The Supernaturals (49 page)

Kelly, wide-eyed and staring at the small entrance way to the kitchen, kept her eyes on the door.

“Goddamn it, I should have known to have a camera on me.”

Harris straightened up.

“You crazy bitch. When is enough enough?”

“When we have it on tape, Harris. That’s when it’s enough.”

Harris walked toward the ballroom. “I have a feeling you just may find out tomorrow that this fucking house has the final say on that.”

Kelly watched Harris leave the living room and decided that she no longer wanted to be alone inside Summer Place. She started moving in the same direction to force herself to sleep, she would need the rest.

“We’ll see about that.” She turned around and looked at the walls enclosing her. “You’re going to talk to the world, so you better get ready.”

Kelly tossed and
turned on the small, uncomfortable cot. She kicked off the itchy blanket and stared up at the darkened ceiling far above her head. She eased her left arm behind her head and then closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the old mansion as it creaked and settled. She wondered in her semi-daze how long it took for a house to settle. She turned over and tried to keep her eyes shut, but the cameraman who had taken the cot nearest her own was snoring so loudly that she lost all thought of listening to the house.

Kelly tried to find a peaceful rhythm to the large man’s snoring, but she couldn’t. She shot the sleeping man an angry glance, then stood and ran a hand through her long hair. Julie Reilly was sitting on one of the stools at the bar, jotting something in her large notebook. Curious, Kelly eased past the sleeping men and women. Julie had the advance script that outlined the first four hours of the show, and it looked like she was furiously crossing things out and writing things in. Kelly cleared her throat.

“Jason and I worked on that thing all day. You’re not even going to consult with us on your changes?”

Julie stopped writing for the briefest of moments and then started up again without answering.

Kelly pulled out the barstool next to Julie.

“Can we be civil for a moment, here?”

Julie added a line to the first page, then placed the pen down and looked at Kelly.

“Number one, I don’t like you. We’ve been through this already, and just because we’ve entered your war zone, doesn’t mean we’re going to become foxhole buddies. Second, I know what you have in mind and I—”

Julie stopped when she saw her breath condensate as she spoke the words. She looked around and saw those closest to the long bar were also breathing out a fine fog while they slept. Several people sat up and looked around, even more drew their blankets closer around them. In the corner, Harris Dalton sat up and put his jacket on. He stood up and nudged the man sleeping next to him.

“Get up, I want this recorded,” he said. The ambiance in the enormous ballroom had changed from one minute to the next. The room temperature had fallen by forty degrees and it had awakened everyone. Julie slipped from her chair and wrapped her arms across her chest as she looked around. She saw the double doors and the living room beyond with its antique lighting, and saw nothing there. She looked at Kelly, who was actually smiling—Harris Dalton had three cameramen each videotaping the event.

“I’ll tell you something, Ms. Reilly, this stuff you can’t fake,” Kelly said as she stepped away from the bar.

The ballroom grew colder still. People were starting to huddle together for warmth, if not for safety. They all had heard the strange tales about the house, and now many were becoming concerned that this wasn’t just a network stunt.

“Someone get a temperature gauge and hold it so we can get an image for broadcast tomorrow,” Kelly said as she moved to her own cot and found her jacket.

Harris Dalton nodded. “You heard her, get moving. Get me a temp reading in the living room.”

Just before the cameraman reached the opening, the heavy oaken doors slammed shut, making several of the women—and not just a few of the men—shout and jump.

“Jesus,” Kelly said. Harris Dalton reached out and felt the wood, and then pulled his hand back.

“Cold,” he said.

The cameraman, a veteran of the Gulf War, stepped closer to get a better shot.

“Look!” a woman shouted. She stumbled over her cot, falling backward and hitting the floor hard.

A deep shadow had parted from the far wall, and it swept up and over the ceiling. It moved to the far side of the ballroom and then disappeared into the corner, joining the shadow there.

“We’re down to twenty-two degrees in here,” a man said. “Still dropping.”

Julie assisted the woman who had fallen to her feet. She could feel the young girl, a script assistant if she remembered correctly, shaking beneath her sweater. Julie reached down to her cot for the blanket and wrapped it around the girl’s shoulders.

“It’s here,” Kelly said.

“No, there isn’t just one. I think there’s more,” Harris said, backing away from the door.

Julie looked back at where the shadow had been, just as it broke away from the corner. This time another came with it. As they watched the shadows sweep across the ceiling, the lights in the room started to dim.

“We’re losing power here,” one of the techs said. “It’s like the batteries are draining.”

A they listened and watched, several more shadows broke free and started floating throughout the room. Julie held the young girl, but for some reason she didn’t feel the least bit threatened by what was happening.

 
“Harris is right. This isn’t the power behind Summer Place, this is something else.”

As Julie spoke, Kelly knew that she was right. The sweeping shadows moved like someone swishing black sheets through the air—bulky at the head and trailing off to nothing, floating like spectral figures in a macabre dance.

“We’re losing the camera lights,” the man next to Dalton called out. “Losing batteries.”

The shadows moved and danced high above them. The lights in the room dimmed to near nothing.

The shadows swooped and came closer to the amazed onlookers.

Kelly and Julie smelled the odor at the same time. It was a loamy smell, like freshly dug earth, full of dirt, leaves and mildew. Julie flinched as one of the shadows swooped low. It seemed to hover around her and the young girl she was holding. Julie swallowed. The shadow seemed to reach out a tendril to the script girl. The girl flinched away, and that quick motion made the shadowy arm and hand withdraw, but only momentarily. It reached again, this time for Julie Reilly. The reporter stood her ground, although she flinched as the icy fingers, not more than tendrils of shadow, reached out and slid along her cheek. She could have sworn she could see a small opening where the mouth of a person would have been. It seemed to be smiling at her.

“God, are you seeing this? It’s actually touching you.” Kelly couldn’t help but break out in a large smile. That changed in an instant when she saw the cameraman next to Dalton lower his camera. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“We’re dead here, no juice, no lights,” the bearded man said. One by one the other cameramen lowered their cameras; they were just as useless as the first.

“Goddamn it,” Kelly said.

“Shut up,” Julie hissed. The shadow kept in contact.

“What are you feeling?” Kelly asked, taking a step closer.

“It’s not danger. I don’t know. It’s like my mother’s checking on me.”

“Remember everything you can so we can—”

The boom sounded from outside of the ballroom. The shadow before Julie pulled back like it had touched a hot stove, making the reporter and the girl flinch simultaneously. The other shadows became agitated, flying faster around the room. The boom sounded again, up higher than the beams of the ceiling, as if it had come from the very apex of the roof.

All in the ballroom felt the change in atmosphere; it became heavy, burdened. The shadows swept high and low, as if afraid of the sound they had heard.

The boom came again, and then again, and again. It was as if something was walking the third floor hallway above, and coming closer.

“Jesus Christ, Harris, what do you have up there, a fucking elephant?” the camera man asked.

The booms started sounding louder and were coming with rapid frequency.

“God, where is Kennedy? Don’t tell me they can’t hear that!” Kelly said, watching the shadows above her head.

“Look!” the cameraman shouted.

The ballroom’s double doors were icing over. The sounds upstairs grew even louder, and now there was a sound like crying; like a group of people whimpering in fear. No one in the room would claim it came from anything other than the panicking shadows above their heads.

The shadows flew to every dark corner of the ballroom and vanished. As they disappeared, the atmosphere changed dramatically. The room started to warm and the sounds of the giant footsteps above them stopped. The double oak doors looked normal, as if they had never accumulated the slick coldness a moment before.

Power came back on, the lights glowing intensely before settling down to their original dimmed state. Several people jumped and gasped as the camera lights flared to life.

“What the hell did we just witness?” Harris reached for the camera and checked its power settings.

“Something upstairs chased off the…the…” Kelly stopped short.

“Yeah, I would say something upstairs was pissed at something down here. And for the first time, I don’t think we had anything to do with it.” Dalton handed the camera back to its operator. “Audio, did we get anything?”

“Nothing. The damn recorders wouldn’t even turn on.” The audio tech let the recorder fall to his cot.

“The cameras didn’t get dick,” the man next to Harris said.

“Then we got nothing?” Kelly said as she looked around from face to face.

“Oh, I think we got something.” Harris Dalton opened the double doors to reveal a quiet, warm living room. “I think we got the hell scared out of us.”

More than thirty
people slept just beyond the large wooden gate of Summer Place. The network had tried to get the State Police to move the crowd off of the Lindemann property, but with Wallace Lindemann spending the night in Bright Waters they had no one to officially declare them trespassers. Twenty of the group that laid low against the chill inside of sleeping bags were protesters against
Hunters of the Paranormal
from Bright River and Bright Waters, mostly made up of religious men and women who saw the show as an affront to their beliefs. The other ten, sleeping only forty feet away, were staunch supporters of the show, fans since its cable inception many years before. They had all calmed down as many had left for the more comforting confines of the local motels, hotels and off-season ski resorts. The shouting and yelling stopped just as the moon rose into the night sky. At four-thirty in the morning there wasn’t so much as the glow of a flashlight to say that anyone was outside the gates at all.

Across the road, watching from the woods, was a large buck. Its antlers moved left and then right as it turned its large head, as if it studied the strange scene across the way: the tents, the people on the ground nestled in sleeping bags. The buck sniffed the air. Then its eyes moved over the two State Police cruisers parked in the gravel drive, blocking the front gates. The men inside dozed with their hats pulled down over their eyes. Out of the four men, only one was awake. He pulled open the cruiser’s door and stepped outside for some needed air. The trooper adjusted his belt and stopped, seeing the pair of glowing eyes in the woods across the street. It was a deer—a large one to be sure, but just a deer nonetheless.

The deer made no move to come forward from the tree line or recede into its protection. It watched the man as he stretched, yawning and shaking his head to clear it of sleep. As it watched, two more deer joined it inside the tree line. At first they playfully brushed the male, but when the play wasn’t returned, they too looked across the way, first at the slumbering men and women, and then at the man who walked around the two police cruisers. Then the eyes of all three deer settled on the house. The large buck’s eyes moved as a light came on in the large tent not far from the swimming pool. The chef and his two assistants the network had hired for the catering stepped from the large enclosure and looked around. As the two assistants fired up the stoves and ovens at the back of the large commissary tent, the chef made a beeline for the port-o-potty fifty feet away. Three more deer joined the group watching the house. Far off, an owl hooted and then settled back down to silence.

The male deer stepped free of the tree line and advanced four steps onto the shoulder of the road. The movement caught the attention of the man as he turned the corner of his police cruiser. He froze, but made no move to frighten the buck away. The male was soon joined by a female, cautiously stepping free of the trees. It sniffed the gravel lining the road, and then the male, before looking across the street at the man who stood next to the driver’s door with his thumbs in his gun belt.

The trooper moved his left hand slowly away from his body and tapped on the glass of the driver’s side door. Not enough of a tap to frighten away the beautiful creature across the way, but enough to get the driver’s attention. He pushed his hat back up and out of his face.