Thirteen Days of Midnight (15 page)

“Shut up. Look, come on, we’re watching trash TV. I’ll get you a beer?”

“Sounds great.”

I’ve got no intention of drinking a drop, but I’m not about to explain that to Holiday. Elza has moved past both of us and is staring out the windows at the far end of the kitchen, looking into what must be the backyard. I tense up, thinking she’s seen something outside, but then she turns away and gives me a little shrug. I can’t feel the icy cold that accompanies the Host, so I presume we’re safe for now.

Holiday presses a beer into my hand.

“Can I get you anything?” she asks Elza.

“I’m not drinking tonight,” Elza replies.

“Oh,” Holiday says, “are you doing a detox?”

“No. I just think, you know, what if something terrible happened tonight and I was drunk? I wouldn’t be able to deal with it.” Elza fixes me with a volcanic glare.

Holiday, who is either an amazing actor or genuinely the kindest person in the world, appears to be giving serious consideration to this. “Sure,” she says. “I get anxious, too, you know?”

I’m not really drinking,
I mouth at Elza behind Holiday’s back.
Act more normal.

“I think the only sane way to live,” Elza says to Holiday, “is anxiously.”

Standing in my crush’s kitchen, waiting for the arrival of my dad’s horde of evil spirits, listening to Elza and Holiday coproduce a strong contender for Most Awkward Conversation of the Year Award, I decide that I am going to have a drink after all.

The living room is twice the size of the kitchen, done in whites and creams, with a sixty-inch plasma screen installed in a cavity at one end. There’s a real log fire, grumbling to itself behind a black fire screen. The party so far is nonexistent. There’s just a few of the top-tier girls from my class, dressed as cats, nurses, and Disney princesses. They all look up at me and Holiday and Elza as we enter. I feel like I’m on display, a show pony she’s leading into the ring. The reaction to Elza is more like she’s been buried up to her neck in an anthill. None of Holiday’s friends say a word, but I can see their expressions, tiny communications as they catch one another’s eyes: scorn, shock, amusement. It’s like watching a group of sadistic computers communicate via Wi-Fi. I pretend not to notice and sit down with Holiday on the largest sofa, facing the television. Elza stands against the far wall and looks at her boots.

“So we’re watching, like, this totally ridiculous show,” Holiday’s saying. “
Nightwatch.
They’re having a marathon of it, since it’s nearly Halloween. Have you seen it?”

Ouch.

“Never,” I say.

“Oh, it’s just the best,” says Holiday. “The guy who presents it is, like, this total weirdo. He’s called Dr. Manchett —”

“No relation,” I say with a forced grin.

“I heard he, like, just died, or something?” one of her friends says.

“Yeah, they had that on the news the other day?” says another.

“Really,” I say.

The screen is dark. I can see stars, a suggestion of trees in the black against black. There’s the crunch of footsteps.

“Are you OK?” whispers Holiday.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“You’re all tense. Are you, like, scared?” She grins.

“As if this is going to be scary.”

I’m swiftly proved wrong by the face that appears on-screen. Hair falling back across a shiny scalp, hair growing across cheeks and chin like an unmanicured lawn. I’m very glad that I’ve inherited more of Mum’s genetic material than Dad’s. He’s wearing a lime-green shirt and is lit at close range in the dark by a powerful white lamp, which makes him look embalmed.

“In all my years as a paranormal investigator,” he says, “I cannot remember another case quite like this one. What you are about to see is disturbing, and may make you question everything you think you know about life . . . and death.”

The credit sequence begins. It’s pretty lackluster, and I find myself wondering how big a budget Dad was given. The opening rolls over what is presumably stock footage of forests and castles, mixed in with some night-vision shots of basements and dungeons. The music is low and ominous-sounding, occasionally rising to a crescendo when the camera focuses on a full moon or a sinister-looking empty doorway. Eventually the screen freezes on a night-vision shot of a skeleton lying on the ground, and the word
Nightwatch
comes up in green Gothic lettering accompanied by a screaming effect.

The scene changes. It’s daylight, under a lead-gray sky. The camera is in a moving vehicle, driving through a forest. The plants are dull and autumnal. The camera glides around a bend in the road, and we see a squat stone building standing in the midst of an unkempt lawn. The trees lean over the house in a silent canopy.

“This is Coldstane Rectory,” says the narrator, “built in the late eighteenth century. The building has had a ghastly reputation for more than two hundred years. Current occupant Michael Aulder thought that the house would be the perfect rural getaway for his family. Michael says that he never believed in ghosts, but after buying the rectory, the Aulder family have changed their minds. Please note that all footage on this show is real. Nothing has been faked and no special effects are used. We do not use actors in our reality programming.”

Mr. Aulder is hard-faced, with a full head of graying hair, his stout body barely contained by a white oxford shirt. He’s standing in bright sunlight under a wide blue sky. It’s obviously summer, in notable contrast to the earlier shots.

“Well, of course, people said things to us,” says Mr. Aulder, “warning it was haunted, giving me all the talk. Never listened to them, though, did I? I’ve never believed in all that, ghosts and such.” He laughs, exposing gray teeth. “I’ve a different view now.”

“The Aulder family lived in the property for a little over a month before the paranormal events began,” says the narrator, “mainly occurring around three o’clock in the morning — the traditional haunting hour.”

Cut to Mrs. Aulder, blond and round-faced, wearing a yellow dress. She stands in the kitchen in front of a brass kettle and a green stove. She’s nervous, looking away from the camera.

“I thought at first it was kids,” she says, “messing around. That was bad enough. There were noises, you know, in the roof and outside in the yard. Our daughter, she’s only six, she was scared. She said she wanted to go back to the old house. My husband thought it was rats.”

Cut to Mr. Aulder. “I often slept through the early occurrences, if I’m honest. I have a heavy workload, and I’m a heavy sleeper, too. I thought she was making things up.”

Mrs. Aulder: “It wasn’t until things started moving around that Michael began to take it seriously.”

“What kind of things?” asks a voice off camera.

“Everything.” She swallows hard.

Cut back to the outside view of the rectory. It’s autumn again. A pair of white vans pull into the gravel driveway and grind toward the house.

“The Aulder family have not had a night’s peace since summer,” says the narrator. “They report unnatural noises at night, poltergeist activity, ectoplasm leaking from the walls, sensations of extreme cold, food in the house rotting within hours of purchase, excessive junk mail, shadowy figures stalking the garden at night, orbs of spiritual energy disrupting Christmas dinner, and, in one memorable occurrence, the television set leaked
blood.
”

“I think that was the most disturbing manifestation,” says Mr. Aulder in his sunlit garden. “I was watching the news, and the set began to dim. I walked over to adjust the picture, and I discovered there was a thick liquid running down the plasma screen. When I put my hand on it, I realized it was, in fact, blood.”

“And this is when you decided to call the
Nightwatch
team for help?”

“Yes. Yes, it was. I can’t live like this.”

Cut to a van door opening. A pair of bright-orange shoes step down onto the gravel.

“Dr. Horatio Manchett is Britain’s most respected paranormal expert,” announces the voice-over, “with more than a hundred hauntings successfully exorcised.”

“Dr. Manchett owns Britain’s campest collection of shoes,” I say, “and has plans to purchase many more flamboyant shoes in the near future.”

“Quiet,” hisses Holiday, giggling.

Dad is on-screen, wearing a dark-red suit.

“— and this has frightened you?”

“Very much so,” says Mrs. Aulder.

“Well, it seems,” says Dad, turning to the camera, “that this family is experiencing a paranormal event of some magnitude. What we are going to do is take a look around the house, a preliminary look, as it were, and see what occurs. We’ll be taking an especially close interest in the kitchen and living room, as these are the rooms where the family reports the most intense activity.”

Dad gestures at the cameraman, who follows him as he sweeps through the low square doorway and into the kitchen.

“Well, this is an excellent example of period architecture,” he remarks, “and the family has kept it in really beautiful condition. The question is, Are we going to feel any kind of presence here?”

The Aulders stand, looking on, nervous while Dad strides around the kitchen in his garish suit, opening cupboards and muttering in what I assume is Latin. As he rummages under the sink, asking them about auras they may have experienced in the house, I see a figure standing in the corner of the room. It’s a woman, gray-faced, wearing a very old-fashioned dress. She’s looking at my dad with a vacant expression. The Aulders, as well as Holiday and her friends, see no sign that she’s there at all. This confuses me enormously. You read all kinds of stuff about ghosts appearing in photographs, but this is the first time I’ve even thought about it. Are they giving off some kind of energy that’s beyond the normal visible spectrum? How are the cameras capturing it? I remember what the Vassal said to me when I first asked him about life after death:
Better minds than yours or mine have chased their own tails for lifetimes regarding such questions.
Some of these things I’ll never understand.

“I think maybe we should try to address the spirits directly,” says Dad to the camera, “to see if I can get any idea of how many there are and what they want from these people.”

“How will we do that?” asks Mrs. Aulder nervously.

“They’re often responsive to a confident voice,” Dad says. “Are there any spirits within this house?” he asks loudly.

Nothing.

“I said,” he shouts, “are there any spirits within this house? If there is a presence within this house, I demand that you make yourself known!”

Dad raises his hands and makes some kind of gesture. I notice the sigil on his right finger and quickly hide my right hand in my pocket. I don’t want anyone noticing that we’ve got the same surname and wear the same ring. There’d probably be some questions about that.

“Make yourself known!” yells Dad. The Judge and the Prisoner come in through one wall of the kitchen. The Prisoner grabs the female ghost by the hair and drags her out of the room through the opposite wall. Before I have time to think about what’s happening, they’re gone. The Judge kicks the stove as hard as he can with his boot. Holiday jumps and grips my leg like a vise.

“Did you hear that?” she says.

“It’s just a bang. They edit those noises in.”

“That was
so
a ghost. Don’t be a spoilsport!” The other girls are laughing and shrieking.

“Tell me what it is that you want,” proclaims Dad in the rectory’s kitchen, “and I can let you leave in peace.”

The Judge strides to the kitchen counter and with some relish lifts an unwashed pot up into the air. The cameraman notices and audibly gasps, shifting his gaze from Dad to the pot hanging in the air.

“Uh, Dr. M,” says the cameraman, clearly unscripted, “by the sink.”

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” says Dad, turning toward the Judge. “Either you talk to me, or I shall expel you from this place.”

The Judge rolls his eyes and throws the pot at the wall.

Holiday and her mates shriek.

“I’m not sure about this,” says the cameraman. “Like, are we insured for this?”

“Everything is fine,” says Dad. “Nobody panic.”

The Judge picks up a knife and slowly waves it about. Mrs. Aulder starts to hyperventilate.

“I think maybe we should all go outside,” says Dad, placing himself between the floating knife and the couple. “Let’s go outside and regroup. I think I have the measure of the haunting now: There is definitely a hostile presence here.”

The camera crew don’t need to be told twice and make an undignified exit, running out the door and into the daylight. This part is clearly unrehearsed, and several members of crew, including the sound guy, are caught on film as they make their escape. The Aulders join the crew on their lawn at a run. Dad comes last and the Judge slips out after him, lighting another cigarette. I’m guessing Dad neglected to tell the camera crew that the ghosts are real. There are no live actors on the show, but there are plenty of dead ones.

In the background I can see the Prisoner moving toward the woods at the back of the house, dragging the female ghost — presumably the ghost that was haunting the Aulders in the first place — along behind him by the hair. While Dad talks Mrs. Aulder down, I watch the struggle in the background. As they reach the tree line, I see something else, just for a moment, something that looks like a moving shadow, darkness that flows out from behind a tree and engulfs the rectory’s original ghost. The hairs all along my arms stand on end, but the camera cuts away before I can get a good view of what happened. I look over to Elza, to see if she saw it as well, but she’s not in the room anymore.

In the next scene Dad and Mrs. Aulder conduct a sort of séance in the family room, trying to contact the spirits and pinpoint how many there are so they can be exorcised. The Judge provides some restrained raps on the table and walls, and then the Prisoner walks through the wall and starts running his scarred hands over Mrs. Aulder, gurgling softly. I stiffen in my seat.

“Oh, I feel,” she gasps, “I can feel something. Oh, no. Oh, I just . . . it’s so angry. They feel so angry, so full of hatred.”