Salem's Daughters (25 page)

Chapter 40              The Witching Hour

Denise Forsythe looked at her watch. 11:55 p.m. Her heart always beat faster in the minutes proceeding the filming of an episode of
American Ghost Stories
.

But she was always in control of her emotions because they had an editing room. They could retake shots. Cut scenes out. Splice something in later. Heck, Johnny Rocket could modify her hair using computer graphics if it wasn’t looking good.

But tonight was live. There would be no re-dos. No second chances to get the show right the first time. The entire crew looked nervous. The anxiety caused her to stutter slightly as Johnny walked through the final instructions.

But she had faith in ‘The Kid’ as she affectionately called Johnny Rocket. Only twenty-three and one year out of
UCLA's famed Westwood-based film school, h
e was young to be a producer. Yet he was one of the best at his craft.

The Kid was scary organized. And he didn’t bother Denise or the Leeds brothers with countless back end details that made
American Ghost Stories
one of the highest rated shows on cable television. He allowed them do their show in front of the cameras while he handled the particulars behind the scenes.

Johnny spoke with a hint of a squeak in his voice that Denise would playfully tease him about. “You’re all a little nervous. So am I. But we’ve had a couple walkthroughs, so we’ll be fine. Slow goes it, okay? Three hours is plenty of time to cover the house and the outside property. We don't gotta rush nothin’.”

Denise smiled at him, adoring the way he intentionally abused the English language, like some uneducated buffoon when he was as brilliant a guy as any she had known.

“An’ most of all?” he continued. “Just have fun. Lotsa fun. And we’ll have us a frickin’ awesome show.”

“And remember,” Ned said, hands on his hips with a stern look as he turned to each member of the crew. “We’re not mentioning the Stevens are under investigation by the Battle Creek Police. We’re here to explore any observable phenomena that cannot be explained using scientific methods. That is all.”

Ned looked around the living room then into the kitchen. “And judging from Denise’s vibes earlier today, I feel strongly we’re going find the holy grail of paranormal activity. Something evil that’s been around for generations is active once again and killing people on this property.”

The cameramen were in place. The skinny, still pimple-faced but self-assured producer stood off to the side and looked at Ned, counting off with his fingers. “Five, four, three, two, and we’re live.”

Ned clasped his hands and said with much enthusiasm. “Thank you for tuning in, and welcome to our very first live showing of
American Ghost Stories
.”

He turned to the rest of the crew and Denise donned her signature wry, but incredibly sexy smile for their fans. “With me, as usual, are my twin brother Henry and the lovely Denise Forsythe. We’re in the living room at Murcat Manor, a popular ten room bed and breakfast located in south central Michigan in the rolling countryside between Battle Creek and Marshall.”

Ned spread his arms wide as the cameramen stepped back to give the audience a comprehensive image of the living room. “Although the outside of this bed and breakfast is fashioned after a Grand Victorian house, and can give a person the appearance of a house that might harbor metaphysical activity, the inside is very much different. It's modern in every sense, from the recessed lighting to the contemporary furniture and decor.”

Ned dropped his smile that gave way to a serious demeanor. “But don't let this modern day setting fool you. The history of this property tells us there’s something evil living here that goes back generations. Trust me. This promises to be our best show ever.”

Ned led everyone toward the front door. He opened it and stepped out onto the porch. One cameraman followed while Johnny aimed a handheld floodlight and highlighted the white latticed gazebo in the front yard.

“If you’ve seen the previews, you know five people have died here during the past nine weeks. In late April, a month before Murcat Manor opened for business, probably the most mysterious and dramatic death occurred when the general contractor in charge of the building Murcat Manor was killed. The ladder he was on, three stories tall, fell backwards. His body was crushed and impaled on the gazebo’s metal spire peak.”

Ned and the cameraman came back into the foyer. He stopped at the base of the stairs and pointed up. “Earlier this month, a man from Detroit was killed upstairs in his room by his wife after she thrust a fire poker into his chest. According to accounts from that night, she then ran down the hall in her nightgown, her blood curdling screams waking the guests. She fell down the stairs and broke half the bones in her body, including her neck. She died right here at the bottom of the stairs.”

Denise followed Ned as he walked back through the living room and into the kitchen, careful to stay in the picture. Ned was the leader, and he was great at working the audience.

But she was the eye candy who received the most social media attention. Her Facebook Fan Page had hundreds of thousands of fans, and she had millions of followers on Twitter. A large segment of their viewers—especially men—tuned in just to get a load of her off-the-charts sexy gorgeousness.

“Another guest,” Ned continued, “died in the kitchen while eating. Cause of death; a simultaneous combination of choking and a heart attack. A very strange way to die. And finally, one of the helpers hired for the summer was electrocuted in the laundry room behind the kitchen.”

“That’s right,” Henry said, taking his cue from The Kid. “That’s five deaths on this very property in a little over two months. Now, the owners of Murcat Manor, Bob and Debbie Stevens, declined to be filmed and are not here for the show. But we thank them just the same for allowing us to stay the entire night here and bring to you, our awesome viewing audience of two million people,
American Ghost Stories
. Live and uncensored.”

Denise looked at Johnny, who pointed at her, signaling she was to deliver her line. She sashayed around the massive oak kitchen table for effect as the cameramen followed. Her hips and walk were sensuous. Her eyes bespoke deadly seriousness.

“As if five deaths on this singular property are not enough to make a believer out of the biggest skeptic that something strange is happening on these grounds, there have been an additional nineteen deaths in two previous houses and barns that once stood here. They burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. Seven poor souls in nineteen-seventeen, then twelve more in nineteen sixty-seven, perished here.”

Denise couldn’t contain her excitement as she talked with her arms and hands, speaking with the grandest of smiles. She was in her glory. “As Henry claimed, this promises to be our best show ever. Three hours. Live. And it’s midnight with a full moon. What more can we ask for?”

Denise was pumped and had volumes to say, more so than on any previous episode. The nervousness in her stomach was gone. She was a skeptic, as were Ned and Henry. It was vital to ferret out false leads and phony people who staged a paranormal setting just to get on their show. Credibility with their faithful and growing audience was what helped make their cable program so popular.

But tonight, she was sure of one thing. Murcat Manor was the real deal. She could feel it. The tingling on her skin. The burning in her bones. And she was barely starting to ramp up.

“We’ve set up cameras,” Ned continued. “Small devices in all the downstairs rooms, except Bob and Debbie’s bedroom. We’ll respect their privacy. Unless, of course, they come home during the show and we detect activity behind the door.” Ned winked and chuckled.

Henry moved toward the basement door. “We even have the front and back doors covered.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And the basement. We feel we may be saving the very best for last. You’ll want to stay awake for that.

“We can go in our two rooms we rented for the night, the Paranormal Room and the Serial Killer Room. The first was once the Disco Room where a married couple from Detroit died. There are eight more themed rooms upstairs. Murcat Manor is a full house tonight. If we’re lucky, some of the guests may allow us in to visit their rooms.”

Denise waved to Johnny, then pointed at the Goths and Vamps trying with pathetic results, to hide in the background behind couches and chairs. She motioned the cameramen to make sure they got them in their shots.

After a quick pan of the living room, Ned stepped toward the back door, leading the crew. He lifted his left arm and tapped his watch. “It’s midnight. So let’s get started, shall we?”

Chapter 41              Generational Curses

Tonight at Murcat Manor is the best possible scenario for our fans, Denise thought, wringing her hands in glee and anticipation. And a full moon to boot? She shook her head in awe. It just doesn’t get any better than this.

All the hard work and sacrifice seemed to line up for this one special night. She felt is if this event was foreordained just for her and this one live episode.

Denise loved the Goths and Vamps peeking around the corners, running back and forth to get a better view but staying well in the background, jockeying for position and examining her every move. This was adding quality production value for the live viewing audience. And if paranormal activity did happen, the many cameras arrayed around the property would certainly capture the events.

She followed as Ned and Henry took turns talking to their live audience as they explored the backyard. Even though the Leeds Brothers were not identical twins, internally, they always knew what the other was thinking.

They often finished each other's sentences and answered for one another. Denise thought doing a show on their lives would be more than a little interesting. She had always been a little freaked out over how twins and triplets could do this.

Ned turned to her and spoke. “Denise, are you feeling anything?”

“Yes, I am,” she said in a low soft tone. “Where do I begin?”

Denise wracked her brain to compartmentalize all the information she was receiving, then place it in some logical progression through space and time that would make sense to her and the viewing audience. Images, voices, a few screams, and other random signals competed for her attention. It was as if the people who died here were crying out to her, trying to tell their story of the injustices that happened to them.

As fascinating as these communications were, she also detected elements of revenge. They grew louder, more intense, as if she was their only hope to help escape the hell that held them captive and attached to this property. This particular aspect disturbed her the most.

Denise tossed out her thoughts the best she could as she composed herself, looking at the cameras. The show must go on.

“So much has happened here, layered over three generations and a century of time. It’s difficult to sort through all the activity.”

Ned spoke. “Can you go back to the first property that burned down, killing seven people?”

Denise had performed her due diligence. She was prepared with facts and figures that needed no pomp and ceremony to fascinate the audience.

“Let’s go back to the summer of the year nineteen-seventeen. The day was Thursday, June twenty-sixth. Jonathan and Elizabeth Jacobson owned this land. They were Amish and had five children. Three boys and two girls, ages four to seventeen.

“They, with the help of their Amish community, erected a house and barn. They farmed these twenty-five acres with corn and lima beans. On one fateful night, all members of the Jacobson’s family died while the house and barn burned down to smoldering ashes. There was no explanation as to how the fires started. By the time neighbors arrived to help, both structures were hopelessly engulfed in flames.”

Denise looked at Ned and Henry as they walked beside her, engrossed with her story. She walked up to and around the large shed.

“This was where the first barn was built. As was the second. The property exchanged hands five times until nineteen sixty-four, when a young couple named Kevin and Barbara Turner bought the property. A second house and barn had been built by one of the previous owners in nineteen twenty-seven.”

Denise kept a slow but steady pace across the lawn, ignoring the humidity that made breathing difficult. She felt this was the best way to deal with the barrage of communications battling for her attention. She envisioned a rope lassoed around both houses, linking them together through the fifty years that separated the terrible events killing nineteen people. She expected to find that same linkage moving forward to Murcat Manor.

“The Turners turned the place into a commune: a classic Sixties hippie haven. Many people came and went over the next three years. Stories of wild parties, drugs, free love, backyard rock concerts for days at a time—like mini-Woodstocks—and anti-establishment signs and banners everywhere.”

She took a breath. “Basically, everything the Sixties are remembered for defined the Turner place. Anything went. There were rumors some people of the commune were also into the dark arts. To what degree is not known.

“But neighbors who lived in this community back then, whom we interviewed earlier this evening, tell stories that most of the locals stayed away from the Turner place. They all knew strange things were occurring here and wanted nothing to do with the steady pace of hippies and vagabonds that frequented the property.”

Denise continued across the midnight moonlit lawn. “There’s no reason to walk to the boundaries of these twenty-five acres. All the activity occurred, and is occurring, in the house. And, there is a strong sense that what happened in nineteen-seventeen, and again a half-century later, is at work once again. The questions are, what, and where is it?”

Denise found herself at the backdoor of Murcat Manor. She realized she was being drawn back into the house, as if whatever presence inhabiting the bed and breakfast was not afraid of her. It wanted her to return. She was being challenged. This had never happened. Most presences tried to detour her from continuing. She stared at the door knob, trying unsuccessfully to conceal a gasp.

Denise felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, but somehow suppressed a terrifying scream fighting to leave her mouth.

“Hey. Take it easy.”

Ned’s voice and words were calm. She looked into the two cameras while the men filmed her. Henry and Johnny stood speechless.

“Are you all right?” Ned said. “Do you want me to take the lead for a while?”

Denise, sharp as ever, broke the awkward moment with a fake laugh. “Sure. I’m fine. There’s just a lot of activity here. That’s all. It’s hard to wrap my head around everything that’s going on right now. Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

Ned was genuinely concerned. She could see it in his eyes. Both his hands were now on her shoulders.

“Are you sure?” He looked at his watch. “We still have over two hours. There’s no need to rush.”

Denise dismissed Ned’s suggestion with a second phony giggle and reached for the door. “The only place left to explore is the basement,” she said with a guileful smile to the cameramen. “Let's go.”