15 Amityville Horrible (2 page)

“I’m going to kill you,” I said when Mike finally answered his phone. “I’m going to murder you, then summon your spirit and stick you in a very small, very dark box. No, wait. I’ll stick you in front of a television, where you are forced to watch reality TV reruns for eternity. Reruns of your own shows.”

“I—”

“I did
Death of Innocence
as a favor because I know I owed you for my first Keni Bales appearance. So I signed on to help raise the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. And when it all went to hell, was it my fault?”

“No, but—”

“Your first big show was about to be canceled. But then, one of your performers discovered a child’s body in the garden. Who did that?”

“You, but—”

“I found that poor girl, and soon, no one gave a crap about Marilyn, because you had something even juicier.
Death of Innocence: Satanism in Brentwood.
A smash hit. Who gave you that?”

“Well, it was a joint—”

“Joint effort, my ass. It was me. I even went along with the wildly inaccurate Satanic cult angle for you. I put up with Todd Simon and Bradford Grady, and I salvaged a ratings smash hit from a train wreck. Five years later, the video is still selling enough to send you to Venice every spring. And how do you repay me?”

“By giving you another smash,” he blurted. “Star billing in a brand new special. At double the rate I paid you for
Death
.”

“I am not—”

“With a cut of video sales.”

I paused. “Net or gross?”

“Net, of course. I can’t—”

I hung up. I counted to three. My phone rang.

“Okay, gross, but it will be a much, much smaller percentage than you’d get for net—”

“A smaller percentage of something is better than a huge cut of nothing. I know how your accounting works. I’ll take gross—
if
I agree to do it, and we’re a long way from that. Setting me up with that fake reporter tonight—”

“Fake?” he sputtered. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Cut the crap and this will go much smoother. You sent her. She nailed me on camera. That means I have to at least listen to what you have to say or I’m the diva bitch who couldn’t spare a few minutes to raise public awareness of zombie-itus.”

“We’d prefer to call it—”

“Whatever. Yes, Cotard’s is a real condition. Yes, people suffer from it. But that’s not why you’re using it, so let’s stop pretending you care. You know that if I do this, I’ll treat it seriously, even if I’m the only one who does.”

I let him sputter, then cut in with, “So what’s the gig?”

…

“Yes, that Amityville.”

I was lying on a hotel bed with my feet propped against the wall. I’m sure I looked like a sixteen-year-old on the phone with her boyfriend. Which was pretty much accurate. I was on the phone. With my boyfriend. And I might be a long way from sixteen, but there’s something about Jeremy Danvers that makes me feel like a teenager even after five years together.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never quite gotten over that embarrassing school-girl crush I had on him. Or because it still feels a little like teen dating. We talk for at least an hour on the phone every day and get together mostly on weekends.

I’ve had friends look at our long-distance arrangement and question just how committed I am to Jeremy—and he to me. After all, we
aren’t
kids. We should be living together by now, if not married. Which goes to prove, I guess, that those people aren’t actually friends, or they’d know there’s no question about what I feel for Jeremy.

Yes, we
aren’t
kids. That’s the point. I have my career, which keeps me on the road. He has his, as werewolf Alpha, which keeps him in New York state. I suppose, to some of them, if I was truly in love I’d give up my job for him. Which, again, proves how little they understand me. I love Jeremy. I love my job. I can have both. He’s already planning to step down as Alpha, and when he does, he’ll join me on the road more often, but neither of us is talking about a permanent move. Maybe someday, when I do retire, we’ll grow old together at Stonehaven. Until then, I’m ecstatically happy with exactly what I have.

“It’s not actually being filmed at
the
Amityville house,” I said to Jeremy. “Mike couldn’t get that. So he’s renting a similar looking place and renovating it to match the movie set. He won’t claim it’s the Amityville house…but he won’t try to avoid confusion either.”

“I see.”

“Yes, totally cheesy. But the charity angle helps. Also, I’m the only spiritualist, which means no ego clashes like we had in Brentwood. The other pros are parapsychologists. Then there are the extras. They’ll start casting those slots after the press release goes out tomorrow.”

“So the extras will be actors?”

“Mmm, not exactly. They’re supposed to be just regular folks who dare to spend a night in a haunted house. It’s an old routine. I’ll send you links to some YouTube clips. They’re good for a laugh. Basically, a bunch of people running around in the dark, hearing pipes creak and mice skitter, and scaring themselves silly.”

“I see.”

I lowered my feet. “It’s too cheesy, isn’t it.” I swore under my breath. “I should have—”

“You should have done exactly what you wanted to do. Or, in this case, felt compelled to do. I was assimilating, not judging. You know that.”

“I do. Sorry. Just…” I inhaled. “I know it’s not exactly a brilliant career move. It’s not a bad one, but for respectability, it’s two steps down from the Marilyn show, and that wasn’t exactly the highlight of my career.”

“It didn’t damage it. In fact, it raised your profile, didn’t it? Boosted attendance at your shows?”

As he spoke, something flickered to the side. I sat up.

“Jaime?” he said when I went silent.

“Just a sec. I may have a visitor.”

Most people who know I’m a necromancer would keep talking. Asking questions.
Is it my spirit guide, Eve? A ghost? Has a ghost been bothering me? Is Eve being a pain in the ass?
Jeremy knew that the best response was silence while I puzzled it out.

I looked around. The natural thing would be to call, “Who’s there?” but with ghosts, that’s like rolling out the welcome mat. It’s better to wait and let the ghosts make contact…then send them packing as quickly as possible.

That sounds cruel. It
is
cruel. It’s also self-preservation. I help when I can, but if I opened myself up to every spirit who asked, I’d be plagued by them every moment of the day. Luckily, I have a very effective watchdog—my ghostly bodyguard, Eve Levine. Dark witch, half-demon and ascended angel. Yes, angel, which might be the scariest of the three. She has only to show up, Sword of Judgment in hand, and most spirits decide they really didn’t want to talk to me after all.

Unfortunately, being an angel means there are times Eve isn’t around. Like now. She’s out of contact, and I’m on my own, relying on her reputation to protect me.

When I looked around now, though, I saw no sign of a ghost. A trick of the light. That happens, even with necromancers.

“False alarm.” I lay down on the bed and propped my feet up again. “You’re right about the show. I’m just…I feel like I was railroaded into this, and now I’m scrambling to convince myself it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“It won’t be as bad as it seemed. Because you’re in it now.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“When does it film?”

“In two months.”

“Would you like company on set?”

My smile widened. “I would.”

…

The show filmed in May. I would arrive early to do promotion. Jeremy wasn’t joining me until the filming began. Promotion is hell. While one could argue that having him there would make it easier, I’ve learned that it really doesn’t, because I’d much rather be with him, so I tend to arrive at interviews at the last possible moment, and if they cancel, I don’t rebook. I know that’s unprofessional, but like I said, when it comes to Jeremy, I turn into a sixteen-year-old girl, ignoring her assignments and bouncing around shrieking, “He’s here! He’s here!”

So I arrived alone. The first week was spent in New York City—there aren’t many major media outlets in Amityville. I did morning shows. I did talk shows. I summoned spirit after spirit. A few of them were even real.

Then, two days before filming started, it was time to go to Amityville to meet my fellow ghost hunters. And time to meet the house where we’d be ghost hunting.

…

The show had hired a sedan service take me to Amityville. That sounds fancy, until you realize the town is only an hour east of New York City. A taxi probably would have cost more.

The main crew was supposed to meet at the house for a big “getting to know you” party. Then, at the last minute, we were texted directions to a local inn with a curt “change of plans” note.

“Change of plans, my ass,” I muttered on my cell to Jeremy as the car entered Amityville. “They never planned for us to meet at the house.”

“They want to film your first look at it. For part of the special.”

“Exactly. Last time they did that when we arrived, but it was such a mess they cut it. No one wants to see jet-lagged spiritualists stumbling in, muttering about their crappy flight. They want a big reveal this time. And the party isn’t for the real people anyway.”

“Just the fake ones?”

I laughed. “Close. Pros only. They’ll hold off on introducing us to the regular folks who ‘won’ slots. They’ll want to film that. Get my reaction when I realize I’m about to spend the night with people who’ll probably make me look like Mensa material.”

His silence worked better than any verbal rebuke.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said. “I’ve almost stopped doing that.”

“Around me.”

I still mocked myself around others is what he meant. Getting the jokes and insults in before they could. Which he hated.

He changed the subject with, “So it’s just the professionals today. The parapsychologists. Did Mike provide you with a list of names yet?”

“He doesn’t dare. I’m sure he looked back through my career and hired everyone I’ve ever had friction with, for better TV. I’ll handle it. I just…I wish, for once, I could tell myself it’ll all work out fine.”

“It will,” he said. “Eventually. It just takes some work to get there.”

I sighed. “I know..

The driver dropped me off at the inn’s front gate. Apparently, his fee didn’t cover actually pulling into the lane. I could have bitched—normally I would, oh-so-politely, as I’ve learned from Jeremy—but traffic in New York meant I’d spent two hours in the car and I was happy for the excuse to walk, if only up the drive.

The inn was on the outskirts of Amityville. It was your typical New England inn, a big white colonial with rose gardens just coming into bloom. I meandered up the drive, stopping to smell the roses, literally.

As I was straightening, I felt a ghost behind me. It’s not an icy draft running down my spine or anything so dramatic. It’s like sensing a person there, because that’s what ghosts look like to a necromancer. Regular people. It’s only when you see them walk through objects that you realize otherwise.

When I turned, I caught the flicker of a spirit. I sighed. A disappointing reaction for everyone who’d be watching the upcoming show. I should shriek. Or pale. Or at least tremble in my boots. But given that I was wearing designer boots with five-inch spike heels, trembling really wasn’t wise.

The truth, as much as it would dismay every horror fan, is that your average spook isn’t all that spooky. In fact, they’d be kind of offended if I ran screaming.

So I sighed. Then I waited. But my phantom was a shy one. Finally, I said, grudgingly, “If you want to talk to me, wait until I’m in my hotel room.” As much as I hate to invite ghostly encounters, it was better than having one show up on camera. Nothing ruins a fake seance like a real spirit.

“That’s the deal, okay?” I said. “Contact me when I’m alone and—”

“Jaime? You’re early.”

I looked to see Mike bouncing down the front steps.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

He flashed a thousand-dollar smile. “Helping bring my baby to life, of course.”

Mike never shows up on the set. Hmm. This wasn’t good.

“Did I hear you talking to someone?” he asked.

“Just a ghost.”

He laughed and hugged me. He thought I was joking, of course. I didn’t disillusion him.

“You’ll be pleased to know I took your advice about our afflicted guests,” he said.

“It wasn’t advice. If you parade people with Cotard’s in front of the camera, I will walk off the set and—”

“I’ve invited relatives instead. They’ll tell their stories in brief clips to be played throughout the special.”

“Tastefully and respectfully.”

A faint shudder. “Yes. Though I think you’re overreacting and doing a disservice to the sufferers—”

“It’s a mental illness where people think they’ve died. They believe they’re in hell or that they’re zombies or that they’re missing limbs or body organs.”

His eyes glittered. “I know.”

“They’ve been known to stop eating and die of starvation. Or test their death theory by committing suicide.”

“Oh, well, we wouldn’t show
that
.”

I gave him a look as we walked up the front steps.

He sighed. “Yes, yes. There will be no Cotard’s sufferers on set.”

“Couldn’t find any who’d agree, could you? It’s kind of hard to get excited about making your TV debut when you think you’re dead.”

We walked through the inn’s front doors. Mike tried to persuade me to go to my room first, take some time, fix my hair. My hair was fine. Ten years ago, I’d have hurried off to check anyway, certain I had huge snarls sticking out the back. I knew better. Mike just didn’t want me going to the party yet.

I was, as he’d said, early. In fact, I was significantly earlier than Mike told me to get there, because I knew he wanted me to swan in thirty minutes late and start establishing my diva-hood as soon as possible. So I turned my suitcase over to the bellhop, to be placed in my room, and insisted on joining the party.

Mike led me along the hall toward the source of the murmurs I’d heard since entering the inn. We walked into the party in the common room. There were no decorations that looked as if they’d been hauled out of a Halloween box. No decorations at all, which told me this part was not going to be filmed. I could relax a little, probably for the last time until this show was over.

Mike steered me straight to a tall, gray-haired man with his back to us.

“Jaime, I believe you know Oliver Black,” Mike said.

I tried to hide my surprise. I certainly did know the producer. He was supposed to helm the Marilyn show, and I’d been thrilled about that, not just because Oliver seemed to be a genuine fan of my work, but because I was a genuine fan of his. At the last minute he’d been pulled and I got stuck with Todd Simon, beer commercial producer extraordinaire, who’d barked commands from afar. When Mike had said Oliver would be producing this new show, I’d expected the same switcheroo.

Mike’s up to something
, I thought, as I air-kissed Oliver’s cheek and told him how thrilled I was to have him here.

Oliver wouldn’t be staying, of course. That wasn’t his producer job. But having him here to meet the crew and impart a few words of encouragement still meant a lot.

Before I could chat with Oliver, though, Mike led me to the next surprise.

“And your director,” he said. “I believe you two have worked together before?”

“Becky!” I said.

It was Becky Cheung, who’d directed
Death of Innocence
. By the end of that show, I wouldn’t have been nearly so pleased to work with her again. She hadn’t been bad, simply inexperienced. After the show, though, her star had jumped, and her first act had been to cut ties with Todd Simon, which had proved the young woman was brighter than I’d thought.

Becky had gone on to make a name for herself in TV and hadn’t forgotten that I’d helped her make her big break. Anytime we were due to be in the same city, she’d invite me out for dinner. I could chalk that up to simple networking, but after I withdrew from Hollywood, the number of “let’s do lunch” voice-mails on my phone plummeted.

Finding her here was a surprise. Mike had told me that he’d hired someone new, rattling off a name I couldn’t find on the Internet. Had he replaced his first choice? Or had he been planning on Becky all along? Either way, I should be thrilled. So why did I feel like there was a shoe over my head, waiting to drop?

The gifts kept coming after that—and the shadow cast by that shoe continued to grow. For the parapsychology pros, he’d hired Ted Robson, the EVP expert from
Death
, and Bruce Wong, who’d handled spirit photography. Both ranked high on my list of “pros I’d like to work with again.”

I chatted with the two parapsychologists and was introduced to a third, who I’d never worked with, but had heard great things about. We talked about their plans for the show and as I enjoyed a glass of champagne, I finally began to relax.

I was being paranoid. Mike had every reason to make this a good show and, really, with something like this—a group of strangers shoved together in a “haunted” house—there was no need for the interpersonal drama so essential to other reality shows. It was a different audience with different expectations. They wanted to see ghosts and ghouls, not meltdowns and catfights.

“Jaime?” Mike said, coming over after I’d spent some time with the parapsychologists. “There’s someone else I want you to meet.”

…

Mike took me into a small room adjacent to the party. Inside, a man sat on a couch, checking his email. He was in his thirties, slender, with slightly shaggy blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses. I didn’t recognize him.

“Jaime, I’d like to introduce you to Gregor Baronova.”

The name meant nothing. When Mike spoke, though, the man noticed us and leapt up.

“This is most unprofessional,” he said, speaking with a thick Russian accent. “I am so sorry. My wife had asked me to tell her when I arrived safely so I came in here to send her an email message.”

He extended a hand, then realized he was still holding his phone and fumbled to get it into his suit pocket.

“It is a great honor, Ms. Vegas. I have followed your career with much interest. When I was told I might work with you, I thought someone was making a joke.”

“No joke,” I said, flashing a smile. “Though you might start to wish otherwise after a few hours on the set with me.”

“She’s kidding,” Mike said quickly. “Jaime is a dream to work with.”

Gregor nodded. “I am certain she is.”

“So you’re joining us on set?” I said. “What’s your specialty?”

Gregor looked anxiously at Mike. “She does not know?”

My smile froze a little. “Know what?”

“I was assured that my participation had been approved by you.” Gregor turned to Mike. “Quite assured.”

“Er, yes,” Mike said. “We…seemed to have a communication gap on that. The producer was very clear about wanting everyone to meet at the same time. Otherwise, I would have been
more
than happy—”

“He didn’t tell me,” I cut in. “But that only means that I haven’t had the chance to get to know your work better. Your name sounds familiar…”

It didn’t, but you never tell someone in show biz that you haven’t heard of him.

“I am new to this line of occupation,” Gregor said. “I have only performed in Russia.”

“Performed?” I looked at Mike. Sweat was trickling down his face.

“Yes,” Gregor said. “I am a…what do they call it here? A spiritualist. Like you..