Poltergeist (12 page)

“It’s getting dark, Mom. Gotta go. I’ll call you from Trudie’s.” Her speech was terse, clipped. It was hard for Lesh to hear, whether the girl was annoyed, ashamed, or simply afraid.

“She won’t stay in the house after dusk,” Steve explained weakly, almost apologetic. “Our absentee princess.”

“She’s got brains,” Robbie muttered disgustedly. He sat on the rug, playing with a truck.

Without another word, Dana ran out the front door. Diane stood and turned on the large console television. The local news was just finishing up a story about after-effects of the storm damage suffered two nights before, when Diane turned the dial to UHF—Channel 81.

“We receive better on this channel, but don’t ask me why.”

Perplexed, Dr. Lesh stared at the screen, as did the others. The characteristic blue-white light filled the room, becoming pronounced as Steve walked from lamp to lamp, turning each one off. Finally there was only the light of the television, cold and intense, and the hiss of the static snow.

Ryan and Marty put on headphones, and aimed one of the television cameras and all three microphones at the set as Diane turned up the volume of the hissing. Lesh put on her glasses. Steve lit a cigarette, took a long, tense drag. Diane touched him a moment—for reassurance—and spoke to the group.

“I’ll call her.”

It was said so simply, and without moment, that Dr. Lesh inadvertently held her own breath. Diane walked to the center of the living room, folded her hands in front of her, collected her thoughts, closed her eyes, took a deep breath . . . and spoke lovingly to the ceiling.

“It’s Mommy, sweetheart. We want to talk to you. Baby, please answer. Please talk to me, Carol Anne.”

Dr. Lesh darted a glance at her assistants, checking their reactions to this. Marty seemed unfazed, interested primarily in his meters and levels. Ryan was clearly fascinated, yet obviously uncertain how to respond to . . . all this. Martha was uncertain herself. What was going to happen?

E. Buzz suddenly pranced into the room, looking up in the air as if he were following on the heels of someone with a treat. His tail was wagging; he was oblivious to everyone else in the room.

“Look at the dog,” Lesh whispered breathlessly to Ryan.

Marty furrowed his forehead, and pressed the headphones more tightly around his ears. The dog walked to the far end of the room, then sat up on his hind legs and begged . . . to blank air.

“Are you with us now, sweetheart?” Diane asked the room. “Can you say hello to Daddy? Say hello to Daddy, baby.”

Ryan shook his head slowly—even started to smile, as skepticism began to outweigh his other emotions. So this was a hoax, after all. Or if not a hoax, an unfortunate mistake. A cruel happenstance, with this pitiful family . . .

He heard something. The smile vanished from his lips as he pushed the headset hard to his ears. His pulse quickened.

Marty heard it, too. He fiddled with his dials—gains, filters, frequencies. “Good Lord . . .” he whispered.

Everyone faced the television—straining, leaning forward into the fluorescent glow, squinting, holding their breath. Not a sound, not a flicker. And then, soft as a distant memory, sweet and fragile, a voice: “Hello, Daddy.”

“Hello, sweetheart,” whispered Steve. His throat was constricted with feeling, his eyes were moist. Dr. Lesh, sitting beside him, was so startled by what she’d heard she actually jumped up off the couch. Slowly, with great trepidation, she approached the set, staring into the swirling snow. It was the voice she’d heard the previous night on Tangina’s lips. It made her shiver.

Everyone stood.

Diane spoke again. “Darling, it’s Mommy.”

“Hello, Mommy.” The voice seemed to be coming out of the television.

Imperceptibly, Marty shook his head. Something was not right about all this. A voice in the television? It was too easy. Anyone could have tampered with the set. He looked at Ryan for support in this suspicion, but Ryan was completely engrossed, fiddling with the recorders, checking the infrared monitors and ion flux measurements.

Quickly, Marty removed his headphones, opened his repair kit on the floor, and withdrew a Phillips screwdriver and a flashlight. Then he walked to the back of the television console, unscrewed the masonite dust cover, and shined his light into the chassis. Methodically, he examined the circuitry.

Diane spoke once more. “Can you see me? Can you see Mommy?”

“Where are you, Mommy? Where are you? I can’t see you!”

“We’re home, baby. Come home to Mommy. Can you find the way?”

“I’m afraid, Mommy. I’m afraid of the light.”

Dr. Lesh moved rapidly to Diane’s side. “Tell her to stay away from the light.” She spoke evenly, but urgently.

“But maybe it’s a way out!” Diane protested.

“It is. It is a way out . . . it’s
the
way out. But not for her. Tell her quickly.”

“Carol Anne. Where is this light?”

“Tell her to stay away from it! Tell her now!” Lesh gripped Diane’s arm.

“Tell her, Diane!” Steve urged, hanging on the fear in Lesh’s voice.

Diane nodded uncertainly. “Sweetheart, the light is dangerous. Don’t go near it. Don’t look at the light.”

Marty sidled up behind Dr. Lesh. “I don’t think I believe this,” he whispered. “The set looks okay, but the voice could be a CB broadcasting from somewhere in the house. I’m taking a look.”

Lesh nodded absently, spoke under her breath. “It’s not a hoax.” This was a conviction now. She didn’t know why; she was simply certain.

“We’ll see,” said Marty. He moved out of the white glare and tiptoed up the steps to the second floor.

E. Buzz barked again, then jumped into the air and caught something in his mouth. It drew everyone’s attention to him, just in time to see several mid-air electrical discharges flash brightly above his head. Almost blindingly bright, for a few moments they illuminated the room, then disappeared, leaving a smell of ozone.

“What was that?”

From the area of sparking, a number of small objects materialized and fell immediately to the carpet. Lesh and the others gathered around to examine the articles: jewelry, cameos, brooches, coins, pocket watches, digital watches, money clips, key chains, a few small bones. The dog came over and sniffed at the pile suspiciously.

Dr. Lesh looked back at Ryan, still bent over his controls. “Anything?”

“Nothing registered,” he muttered, checking the readouts.

“Mommy . . .” The voice in the television grew louder, edged with fear. “Mommy . . . there’s somebody here.”

Steve held his head in his hands, nearly beside himself with worry. “Oh Jesus, this isn’t happening.”

“Mommy . . . is that you?”

“Who’s there, baby? Who is with you?”

“Somebody’s coming, Mommy.” The voice was tight as a spring, straining to its upper registers.

“Stay away, baby!” Diane whimpered. “Go back . . .”

A piercing wail screamed out of the television—a child’s scream, mad with terror. “Nooo! No, no, no, no . . .”

“Run, Carol Anne! Run away!” Diane screamed back at the set. “Run!”

Marty crept silently along the upstairs corridor until he came to Dana’s room. The door was ajar. He nudged it open and entered, keeping his back to the wall. With his shoulder, he turned on the light.

Nothing extraordinary here. An adolescent girl’s room. Stereo, piles of records, magazines, books, crumpled clothes, blow dryer, Rocky Horror Picture Show poster, lace curtains, and suede boots. He looked quickly under the bed—no transmitting devices there. He walked over to the closet.

He opened the closet door. Dark all the way to the back; the light was out. Racks of clothes hung before him, looking vaguely phantasmagorical in the shadows. The smell of rose oil filled the space like the olfactory memory of an earlier life. Marty inhaled deeply, began rummaging through the blouses and flowing robes on the hangers, the piled junk on the floor.

In the back corner, he saw something. A dim shape, nearly a box, almost hidden behind a stack of papers and old shoes. Possibly a transmitter. Maybe even just a tapedeck, with hidden speakers downstairs. He pushed his way along the row of garments, dangling sleeves brushing his cheeks. Finally he came to the shape.

He knocked aside the camouflage. It was a box. Triumphantly, he pulled it open: a packet of rolling papers, half a lid of California Homegrown, a cleaning screen, a few matchbooks. Marty laughed. He quickly decided not to roll himself a number—Lesh would get pissed off. and besides, there were too many bad vibes in this house; he’d probably just get paranoid.

He checked out the bathroom at the end of the hall, next. The shower curtain was closed—why did they always leave the shower curtain closed at times like this? He ripped it open dramatically, half expecting his lurkiest horror. Unremarkable. Down the dark hall again, to the master bedroom.

An odd smell was here. Like . . . mildew, or mold. He wondered if a small animal hadn’t died, and gotten stuck behind the dresser or something. He looked. Nothing there. Nor under the bed, nor in the closets or drawers. He went into the master bathroom. All mirrored and tiled and bright—Marty couldn’t imagine anything sinister or covert here. He curiously checked the tub, the cabinets; went to open the cupboard beneath the sink. It wouldn’t open.

That was strange. There were no locks on it. Yet hard as he pulled on the handles, the doors wouldn’t give. He hunkered down, braced himself to get some good leverage, was about to pull . . . when he heard the noise. The noise came from inside the cabinet he was trying to open.

An unearthly growling, a gnashing of feral teeth—quiet, actually, but covering such restrained power, such barely contained violence, it sounded as if it had to be coming from a creature ten times bigger than anything that could have crouched in that small space.

Marty stood up quickly, pale and alert. He backed out of the bathroom. He didn’t know what the Freelings’ game was, but he didn’t want any part of what was under that sink.

He ran back out into the somber hall, finally coming to the closed door of the children’s room. It had to be pranksters; there was no other reasonable explanation.

The lights were all off up here; he couldn’t locate a switch. He knew this was the last door, though. Gently, he put his ear to it: distant echoes, like wind in a cave. Deliberately, he collected his courage; carefully, he tested the doorknob. Locked.

He was definitely getting a case of nerves. Downstairs he could hear all kinds of commotion going on indistinctly; at one point, even a muted explosion, like the sound of troubled thunder. He inhaled and exhaled deeply. Okay, it was now or never.

It was now. He pulled a file from his utility belt, and with deft fingers began to jimmy the lock. In a few seconds he found the thread, and the lock slid back. Quietly, he began to turn the knob.

Without a moment’s warning, something putrid sank its teeth into Marty’s side. He screamed in agony as he was thrown to the floor—and reflexively thrashed out, rolling over and over, down the darkened hallway toward the top of the stairs.

Ryan gaped at his readouts—suddenly everything was registering wildly. Beyond him, in the television, the screams continued mercilessly.

Diane couldn’t stand it anymore. She pressed her hands over her ears, tears streaming down her face, imploring Dr. Lesh with her eyes. Lesh had to look down. She felt totally impotent.

Robbie sat huddled in the corner, rocking autistically, too scared to cry. Steve paced frenetically back and forth, swinging his arms in helpless rage. The dog whimpered, curled under a chair.

“Carol Anne!” Diane screamed again. “Oh God!”

Steve began pounding the wall.

“You fucking bastard, she’s just a baby!” Diane groaned in a failing voice.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

“Help her!” Diane screamed at Lesh now. “Can’t you hear what’s happening? For the love of God, help her!”

Before Lesh could say a word, the sound of small, soft footsteps ran across the ceiling and down the wall. Two lamps on the table against the wall overturned, smashing to pieces on the floor.

Right away, slow, colossal footfalls boomed over the same path in pursuit—across the ceiling, down the wall. The table broke in half, was crushed to pieces. The house shook with the rumble of these steps.

Suddenly a warm gust of wind raced over Diane, blowing her hair wildly around, whooshing through her clothes. Her eyes sprang open wide, her mouth dropped—she let out a long peal of sound; raw emotion, a primal combination of joy and horror. Then she whispered: “She just moved through me. My God, I felt her. I can smell her. It feels like she went through my soul!”

She ran over to. Steve and pulled him to her. “Smell my clothes. Here. It’s her. It’s her all over me.”

He brought the tail of her shirt up to his nose and inhaled. Tears filled his eyes. “It is Carol Anne. My God, I can’t believe it.”

The giant, pursuing footsteps grew louder now, moving this way and that across the room, up the walls, knocking over chairs and breaking pictures: as if searching, fruitlessly. Everyone in the room faced the loathesome sounds—the heavy feet, the sickening grunts—when suddenly a terrifically foul smell filled the air. The smell of rotting, of death. A moment later, there was an implosion—almost the sound of thunder, almost the horror of suffocation. The impact was tremendous, blowing everyone backward, as a force like a tornado passed through each of them, and out the picture window. The window cracked in a dozen places.

All at once, the room was quiet.

“Carol Anne?” Diane wheezed.

Unremitting quiet.

“Steve? She doesn’t answer.”

“She’s safe, I think. For now.”

Diane sat on the floor, shaking as if she herself were the lost child. “How much longer will this continue?”

Her son crawled over and put his arms around her, to comfort her. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll find Carol Anne. She’s prob’ly at Gramma’s. Maybe we should look for her there. Don’t cry,” What had just happened was almost the scariest thing to Robbie—to see his mother failing to cope.

Dr. Lesh stood and walked to the pile of artifacts that had sprinkled to the floor. She picked up an antique brooch. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘teleportation’?” she asked the others.