Ghosts in the Attic (5 page)

“Smile,” the photographer said. “You’re face is all scrunched up like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.”

Suddenly Davis reached out and shoved Wes hard in the chest. Wes waved his arms in the air like a cartoon character, but he lost his balance and toppled onto his back, the skis sticking up in the air. He rapped his head hard against the floor and bit his tongue.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” he shouted, the coppery taste of his own blood filling his mouth.

The photographer rushed over. “Jesus, are you okay? What happened?”

“Nothing,” Wes said, shrugging off the photographer’s attempt to help him to his feet. “We’re done here, I think.”

“But we’ve still got a couple more setups to do.”

Davis stood over Wes, smiling down at him. “I just wanted to remind you that I can affect you physically when I want to. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Why, no,” the photographer said. “I just wanted to do a couple more setups, is all.”

Wes shot her an annoyed glance then looked back up, but Davis was gone.

“Fine,” Wes said, struggling to his feet. “Let’s do the next setup.”

* * *

Wes sat in the back of the sleek black limousine, awaiting his turn to walk down the red carpet. Tonight was the premier of
Mind Over Matter
, an Einstein biopic starring Keanu Reeves in the lead role. The humor seemed lost on everyone but Wes. He wasn’t interested in seeing the film. He would just walk the carpet, get his picture taken, do some interviews, then duck out the back.

As Wes waited, he flipped through the script Taryn Quint had sent him yesterday. The working title was
Living Legend
, and it was obvious by the way the director focused on Davis’s early successes and glossed over his later eccentricities that she was an obsessive fan of Davis. Still, the script was well written and didn’t shy away from Davis’s battle with the bottle.

Suddenly feeling that he was being watched, Wes raised the tinted partition between himself and the driver then turned to the man sitting beside him. “Aren’t you bored with this game yet?”

“Oh, I’ve got nothing but time,” Davis said with a grin.

Wes threw the script into the floorboard and turned to face the persistent ghost. “I wonder if Keanu had this much trouble with Einstein.”

Davis shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps Einstein wasn’t as concerned with his legacy as I am with mine.”

Wes yawned into his palm and said, “More talk of your legacy, huh? You realize you were just an actor, right? You didn’t find a cure for cancer; you didn’t work with world leaders to create peace among the nations; you didn’t even rescue kittens from trees. You were
only
a movie actor.”

Davis snorted derisively. “That’s what I’d expect from a philistine like you. You have no concept of the importance and power of art. Art has the ability to inspire people to transcend, to evolve, to…Why are you laughing?”

Wes was doubled over, tears leaking from his eyes, his body quaking with the force of his laughter. “I’m sorry, but listen to yourself. No offense, but
Slippery Slope
is no
Schindler’s List
. During your career, you specialized in corny, implausible romantic comedies. The only thing your films inspire in people is the desire to change the channel.”

“How dare you?” Davis spat, his nostrils flaring and his eyes squinting with anger. “I warn you…”

“Oh sorry,” Wes interrupted as the limo pulled up to the red carpet. “I’ve got to go; the adoring public awaits me.”

“Don’t make me humiliate you in front of the adoring public.”

“What are you going to do? No one can see you but me, you already told me that much.”

Wes opened the door and stepped out of the limo. The crowd went wild with applause and cheers. He raised his hands above his head and flashed his most charming smile.

Feeling a rough tug on his pants, followed by a collective gasp from the crowd, Wes looked down to find that his pants and underwear had been jerked down to his ankles, exposing his privates to the public.

Wes tried to quickly cover himself with his hands as a thousand flash bulbs went off. From inside the limo, he was sure he heard laughter.

* * *

Wes was packing when the phone rang. Tomorrow morning he would be heading up to Toronto, where it seemed ninety-five percent of studio pictures were filmed these days. He grabbed the bedroom extension and said, “Speak to me.”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” an unfamiliar female voice screeched.

“Excuse me?”

“First that stunt at the
Mind Over Matter
premier, and now
this
.”

“Who the hell is this?” Wes barked.

“Taryn Quint.”

Wes frowned at the phone. “Okay, what exactly are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the message you left on my machine earlier today.”

Wes’s frown deepened. “I didn’t leave you any message.”

“Really? So I guess I imagined it then?”

“Look, all I’m saying is that I haven’t called you and certainly haven’t left you any messages.”

“Well, I saved the damn thing. Have a listen for yourself.”

Wes heard a click, a beep, then his own unmistakable voice saying, “Hey cunt, I got the script changes today, and let me be the first to say what a shitty writer you are. You’re making Davis come across like some kind of pussy. If you think I’m gonna play the role as some pansy-ass faggot, you are out of your mind. I swear, the movie industry started going to hell when they started letting women be in charge. Women just fuck everything up, even bull-dyke’s like you. So I suggest you trash what you’ve got and start over. Let me know when you’ve got something that doesn’t reek of shit.”

Wes was stunned speechless. That was definitely his voice, but it most definitely wasn’t him.

“What are you, drunk?” Taryn Quint said, coming back on the line. “You’ve got some nerve, buddy. The studio may want you for this picture, but I can still have your ass booted off the film.”

“Whoa, whoa, just calm down a sec. That wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t you? You’re telling me that wasn’t your voice?”

“Well, it sounded like me, that’s for sure. But I am telling you, it
wasn’t
me. It was someone impersonating me.”

“That was one hell of an impersonation.”

“Look, I swear to you that I didn’t leave that message. I would be a fool to talk to you that way.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Honestly, I didn’t make that call.”

“And I suppose that wasn’t you that flashed your dick at the cameras on the red carpet?”

Wes sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was suddenly so tired. “As I’ve said a million times, that was an accident, a…a wardrobe malfunction.”

“Well, thank you, Miss Jackson. I don’t know what you’re used to, Mr. Xavier, but I treat my films as serious business. I don’t stand for any foolishness, and if you have some kind of drug problem…”

“I’m not on drugs,” Wes said, a little too loud. Regaining control of his temper, he said, “I promise you, I am not crazy or drunk or on drugs. The incident at the premier was an accident, and the phone call was someone’s idea of a sick joke.”

Silence on the phone for several seconds, then Taryn Quint said, “Fine, but you’re on probation. Any more
accidents
or
jokes
and you may find yourself looking for work elsewhere.”

Wes started to respond but he was greeted by the dial tone.

Slamming the phone back in its cradle, he stormed out into the hallway, yelling, “Davis, get your ghostly ass out here.” He bounded down the stairs, yelling the dead actor’s name at the top of his lungs. He found Davis in the front sitting room, where he’d first materialized to Wes, sitting calming on the sofa with his legs crossed.

“You called?”

“I take it you’re responsible for the message on Taryn Quint’s machine?”

“I took no pleasure in saying those things, believe me. I have nothing but respect for Taryn Quint; she is a true artist.”

“What, I wouldn’t voluntarily quit the picture so you’re trying to get me kicked off, is that it?”

“I’m doing what I have to do in order to protect my…”

“You’re legacy, right, I got it. You are one pathetic excuse for a ghost, you know that? I mean, let’s recap what all you’ve done to me.” Wes held up his hand and counted off on his fingers. “You pushed me; you pulled my pants down in front of everybody; you made a prank phone call. You’re like a Junior High bully. I’m not exactly quaking with fear over any of this.”

“I’m trying to restrain myself. It isn’t easy; you’re one stubborn sonofabitch.”

“Likewise,” Wes said, taking a seat at the other end of the sofa. “Look, here’s the bottom line—I’m not quitting. And the more you try to get me off this picture, the more determined I become to stick it out.”

Davis sighed heavily and said, “I’m beginning to see that.”

“Good, so you see that all this is pointless, that there’s nothing you can do to dissuade me from making this film? You see that you just need to accept it?”

Davis turned to him, a strange light flaring in his eyes. “Actually, I see that I’ve been too soft. It’s time I played hardball.”

“What are you gonna do? Haunt me for the rest of my life?”

“No,” Davis said, his voice sugary and false, reaching out and running a finger lightly down the side of Wes’s face. “But I might
bug
you.”

Wes swiped at a stray wisp of hair that was tickling his right eye. Suddenly his entire face was itching. Something plopped onto his lap, and he was horrified to see it was a fat, black cockroach. As he stared down at the disgusting thing, crawling sluggishly across his crotch, another landed beside it. Tentatively touching his face, he discovered dozens of roaches swarming on his skin, over his eyes and out of his nostrils and into his mouth.

Wes howled, clawing at his face in his desperation to get these creatures out of his skin. He jumped up from the sofa, his feet tangling together, and toppled onto the coffee table, shattering the glass top.

Wes writhed on the carpet, glass shards digging into his back, feeling the squirming roaches behind his eyes, clogging his mouth and nose, streaming out of his ears like an army on the march. Rolling over, pushing up on his hands and knees, Wes was momentarily distracted by the light reflecting off the many jagged shards of broken glass. Reaching out a trembling hand, he took a long, nasty-looking piece and stared down at it.

It should work better than his fingernails.

* * *

“In entertainment news, production of the Perry Davis biopic has stalled while director Taryn Quint attempts to recast the part of Davis. Last month, actor Wes Xavier, originally cast in the role, was hospitalized after he apparently sliced open his own face with a piece of glass the day before filming was scheduled to begin. He has been under psychiatric observation since the incident. It is unclear at this time whether or not drugs played a part in the episode. Quint has expressed her sympathy for Xavier but says she hopes to recast the part soon so filming can begin by mid-August…”

THE GHOST OF WINNIE DAVIS HALL

“Dr. Rob.”

Robert Robinson paused halfway up the stairs and turned to find one of the students from his afternoon World Civ class bounding after him.

“Hi, Becky. What can I do for you?”

“Dr. Rob, I know these aren’t your posted office hours, but I was wondering if I could talk to you about my paper. I promise I won’t take up much of your time.”

“Well, I do have some tests to grade, but I think I can spare a minute for you.”

The girl smiled gratefully and followed Dr. Rob the rest of the way to the fourth floor, where his office was located. Dr. Rob had been a professor of History at Limestone College for 37 years. He could have retired by now, and had actually considered it about two years ago, but he was glad he hadn’t. Things had come full circle for him, it seemed.

When Dr. Rob started at Limestone in 1973, his office had been here in Winnie Davis Hall. The building had been in shockingly bad shape—holes in the plaster, leaky ceilings, crumbling brick. Four years later, the administration determined that it was too dangerous to continue holding classes in the building and it had been closed until it could be renovated. For the next three decades, Winnie Davis with its distinctive gothic architecture and focal-point tower had sat empty, deteriorating a bit more each year, and many in the community—including Dr. Rob himself—had begun to doubt it would ever be restored. But recently, thanks to some hefty donations from alumni, Winnie Davis had finally been renovated, keeping its original beauty in tact while modernizing the facilities. This was the first year the building had been used for classes since 1977, and Dr. Rob once again had an office here. Full circle.

At the fourth floor, Dr. Rob and Becky circled the rotunda from which you could look all the way down to the ground floor four stories below. As he approached his office, Dr. Rob pulled out his key…but then he paused, seeing that the door was slightly ajar. With a frown, he pushed the door all the way open and turned on the light. The place was a chaotic mess of books and papers scattered everywhere; in other words, situation normal.

“I could have sworn I locked this when I left,” he said with a shrug, ushering Becky inside. She moved some books from the chair on the opposite side of his desk and sat down.

Leaning back in his own chair, placing his hands on the top of his head so they perfectly covered his bald spot, he smiled at Becky and said, “So what’s the problem with your paper?”

“Well, I was in the library earlier, trying to do some research, and I—”

Becky stopped talking as the lights began to flicker. A buzzing like a hive of angry bees filled the air and then the lights went out altogether. Since the office had no windows, the room was plunged into complete darkness. Ten seconds later the lights were back, the buzzing gone.