Spirit Lost (3 page)

All the lights in the house went out at once. It was as shocking as being slapped with cold water. The receptionist shrieked once, and one man rumbled, “What’s going on!” It was a few seconds before everyone’s eyes could adjust to the dim and flickering light thrown off from the fireplace and jack-o’-lanterns.

Harrison Adder’s distinct voice rang out: “Looks like you’ve lost your electricity, Mark. Where’s your fuse box?”

Mark said, “In the basement. John, come help me, will you?”

John suspected a setup immediately, since his friend was clear across the room. But he cheerfully left his wife’s side and went out to the hall with Mark, intending to
follow him down the hall to the door to the basement.

Instead, he stopped in his tracks, startled, for an instant half-afraid. Coming down the dark hall toward him was a glowing ghostly head that bobbed a good ten feet above the floor, nearly hitting the ceiling of the old Victorian house. The air was filled with strange whirring sounds interrupted now and then by low, malicious, gleeful laughter. The thing that approached him had glowing green eyes and a glowing, wavering green mouth.

The party had come to the wide double doorway that led into the hall, and now someone from that group screamed.

“Jesus!” Donald Hood shouted. “What the fuck’s that thing?”

A high, spooky “whoooooo” filled the air. Here and there in the party nervous laughs broke out. The firelight from the living room could not illuminate the dark hall, and while everyone knew this had to be a trick, the effect was still eerie.

“Whoooooo,” the thing said again, its voice mournful. Then, “John Constable,” it said, drawing each syllable out like a howl. “John Con-sta-ble—”

The tall glowing thing had halted by the door under the staircase at the back of the hall. It was far enough away that John could not yet make out exactly what it was. He knew it was a joke of some kind, but he was uneasy, unsure what was expected of him.

“John Constable, I want you,” the thing said.

“John,” Willy said, and pushed through to his side. She put her hand on his arm.

Always a good sport, John laughed, although there was more than a little of the boy whistling in the dark in his bravery. “I’m John Constable,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Follow me,” the ghostlike creature said, and turned.

John could just make out, through the darkness, the wavering dark length with the glowing head retreating down the hallway. Nervously, John followed. It helped to know that Willy was right behind him, and right behind her, he sensed the rest of the party coming along. Everyone was so quiet; that scared him, too. There was no laughter; there were no catcalls or dares yelled out. Just the rustling noises of so many people coming behind him in the dark.

The ghost, or whatever it was, turned the corner, disappearing through a door into what John knew to be Mark’s study.

Everything had been changed here. Mark’s desk had been pushed into a corner,
and the large oak-paneled room was filled now with folding chairs. Tall candles sitting on the fireplace mantel and windowsills illuminated the room enough so that John could see a large projection screen set up at one end of the room.

The creature had retreated behind a high Chinese folding screen in a back corner. Its eerie glowing head bobbed just above the screen.

“Take a seat, everyone,” the thing said, its voice deep and commanding now. “Especially you, John Constable. Take a seat in the front.”

It was odd to be in this room, which was as familiar to John as his own study at home, odd to be in it when it was so strangely arranged. But John took a seat at the front of the room, and Willy sat next to him, once again putting her hand on his arm. Strange noises—creaks and groans and mad laughter and whispers—filled the room, obscuring the noise the other guests made as they cautiously filed in and took seats in the folding chairs. It was odd how pervasive the ghostly noises were, as if they came from the house itself, as if this large, old, powerful secret-filled house had found its voice.

“Do you know what this is, John?” Willy asked in a whisper. They both could hear people around them asking one another similar questions.

“No,” John said. “Some kind of joke, I’m sure.”

“It’s creepy,” Willy said.

John put his arm around Willy and pulled her to him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just some kind of foolish trick. This is a party, remember?” He tried for lightness in his voice, but it came with difficulty in this dark room where the candlelight flickered and the glowing ghostly head bobbed and waved, its eyes and mouth now flashing, now dimming, now gleaming.

“Is everyone comfortable?” the creature asked in its sonorous voice. “Are
you
comfortable, John Constable?”

“I’m comfortable,” John replied, going along with it all.

“Then I will present you with your own special show,” the ghost said. “John Constable—behold your life!”

A familiar mechanical noise began, a gentle hum. John turned and saw Harrison Adder at the back of the room, bent over a slide projector. Ominous music filled the air, organ music in a minor key.

The screen at the front of the room filled. In great crooked dripping black letters on a red background the words read:

JOHN CONSTABLE:

THE GHOSTS OF HALLOWEEN!

The slide projector clicked, and the music changed to sweet notes from a violin, perhaps Vivaldi. The screen now read:

THE GHOST OF HALLOWEEN PAST

JOHN CONSTABLE COMES

TO THE BLACKSTONE GROUP

There was a click, and then a picture flashed on the screen, bright with colors, fitting perfectly with the pleasant music. It was a shot taken when John had first joined the Blackstone Group; in fact, it had been used by the agency as promotional material for their group. The center of the picture showed John seated at a high worktable, pen in hand, sketching out a model kitchen. A long-haired pretty young female artist leaned over one side of the drawing board, her pencil pointing at the top of John’s sketch, and Harrison Adder and Donald Hood leaned in from the other side. Harrison’s hand was on John’s shoulder. It was the perfect picture of friendly artistic collaboration.

“Yay!” Donald Hood yelled, and began clapping. His drunken hearty shout broke the tension in the room, and everyone else began to clap and shout out hoorays.

The projector clicked: more dripping black letters against red.

THE GHOST OF HALLOWEEN PRESENT

JOHN CONSTABLE REMAINS

AT THE BLACKSTONE GROUP

The music changed now to a swift-moving upbeat rock song. The slide projector clicked, and on the screen was another shot of John, this one taken quite recently, without his realizing it. Looking at it, John thought he knew who had done it and when: Erica, when she was messing around in the office one day with a camera, mugging it up, saying it had no film, pretending to be a fashion photographer.

In this shot John was wearing a striped button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was leaning back at his desk, relaxed and smiling, talking to Donald Hood and two other men, accountants with the firm. His dark brown hair was mussed slightly, falling down over his forehead, making him look younger than his thirty years, and he
radiated good health, good looks, and happiness.

John grinned to see himself. It pleased him to see himself looking so handsome.

“Aren’t you something!” Willy whispered to him, squeezing his arm.

The clapping and shouting and cheering continued in the rest of the room. “All
right
, John!” someone shouted.

The slide projector clicked.

THE GHOST OF HALLOWEEN FUTURE

JOHN CONSTABLE LEAVES

THE BLACKSTONE GROUP

The music changed drastically now, to funereal tones of dark organ and slow drums, storm music, orphan music, death music.

A picture flashed on the screen. There stood a man who looked like John, with the same hair falling over his forehead. This John Constable was slouching on a sidewalk, dressed like a bum, wearing clothes ragged and torn and three sizes too big for him. His dark hair had gone gray; it was shaggy and dirty, hanging in unkempt lumps around his head. His face was white except for the black circles around his eyes, and his posture had changed; he was shrunken, stooped, and bent. Next to him on the sidewalk was a sign: Portraits and Landscapes One Dollar. Around his feet and leaning against the brick wall were several paintings and sketches, all tattered at the edges, all amateurishly done, stick figures, flat perspectives, jarring colors. There was a hat on the sidewalk with coins in it. It was a portrait of an artist in ludicrous defeat.

John felt as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach. Willy clutched his arm. “John!” she said. The room went silent around them.

“Shit, man,” Mark exclaimed from somewhere behind them in the dark.

A sick sinking feeling filled John, as if a fortune-teller had just prophesied his ruin.

He felt cursed by this picture, this vision of him as an artist on his own. He wanted to rise and smash his fist through the screen.

But before he could do so, the slide projector clicked.

White letters on the black screen read:

GHOST OF HALLOWEEN FUTURE,

VERSION NUMBER TWO

JOHN CONSTABLE RETURNS

TO THE BLACKSTONE GROUP

Once again was flashed on the screen a picture of John happily relaxing in his office, looking healthy and pleased with himself. The music changed back to a bouncy rock-and-roll song. A few people in the room began to cheer and clap. The music picked up in beat and volume, and the screen changed again.

WE’LL MISS YOU, JOHN!

COME BACK ANYTIME!

BEST WISHES FROM THE BLACKSTONE GROUP

Now the room was filled with cheering and clapping. The screen went blank, the lights came on, and people rose, some still clapping. A sense of relief rushed through the air, as obvious as a perfume.

“Harrison did this, the bastard,” John said through clenched teeth to Willy. “I’d like to knock his face in.”

Willy grabbed John’s arm, held it tight. “Johnny,” she said, keeping her voice low. “No. He meant well. It was stupid, I know, but I’m sure he just wanted to show you how much he hates to lose you.”

“Did you know about this?” John asked Willy, glaring at her.

“No, John, I promise,” Willy said. She was surprised at the intensity of his anger. “Johnny, don’t be so upset. It wasn’t meant unkindly, I’m sure.”

“It’s a fucking
curse
, Willy, surely you can see that!” John said. “I’m going to tell him off.”

He half rose from his chair, but Willy pulled him back down beside her. “No, John, now calm down,” she said. “You’re taking this the wrong way.”

“Dammit, Willy, why do you always want to hide from confrontations; why do you always have to back away from things?” John asked, directing his anger at his wife.

But there was no time for Willy to respond, because now Harrison Adder was walking to the front of the room. At the same time, the ghostly head was coming out from behind the Chinese screen in the corner. Now that the lights were on, everyone could see that the creature was really a man on stilts with a long black sheet covering him from
shoulders to ankles. The head was made of light white plastic, the eyes and mouth trimmed out with phosphorescent paint.

“Ta-Da!” the creature said, and simultaneously lifted off his head and whisked off the black sheet to reveal the stilts. He jumped down, a young man in jeans and a sweatshirt, a young man who looked, with his dark hair and eyes and his handsomeness, very much like John Constable.

Harrison Adder began to applaud the actor, and the rest of the room took it up, joined in the applause.

“May I present Mike Upton, thespian and spook,” Harrison said, and the young man bowed. People clapped.

“John, will you join us a moment?” Harrison asked, smiling.

Willy felt John’s angry intentions and gently pressed his arm. John rose and took the few steps from his chair to the spot just in front of the screen where his former boss and the actor stood.

“Amazing resemblance, don’t you think?” Harrison said, and people called out agreement.

John shook hands with the actor, who had only been performing his job. Struggling between his instinctive need to bash Harrison in the face and his knowledge of Willy’s gentle dissuasion, John managed neither a smile nor a frown. He looked uncomfortable, and unhappy.

Now Harrison was talking to John, telling him how much they would all miss him, how he was always welcome back, and how they all wished him well in his artistic endeavors, in spite of their little gibe tonight. As proof of their good wishes, Harrison walked over behind Mark’s desk and came back to hand John a large present wrapped in silver paper. It turned out to be a sumptuous leather portfolio.

John took a deep breath of surprise. He should have remembered how good Harrison was at this sort of thing, at praising you, then hammering you with criticism, or, conversely, at calling you on the carpet and haranguing you till you were sick to your stomach, then tossing a gift your way, a new account, a carpet for your office, something lavish, so that you couldn’t be angry but instead felt as weak and confused as a child.

“Thank you,” John said, for what else could he say? “I’ll miss you all, too,” he went on, knowing that this was required of him but also beginning to feel it as he stared out into the room where the people he had worked with for the past eight years were
gathered. He saw Donald Hood, who now leaned drunkenly against the wall, and knew that Donald drunk was better than most people at their sober best. He saw Bob Dedmond, with whom he played tennis on weekends, and Roger Strout, who had worked with him on all the major advertising campaigns; they usually had a drink together after work. He saw Erica, who was beautiful and who loved him unrequitedly; and it was always nice to be loved. With the exception of Harrison Adder, he felt affection for everyone in this room, and he knew he would miss them greatly—they had become his world.