call you back? I’ll be two seconds.”

“Uh—”

“Perfect. Talk soon.”

Click. The line went dead. I looked at the phone in disbelief. How long was two seconds? I stared at the phone for what seemed to be forever before I decided to head back over to talk my mom. Just as I was out of the kitchen the phone rang.

I raced back to it, composing myself before I picked it up. I needed to be more demanding.

“Hello, Perry speaking.”

“Perry! It’s Dex.” He sounded a lot more enthusiastic now.

“Hi...Dex? Listen—”

“So, Perry. It
is
Perry, right? I couldn’t remember what you told me in the lighthouse but that’s who your little blog posts were attributed to.”

Uh-oh. The blog. Dex was in my blog. I hope that it wasn’t about that…

“You found the blog?”

He laughed, albeit rather sarcastically. “Kiddo, who hasn’t found your blog?”

I started feeling ill. “Look, I’m sorry, I was just filling in for my sister and I had nothing interesting to write about.”

“You mean to tell me you’re not a narcissistic fashion blogger? I’m liking you better already. I might almost forgive you for publishing that footage of me on fucking YouTube.”

He nearly yelled that last word. I cringed. I was in shit.

“Look, I didn’t say who you were, and you can barely even tell who is in the shot most of the time. I mean, you told me to turn my camera on, so I did, and there’s no law against that.” I was rambling.

“Did it occur to you that there was a reason I gave you my business card?” He sighed.

“Not really. You just ended up leaving me in there at the end anyway,” I replied, now feeling anger rising in my throat. Come to think of it, how dare he call me and give me shit. It gave me clarity. “And let me remind you again, as you seem to have forgotten, but you were trespassing on my family’s property, so actually, you should be glad I’m not turning your stupid shoddy business card over to the police.”

Silence on the line. It gave my heart enough time to slow down by a few beats.

“Fair enough,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Well… so, is that what you wanted? To call me and get mad that you were somewhat featured in the video I posted? Or was it that I shot some footage that you would have loved to have had yourself for your little…ghost club…or whatever the hell it is you do again.”

I could have sworn I heard him stroke his facial hair over the line.

“That was pretty much the gist of it,” he replied.

So much for my high expectations. He was just some guy that was annoyed that I made him look stupid in front of the entire world (or whatever miniscule portion of the world that had watched the video and read the blog), and annoyed that I cockblocked his chances of using the footage for financial gain.

“But that wasn’t all…” he added.

“Well?” I asked, still vexed but also curious. Maybe he was asking me out on a date? My heart started to pump faster again. I was such a girl.

“I’m a producer for Shownet.com. You heard of us?”

“Only from your business card,” I said truthfully.

“We produce webisodes. Webcasts. You know, on the internet.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of this internet before,” I said. The sarcasm just slipped out.

“Perfect. That will make things easier,” Dex replied, sliding over my snark. “Shownet at the moment is airing
Wine Babes
on Thursday nights, which you should watch tonight, by the way, as well as
Gamer Room, Dude Zone, Cooking with Colleen,
and
Amanda Panda’s Animal Friends
. You heard of
any
of them?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Probably not. Anyway, see…I’ve been dabbling in this and that, here and there, and I decided I should maybe jump in on this ghost bandwagon. The main thing I wanted to do though was have it run a little differently. There are tons of those shiteous shows on TV, run by tards who are running around with these cameras and having these geeked-out experiences that in the end amount to nothing more than their own ineptitude and inflated sense of self. You following?”

“Not really.”

“And so that’s what I was doing at your uncle’s place. No one had done any shows there yet.”

“That’s because he wouldn’t allow anyone,” I pointed out.

“Which is why I had to be sort of sneaky about it. Thank you, by the way, for not blowing my cover. I had thanked you already, hadn’t I?”

“No,” I said.

“Ah, well anyway, I thought I would get a leg up on these other shows, shoot some shit and show it to my boss, hoping he’d see some potential in all of it.”

Pause.

“And?” I prompted him. “Did he?”

“No,” he sighed. “He didn’t. However, he did like what you did.”

“What I did?”

“OK, he liked the idea of the two of us doing that. Together.”

A naughty idea flashed through my head. “And what is
that
, exactly?”

“You’re not secretly blonde are you?”

Now it was my turn to sigh. This phone call was confusing as hell and I could tell my mom had been listening to it for the last five minutes because the workout DVD had been turned off. I had an idea what Dex was hinting at, but his aggravating way of getting around to it was throwing my mind into a tizzy.

“Mr. Foray,” I said as professionally as possible, “you called me wanting to talk me about something. Get to the point.”

I have to point out that I am neither A) this ballsy on the phone with people I didn’t really know or B) this rude, but there was something about Dex, perhaps it was the way we met, that made me feel like I didn’t really care how I was coming across.

“Based on the footage I shot, based on the footage you shot—which, by the way, you wouldn’t have shot had I not told you to—and based on the way your writing so eloquently told the story when the images could not, I think we could actually have a real show here.”

“You think or your boss thinks?”

“Either or; it doesn’t matter.”

It did matter, but I didn’t want to question it anymore, lest I screw up my chances of whatever this was. I didn’t want to think too deeply into it, though with my mind that was more or less impossible. I could feel my subconscious jumping to a million fantastic conclusions. It was really hard to keep the voices at bay and concentrate on the cold, hard facts.

“What do you do again? Are you a host on this Shownet?” I asked.

“Fuck no. Excuse my language, but fuck no. I’m just the producer and cameraman. And composer. I’m entirely behind the scenes, which is why I need a person like you to be in front.”

“Me?”

“Yes. As I was saying, you’re real and you’re very personable. Charming, some might say. I wouldn’t because I don’t even know you, but we’ll find out. Your on-camera presence is bold; at least the stuff I have on my end is. And your writing doesn’t suck. Have you ever done acting before?”

Technically I hadn’t. Stuntwoman training didn’t involve any acting and I’m sure my homemade movies from my youth didn’t count either.

“No.”

“Good. That’s better. That means you aren’t a bullshitter. I hate bullshitters; you can never bullshit them. So you’re a natural, which is perfect because people want to see natural fear. They don’t want the Hollywood treatment. And your writing is the perfect companion. It shines some sort of clarity on a subject that most people don’t understand.”

“To be honest, I don’t understand it myself.”

“That’s OK. Honesty is good. Understanding is overrated. But this show won’t be overrated because it’s coming out of the dark and sneaking up on people until—”