Dark Screams: Volume Two (5 page)

“You don’t understand. You have no idea.” He wouldn’t hit her, no, but he put one palm flat against her shoulder and shoved her out of the aisle. Michelle caught herself on the back of a chair, practically falling into Surfer Dude’s lap. As she regained her balance, she was pleased to notice Robert’s partner had escaped. And people from outside, the non–family members Wade hadn’t permitted to enter, caught the door before it crunched shut. They surged into the conference room, agitated by the commotion of agony and confusion they’d heard through the walls.

The Reporter ran toward the doorway, and he wedged his thick body through the entering crowd. Michelle hadn’t been able to stop him, but at least she’d given Robert’s friend a head start.

The entire situation was too big for her to grasp, so she’d fixated on this tiny battle of wills. Michelle couldn’t revive dead bodies from the wreckage, but she could damn well fight against prejudice and exploitation.

She followed the Reporter.

She found him outside the room, the only person in the baggage claim area at this late hour. He aimed a digital camera at empty conveyor belts. So she’d been right about him all along. Michelle thought of movie crime scenes where a police chief grabs a reporter’s unauthorized camera and pulls a loop of film from the compartment, recorded images flashed away in an overexposed instant; or where a sheriff’s boot heel cracks through a lens and view screen, scrapes metal and plastic into the asphalt next to a bloodstain and chalk outline. She didn’t have that kind of bullying authority—only the force of her indignation. “Which newspaper?” she asked.

The Reporter held the camera at arm’s length, between thumb and fingertips, with a continual pan and pivot of his wrist. “I’m sorry?”

She called his bluff. “You don’t know anyone on that plane,” Michelle said.

“No. I don’t.” But his confession wasn’t the triumph she expected. There was a glimmer of weakness in his flat statement, something with the flavor of authentic grief. “
This
tragedy isn’t mine,” he said, and for a moment, despite herself, she pitied him.

But her emotions, held in check for most of the evening, now responded in quick reflexive jolts. When the Reporter next said, “He can’t have gone far,” a sneer in the pronoun set her off again. Michelle was certain she’d heard it:
He
used ironically, as if a homosexual doesn’t deserve the masculine reference.

“Why are you looking for him? Maybe you need someone to blame for the sake of a story. Or maybe it’s something personal?” Her voice got louder as she climbed inside rediscovered anger. “But it’s chance. Random wind currents or pilot error or engine flaws or some other combination of bad luck. You can’t scapegoat an innocent man simply because—”

“He’s not innocent,” the Reporter said. “And he’s not a man.”

“That’s enough!” And she was pointing at him, jabbing his shoulder with her forefinger for emphasis. “You can’t blame someone because you don’t like the way he looks. Because you don’t like the way he loves.” How did she summon the nerve to touch him like that?—a small-framed girl against this stocky bigot who no doubt played football or wrestled in high school, lifted weights twenty years later to fight back the gut from weekend drinking. And even more surprising, her outburst seemed to work. He dropped the arm with the camera and stepped back, a sadness and realization on his face, and she felt as if, in a one-minute confrontation, she’d startled him out of a lifetime of prejudice. No miracles for people on Flight 1137, sadly, but maybe a small miracle here.

“You’re mistaken.” He shook his head. “I’m not homophobic. He lies. That’s what he does.” Again the irony and scorn in the pronoun.

“Not a man,” he repeated. “I know how it sounds. But the first time we met, he was an Asian janitor who worked nights on the intensive-care floor. My teenage daughter was in a coma. Five months, with a hopeless prognosis, but I tried to believe. I tried so hard. That’s the interval.”

He wasn’t a reporter. She reevaluated his unshaven face, mussed hair, and wrinkled clothes. Michelle had made allowances for people’s distress—
of
course
they’d all look worried and frantic, black circles under their eyes as if they hadn’t slept for days. But this guy was too comfortable in his crazed appearance; it wasn’t a symptom of fresh grief.

“The interval. When you know something’s bad, but you can’t quite give up. You hold on to your faith, squeeze it close, but it gets weaker and weaker because you’re smothering it. And
he
gets stronger.”

Michelle wanted to walk away, but something in his manner held her fast. Perhaps she obeyed an unwritten etiquette for dealing with crazy people, especially after you’d confronted them. She needed to let him explain himself.

“An interval demon,” he continued. “That’s what I call him. He thrives on the interval between when people dread something and when they find out for certain. At hospitals, of course. After natural disasters, after terrorist attacks. The more people, the more they wait in agony for terrible news, the stronger he gets. Do you understand?”

Michelle nodded, not caring what she agreed to.

“Yes, you can understand how this is a good one for him. Everyone in that room suspects someone in their family has died. But the airline dangles hope in front of them, draws it out. And the demon taunts people, walks around the room and gets them to talk about God and faith. That’s how he gained power to perform his trick, flashing those images on the screen. He showed enough to ratchet up the fear, but not enough to demolish their hopes completely.”

“I should get back to the room,” Michelle offered. He ignored her and continued to spin out his twisted logic.

“These days,” he explained, “cellphones and quick disaster response close the interval, making knowledge of tragedy more immediate. The demon has to sniff out places where the outcome will linger, uncertain.”

Ridiculous. Even if she could accept the preposterous element at the center of his story—a shape-changing demon strengthened by human tragedy—how was this reporter (this hunter, as he fashioned himself) able to follow the demon, much less identify it? This crazy guy was nothing more than a vagrant who stumbled into an emotionally charged scene, chose a scapegoat, and tried to stir up trouble.

“We have a connection,” he said, sensing her skepticism. “Ever since my little girl died. That’s how we sometimes end up in the same place.” He swept the digital camera in a wide arc, taking in the outside wall of office 2-C behind her. “The demon won’t have gone far. It gains more energy the closer it is to the crisis.” He stopped, pointed high above her to the right, and spoke in a birdwatcher’s whisper. “The security camera.”

Enough, Michelle decided. She wouldn’t even look.

“There. In the corner.”

And she
would
look—to humor him, and also to end it. She turned to where he pointed: the security camera, high-mounted over the baggage conveyors, its red indicator light steady over a wide-angle lens.

Nothing there. Since she’d already turned, she decided to keep going. Walk away.

“No,” he said, insistent. “You have to look
here.
” The guy was right next to her, one hand on her shoulder and the other blocking her way with the raised camera, practically pressing the LED view screen into her face.

Michelle shrugged her shoulder free, raised a hand, ready to slap the camera out of the way. She caught a glimpse of the view screen, its backlit image barely larger than a postage stamp. He held it steady, keeping the mounted security camera neatly centered, a silver-and-black rectangle appearing as tiny as a kernel of rice on the screen.

For the first time this stressful evening, Michelle laughed. This crazy guy was so desperate to show her his camera—and all the while his dumb, fat finger was over the lens. His fingertip was flat and out of focus on the top third of the screen. And what was so funny was that
he
was looking, too: He stood right next to her, saw the same spoiled image, and still acted like he’d proven his point.

Out of focus, and yet pressed so close she could make out the tiny dark whorls of his fingerprint. So ridiculous the way it sat…it sat…

The way it sat right on top of the security camera. The blurred, lined smudge of flesh on the screen. It
perched.

She realized now that he held the camera as before: from the side, with fingers along the top, thumb on the bottom.

Even in that tiny image, she noticed shapes in the lines she previously interpreted as a fingerprint, the whorls twisting on an upraised lump to approximate a face. Shadows creased beneath wrinkles and folds, with dark blue veins scored over random, taut muscles.

“Right next to the wall, where it could be close to everyone’s suffering.” The Reporter, the hunter, the vagrant—whatever he was—spoke with a detached excitement, happy to have solved his puzzle. “It hid above the security camera, so it wouldn’t show up on the monitors. It can fool us, but not a camera.”

Michelle had laughed at him seconds earlier. Now she felt her mouth tense into a grimace, the muscles in her neck stretching toward a scream.

Another scream came first, and another, a chorus of wailings from the other side of the wall.
Oh God,
she thought,
Wade told them. He finally told them about the plane crash.
And from the intensity of the reaction, he must have told them everyone on board had died.

In response, something happened to the shape on the view screen. A pulse of red light and an awful flexing.

Michelle’s hand, still poised to knock the digital camera away, twitched forward in a spasm. The camera fell from the man’s loose grip, and as it spun away she thought she saw movement in the image. The man’s camera dropped to the ground, and the
thing
dropped, too.

“It’s gotten too powerful,” he said in a panic. He dove after the camera. On all fours, he scooped it from the ground and turned the shattered view screen toward empty air. He stood up, his legs unsteady, and he held the broken device in front of him like a talisman. “Where is it?” he said. “Where is it
now
?”

Frustrated, he threw the useless camera against the wall. What kind of hunter didn’t bring a weapon? Perhaps the human forms of the demon—an elderly janitor; a tall, frail gay man—seemed weak enough that he believed he could overpower them with his bare hands.

He waved his arms in front, scratching at the air the way someone falling down a cliffside would grasp for handholds.

Michelle backed away. The wails of agony from the next room were thick, as tangible as footsteps that drew closer. Beneath the human cries she thought she heard a moist crackling, like a scab lifted from a half-healed wound.

But she saw nothing now, and hadn’t seen much before on that tiny screen. Maybe it had been only his finger over the lens. The man’s insanity had influenced her, broken through a sense of reality already stretched thin by the tension of unannounced tragedy. She was susceptible.

Susceptible enough to see something now, too, a tear in the space between them, like the flashes of light before a migraine. It seemed to concentrate near the man’s chest. His arms steadied, one hand wrapping in a fist. His face flushed and his feet lifted on tiptoes, chest heaving upward. The man’s eyes glazed in horror, and his body trembled as if something were being pulled out of him—the strip of film she’d imagined earlier, ripped from a camera and overexposed to a shock of bright light.

Too much. Too much for him. He dropped, lifeless, to the floor.

“Thank you.” The voice came from behind her, a familiar, slightly effeminate trill. Robert’s friend was here, as he’d made himself appear previously, but seeming false now, too close to the stereotype of an older gay man. He smiled at her, and Michelle wondered what stereotypes would fit his true identity. His head should tilt slightly down, heavy from the weight of horns. The rustle of leathern wings and a forked tail should flow behind him, his long legs balanced above cloven hooves. Unpleasant as these images seemed, they were at least easier to grasp than the blurred mass of discolored flesh and muscle she’d glimpsed in the tiny camera display. Or the full-size version—invisible, mercifully—that had sludged its way across the tile floor.

“Another time, perhaps,” he said. The man she had known as Robert’s friend walked past her with a confident stride, his shoulders no longer slumped under the weight of feigned grief. Michelle did nothing to stop him. Instead, her mind flashed images of a sick mother in a hospital bed, her fingers curled through arthritis and clenched pain; in a similar bed, a similar room, a man she didn’t quite recognize, his face handsome and soothing, and the sight of his decline filling her with unbearable remorse; and a smaller figure in a glass-enclosed crib, the infant body wrapped in heavy blankets, and she wonders (then? now?) if God could be so cruel to let her finally carry a child to term, to name her, love her, only to watch her fall to sickness before the baby has even learned to walk. Michelle can never trust anyone in these hospital rooms—the doctors, nurses, other visitors to the intensive-care floor—because she’s learned that kind faces can lie, that even a frail, welcoming form can betray you. She wouldn’t know how to identify the demon again, doesn’t know his name or how to fight him, indeed knows nothing except to conceive of her life from this point on as an awful journey from one crisis of faith to the next, a series of horrible extended intervals of uncertainty in which she’s feeding him, feeding him.

The October wind whistled past Eleanor’s ears, bringing an icy chill across her face.

“Let’s hope the inside of the property is as good as the outside.” She surveyed the morose landscape surrounding the three-level expansive Victorian farmhouse. The gray-brick house appeared fairy tale–like. Tall, yet bristly hickory and pine trees dotted the landscape, blocking out most of the overcast sky. Today was yet another test from her boss. Another assignment dropped in her lap that the senior art director let slip through the cracks.

After a long drive from NYC to southern Maine, she was determined to get the Foster farmhouse into shape before the production crew arrived.

“The pictures of the inside don’t do it justice,” her assistant, Gail, said with a smile. “C’mon, just look at this place!”

She did have a point. With the wrought-iron gates and stony driveway, an approaching camera shot with monologue would be perfect for
America’s Mysterious Hotspots.
“This is so last-minute. Why did production agree to this again?”

“Mr. Donahue promised us we’d like the inside.” Gail got out of the passenger seat, her thin fingers tapping hard on her cellphone screen. Brody, the art department intern, trailed after her.

A last-minute text message from the producers about a new location would be welcomed right about now. Not likely, though, since they had a few days until filming had to start. The deadline couldn’t be moved so the production staff had left her crew, the set designers, to deal with this, a house with a reputation built on rumors and a drenched landscape. A lone scout had handled the go-see not too long ago, and he had taken the steps to secure the site.

Another farmhouse with chipped white paint and haphazard green shutters came to mind. The Donahue home dwarfed that tiny house, yet somehow a lone window on the Victorian’s third floor drew her eye. Maybe it was the red curtains that resembled the ones from her childhood bedroom. A breeze shook the trees and forced her to return to the present. The weather vane, a hunting hound perched on the highest point of the slanted roof, whined as the metal scraped back and forth. The stench of rainwater and mud clung to everything. As fast as the clouds raced across the sky, more autumn rain would come soon, making their work even more unpleasant.

The front door opened and a man in a long-sleeved white shirt walked across the wide porch toward them. As he approached, something about his facial features appeared familiar. She’d seen that angular face before. The haircut was like any other man’s—a simple buzz cut in a conservative style. Eleanor forced herself to smile.

By the time they’d retrieved their equipment from the van, he’d walked across his lawn to greet them.

The man shook Gail’s hand first. As the main contact with the location manager, Gail knew his name. She offered introductions.

“Ellie, this is Patrick Donahue, the homeowner.” When he reached for Eleanor’s hand she shook his stiffly and let it go quickly. In a city as big as New York City, you met someone new every day, yet she couldn’t place where she’d seen him before. She’d met countless executives and businessmen, so she pushed the thought aside. He could be any of them.

Patrick kept smiling at her as she grabbed a bag and walked past him to the porch. The wood was worn and repainted in a few places, but in terms of authenticity it would make do if the spot needed to be used for filming. She sensed someone standing behind her. It had to be Patrick.

“How much of the original Foster farmhouse is left?” She motioned around her, eager to move on with production on a professional level.

“There’s plenty—just like I promised the gentleman who came by to check things out.” He held the thick double doors open for everyone. “Like I told Gail on the phone this morning, I bought the house a few years ago and it was in pretty bad shape. The previous owner had ruined much of the original Gothic architectural details, but I’ve been slowly working to bring them back.”

Through the front door Eleanor stepped into a fog of furniture polish and musty old wood. The underlying mildew scent circled her throat and held tight. Instead of covering her mouth, she took in the high ceilings. The gleaming birch floors. A tall metal chandelier hung from above, slightly swaying from some unknown breeze. From the foyer, three doorways lead to more rooms. She peeked ahead and spotted a path to the grand staircase that led upstairs. She couldn’t help but grimace. What probably had once been a beautiful Gothic railing for the staircase had been replaced with contemporary oak. A horrid color. A dark red carpet covered the steps, hopefully hiding any other new fixes.

“Follow me to the sitting room.” Patrick headed right and entered a room that made her mouth drop open.

“Now, this is more like it,” Gail whispered at her side.

Floor-to-ceiling arched windows let in abundant light, yet dark blue draperies cast a dark mood on the space. Along the north wall, built-in bookcases added Victorian charm. None of the books appeared new, thank goodness. A grand fireplace complete with cherub carvings created a focal point in the room. “This is perfect for filming.”

It wasn’t the best place for someone who hated the countryside, though.

But she wasn’t here to enjoy the view. She was here to work.

“I told you so,” Gail declared.

Eleanor crossed the room, already picturing placement for audiovisual equipment and staff. Eventually she reached the southern wall and frowned. The damp smell intensified here. Right next to a jutting wall-support column, the plaster on the lower half of the wall was missing in large clumps. A curtain hid most of the problem. “What happened here?”

Patrick joined her. “The previous owner told me a storm rolled through town and damaged the walls around the windows. Repairs to the outside have been done, but the plaster in a few places has been compromised.”

Under most circumstances she’d cover up problem areas with furniture or other fixtures, but this problem was too big. “That’s unfortunate.” She turned to him. “Do you mind if we fix this?”

He nodded. “Whatever you like. I travel too often and don’t have enough time to hire a contractor to make repairs.”

“Gail, we’ll need to find the nearest home-improvement place and order the supplies today if possible,” Eleanor said.

Gail grinned with the gleam of a challenge in her eye. “I’m on it.”

“A few changes should have a big impact around here.” She glanced around. Another spot needed plaster repair. A large fern plant did little to hide it.

“Now, that is an interesting painting.” Gail approached her from behind.

Eleanor turned to glance up. Beautiful paintings adorned the walls. The golden frames boasted wealth she never had. She admired the closest one. Fields with the hints of fall on the trees filled the top of the canvas. A group of huntsmen, dressed in red coats and white riding trousers, gathered along the forest edge with hounds underfoot. The piece had been painted well, but one thing in particular drew her eye.

“Is that a fox?” she asked. “Hiding along the hills?”

“There’s a talented local artist I often commission to paint landscapes for me,” Patrick said, as he leaned against the leather sofa in the center of the room. “He captures the local wildlife quite well. I find foxes to be the most beautiful animals.”

Not one, but three more paintings portrayed fox hunting.

“If the foxes are so beautiful, why depict them like this?” Eleanor asked.

The fox hid along an embankment as a cluster of men appeared to close in. The sleek long tail, with its white tip, was the most prominent feature compared to the foliage around the animals. A flaw in the canvas made her step closer. There was a hole where its eye should be, but the remaining one stared back at her, sucking her into its depth with a glossy fear swimming along the surface.

“Finding them during the day isn’t easy, but with the right hunter, any prey can be found.” Their gazes locked briefly.

Eleanor was the first to look away.

“I just expected something different with the décor.” She quickly regretted her words. The painting unnerved her, not the overall décor. The gothic motif begged for paintings like this one.

She finished going over the room, a bit more satisfied that this location would be ideal for filming. “Is there more to see?”

“Of course.” He pointed out of the room. “Right this way, everyone.”

The dining room on the other side of the hallway had a few flaws. Some of them more obvious than others. The paisley-print draperies, left behind by the previous owner, could be replaced with a new set of dark red curtains.

The crack across the plaster in the back of the room was another matter entirely and would be visible in any camera shot.

Patrick remained at the doorway, filling the frame. She didn’t glance at him as she walked around the ten-seater dining room table. She reached out and touched the table. “How old is this?”

“This was a part of the Fosters’ original furniture collection. It’s maybe a hundred years old. Abraham’s staff took good care of it until a caretaker from Boston inherited it.”

“Caretaker?” She snorted. “You must be referring to the guy who ruined everything.” There were more signs of renovation here: the basic builder crown molding along the ceiling, the blasé baseboards from the early nineties along the wall. This job was supposed to be quick and easy—not so much now.

Patrick nodded.

“So what happened to the Fosters?” Gail asked. “The producer told me the writer had trouble finding information. The locals wouldn’t talk about it and we only got so much from the newspaper articles.”

Patrick sighed. “The folks in town have tried to suppress most of the rumors regarding the disappearance of Abraham’s wife. Foster told everyone she ran away, but one of the couple’s former maids said Abraham probably killed her. Hence the mystery surrounding the property.

“The small businesses in Hastings depend on visitors every summer. The last thing they wanted was an urban legend to bring out the kooks.”

“But darkness is just what we need.” Eleanor approached the wall and touched the crack. The plaster was brittle and crumbled from pressure. Not a good sign. “The staff writer will need a monologue on what happened, so any details you can offer would be valuable.”

“I’ll be more than happy to do what I can for now.”

“For now?”

Patrick’s warm expression grew stern. “I’m expected in Europe in four weeks. If I understood the arrangement with your producer, you’d complete filming in that time.”

If everything went as planned this weekend, there’d be more than enough time to fix the issues in the sitting room and the dining room. Eleanor’s staff had spent plenty of time on the front lines with the tools needed for heavy lifting.

Dark memories bubbled from the cracks in this home. Leaving wasn’t an option, but soon enough she’d be back in Manhattan where she wanted to be.

With just forty-eight hours until the production staff arrived, the weight of the world pressed down on Eleanor’s shoulders. She’d swallowed more pain pills than she’d deemed necessary to knock out a growing tension headache.

The cold rain never ceased outside, making the process of hauling supplies and tools all the more stressful. Instead of hiring local contractors, she had the best team in place to handle most of the issues on their own. Depending on others had all too often cost her time and money on rush work.

Precious hours that morning had been spent covering the living room and dining room furniture with tarps to protect them. Part of that time had been spent boxing up vases, the paintings, and the like.

Seeing all those paintings, with most of them depicting hunted animals, leave the room was a welcome sight.

“What I wouldn’t give for a studio setup. We wouldn’t be in such a hurry.” Gail popped yet another chip into her mouth and extended the bag to Eleanor.

She shook her head. They still had a few hours’ work to do before lunch, and she didn’t have time for a snack. She sorted through the tools, forming a plan in her head, while Gail and Brody chatted.

Her assistant’s phone rang, the tone a chorus of chirping crickets. By now Eleanor had gotten used to it, but once in a while it annoyed her to no end. Her headache didn’t appreciate it, either.

“Looks like we’ve got a lead on the local rumor mill,” Gail said. “I’m heading into town to check it out.”

“For all that’s holy, bring back some fried chicken or burgers or something,” Brody begged. Gail turned around long enough to wink at him.

Patrick had been kind enough to serve them sub sandwiches, which apparently didn’t contain enough grease for Gail and Brody.

“Let’s get started on this wall,” Eleanor instructed. Using chalk, she marked out the sections of the wall to cut. Soon enough the crumbling plaster would be replaced with something far more suitable. She touched the cool surface, pressing into the indentation. A lingering scent of decayed wood drifted to her nostrils. Even furniture polish couldn’t take that away from an older home.

Using the utility blade, she scored the plaster, removing the pieces as they fell. An arduous task without patience. A crackle of thunder shook the house. A large piece of plaster fell with the resounding
thwack.

The crumpling plaster stuck in a few spots to the underlying narrow strips of wood, but progress was made. The chill from the outside stiffened her hands. There wasn’t any insulation between the narrow strips of wood and the outer brick.

Work quickly. Get it done.

A familiar feeling crept into Eleanor’s mind. One she couldn’t suppress. This was a living room, not a locked and lonely bedroom with a single mattress, she reminded herself. But the smell was the same—one of rotted wood. Of abandonment. She focused on her task at hand. The sooner she tore the plaster off, the sooner she could get the bonding agent on the narrow wood beams and apply the new mud and texture.

She jerked harder, catching and removing the plaster until she came to a crack in the underlying lath. A crack that widened with each movement.