The Forgotten (28 page)
77
“So you live in Baudey House?” Maggie said as she, Will, and David Masters held on to their coffee cups. They sat at a small round table on the windy pier just outside the little white frame shack of a fish and chips stand toward the end of the pier. Baudey House and the lighthouse were visible on Byron's Finger, cliffs jutting out into the ocean as far or farther than the pier. It was hard to tell.
Masters smiled a little shyly. “That's home.”
“Is it haunted?” Will asked.
“Residually, yes.”
“Residually? That's like the old perfume on a handkerchief example you gave?”
Will's eyes slid briefly toward Maggie, a half smile on his lips. The man was telling her he'd beat her to the punchâif he'd paused for an instant, she would have piped up with the cat crap simile.
“That's what I mean,” Masters said. “Once quantum physics gets involved in these things, parapsychology will lose some of the onus that surrounds it. I say that because of the look on your face, Doctor.”
“Will. It's true, I'm a skeptic.”
Maggie rolled her eyes for Masters. The writer grinned. “I'm a skeptic myself.”
Will nodded. “I have to admit, I was very impressed with what you said in your interview. But I'm more skeptical than you are.”
“Only because you haven't seen as much as I have.”
Will smiled. “That remains to be seen. The thing is, Mr. Mastersâ”
“David.”
“David,” Will continued. “I've seen things that I can't explain. I'm sure there's a logical explanation for them, something rational.”
Masters sipped his coffee. “Have you ever thought about this: What we consider rational today was irrational a century ago. Go to the moon in 1900? Totally irrational. Now? Been there, done that. I believe there's a rational explanation for everything, Will. Absolutely everything. The problem is we don't have a rationale for some things yet. Like ghosts. That's what you're talking about, right?”
“Right. And you make a very valid point. It's easy for me to fall out of a neutral state about such things.”
“Same here. It's easy for a skeptic to slip into a state of disbelief that causes him to think everything paranormal is fraudulent. Some magicians who specialize in debunking call themselves skeptics, but they're way to the right of that. Because they can do a trickâmake a ghost appear, for exampleâthey assume that the appearance of an apparition is always a trick.
“A magician who performs that trick has proven one thing, and one thing only. That he can mechanically make us see a false apparition. He has not proven that there is no such thing as an apparition. Unfortunately, if the magician has become narrow-minded, he asserts that his trick is proof there are no real apparitions. And you know what?”
“What?” Maggie asked, pushing hair out of her face.
“Somebody who bends the facts to suit his personal beliefs can't be open-minded, can't be a skeptic. The debunker has a set of beliefs that are as strong and solid as those of the believer. Each must sway everything to fit in with his or her own personal world view.” He looked at Will. “So, do you feel you can still call yourself a skeptic?”
Will didn't answer for a long moment. Seeing strain in his face, Maggie took his hand under the table and held it.
“We're having problems with apparitions and other phenomena in Caledonia.”
“As your patient mentioned.”
“Yes. I haven't experienced her, uh, ghost, but we,” he glanced at Maggie, eyes hopeful, “have experienced a couple of themâapparitionsâat our friends' home. A few other patients have mentioned the same kind of thing. And I'm having a huge upsurge in my practice. People are exhibiting schiz-oidal symptoms from hearing voices in their heads to, well, you name it.”
David nodded and sat forward, arms on the table, coffee forgotten. “Any ideas about what's going on?”
“Animals were affected,” Maggie said when Will glanced at her. “At first, it was wildlife, but that's tapered off over the last few days. Pets are still affected. I was thinking about geomagnetic anomalies, but from what I could find out, nothing strange is going on.”
“Holograms,” Will said. “But why would someone beam holograms into a few peoples' houses?”
“It's possible,” Masters said, “but it doesn't explain the other phenomena.”
Will nodded. “There's an idea about schizophrenics that I've never given credence to that maybe deserves some attention. A few of my collegues believe that schizophrenics are ultra-sensitiveâwhich they do tend to be, to be fair. They believe they pick up on things that are normally beyond the five senses.”
“Like ghosts?”
Will studied David. “Ghosts, yes. Schizophrenics are people who are overloaded with input, whether it's real or imagined. They lack the filters most of us rely on.”
“Filters,” Masters repeated. “Your filters are being damaged by something.”
Will and Maggie traded glances. “That makes sense,” Will said. “How'd you do that?”
“Because I'm not living in it and because coming up with stuff is how I earn my keep.”
Beneath the table, Will's hand tightened around Maggie's, almost squeezing too hard. “My brother died when I was ten. He was sixteen. It was a shooting accident. I only recently remembered that I caused it to happen. It was my fault. For the last few nights, he's been whispering to me from under my bed.” His hand squashed hers. “If that doesn't sound like a case for a psychologist, nothing does. I've assumed it's all due to dealing with the memory, and I've tried to apologize to him even though I have believed it's my own subconscious that is acting as my brother. I'm telling you this for three reasons. The first is that I'm desperate. The second is that I've been insisting I'm dreaming the voice, but when I try lucid dreaming, it doesn't work because I'm not asleep.”
He paused, letting up on Maggie's hand. She stroked the back of his with her thumb.
“And what's the third reason?” the writer asked.
“My cats won't sleep in the bedroom anymore.”
“Well, whatever it is, I don't think you arguing with your subconscious in the privacy of your own mind would scare your cats.” David Masters finished his coffee. “Okay if I come by?”
“Just say when.”
78
Pete Banning, his feet on Mickey Elfbone's coffee table, sucked on a bottle of Bud he'd helped himself to and watched a snowy picture from a shitty little local station that almost came in without cable. Mickey was out on the job, and Pete had let himself in the same way he'd let himself into his brother's house after leaving the Pigskin. A little sleight of hand andâ
voila
âlocks opened up for him like Heather Boyd's legs.
voila
âlocks opened up for him like Heather Boyd's legs.
He'd earned the Bud by staying in Will's house long enough to install a camera and bug in the living room and another in the bedroom, just for fun.
The fucking place gave him the heebie jeebies from the moment he broke in. It looked okay, downright homey in fact. Will had two fucking cat posts, so kitty was probably the only kind of pussy he was getting, but Pete didn't catch sight of a whisker. That was normal; animals usually took off when he was around. He'd started to chuckle over that then stopped, his laugh swallowed instantly by the house.
For the life of him, he didn't know why he felt like the house was watching him. It was the same feeling he had back on some of his missions, squatting in a jungle, hoping the enemy wasn't watching him take a shit. It was like that; it wasn't just the being watched, it was feeling helpless while being watched, the sensation that something was going to shoot at him while he was squeezing out a loaf. He hated it.
First thing he did to fight back was check the house. Cable was off. No security cams. Maybe it was just the fucking cat watching him from some hiding place. Goddamn cats would stare down anybody. They had no respect for authority.
Fucking cats.
He didn't much like dogs either, except for the well-trained ones, but at least they did what you told them.
Fucking cats.
He didn't much like dogs either, except for the well-trained ones, but at least they did what you told them.
Pete belched long and deep then got off the couch to grab another beer. Will's entire house creeped him out, but it was when he was in the master bedroom that Pete practically turned tail. It was when he thought he heard something.
His name.
Pete.
Michael's voice.
Michael's voice.
Pete had whirled from the television and looked around the room. The place was empty. Hurrying through the job, he told himself it was something outside or maybe the mystery cat hissing, something. He even started thinking that maybe, although Will's set was off, something was going on like it was at the Pigskin. Whatever it was, he didn't like it. And he couldn't stop thinking about Michael. Michael the golden boy. Michael, who was taller, handsomer, excelled in school and at sports. Michael with girls coming out of his ass. God, he'd hated that bastard. The only thing he ever did for Pete was die.
Back on Mickey's couch, he flipped off the cap off the beer and chugged half the bottle. If he'd lived, what would Michael say now? Pete had the money, the business, the charm, the women. “Fuck you, Michael,” he muttered, and finished the beer. “I piss on your grave, big man.”
Bored, but not quite enough to risk effects of the new cable, Pete got up and started going through Mickey's racks of DVDs. “Christ, fucking goddamn pussy.” Everything was in order, almost prissy, and there were a hell of a lot of musicals in there. “Goddamn faggot? Mickey? Are you a faggot?” He chuckled, thinking about the ribbing he would give the guy when he came home. He knew Mickey wasn't a fag, but he thought maybe he could make him wonder about himself. That would be fun.
He finally found a DVD of Gladiator and stuck that in the machine. It started playing, but Pete wasn't through exercising. He got the last beer out of the fridge and walked outside, standing against the railing to get a little wind and sun. He looked around the apartment courtyard. Nothing with tits by the pool. No tits anywhere. Some guy lifting weights in an apartment across the yard. Window shiny clean, no curtains in sight. Fucker was showing off his precious pecs. He'd rib Mick about that too. Ask if he liked to watch.
Movement in the apartment next door caught his eye. The curtains were half closed, the lights off. In fact, there was a big lock over the doorknob that meant the place was empty. But it wasn't. There was a skinny broad pacing around in there. He watched her for a moment as she moved around, a big cat in a cage. It was weird.
“Shit!”
He could've sworn that the woman was far back in the apartment, but suddenly her long pale face was in the window staring at him with dead eyes. “You fucking bitch!”
He beat it back into Mickey's and slammed the door. “Crazy fucking bitch.”
“Hi Pete,” Mickey said as he came through the door an hour later.
“ âHi Pete?' That's all? Aren't you surprised to see me?” Pete sat up straighter, fighting off the beer-drowsiness that had set in.
“You parked your SUV in my garage slot,” Mickey explained. “It's okay,” he added, afraid of the wrath of Pete. “It's just how I knew you were here.”
“What the fuck is that on your head?”
“Like it? A kid from downstairs gave it to me.”
Pete knew he was lying, but didn't give a shit. “Who's the crazy bitch that lives next door? Fucking nutcase.”
“What?”
“The bitch next door. She plastered her face against her window and stared at me like a goddamned zombie. What is she? A crack whore?”
Mickey stared at him a moment then spoke flatly. “She's dead.”
“She looked dead, fucking fish face.”
“She is dead. Suicide. They took her away a couple days ago.”
Pete sat up. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“You're telling me that was a ghost?”
“Yeah.”
“You see it?”
“Me, and a cop, too. He saw her.”
“What'd he say?”
“Not much.”
“He tell anybody?”
“Doubt it. Who'd believe him? And nobody's been snooping around.”
In covert ops, Pete had seen amazing things, some of which he couldn't quite understand. This had to be something to do with Project Tingler, but. . . He thought back to other projects he'd heard a little about. The ones involving remote viewing, attempts to increase psychic powers in humans.
Maybe Tingler's the magic bullet.
He smiled. “Mick, my man, you're out of beer. Why don't you run down and buy us some.”
Maybe Tingler's the magic bullet.
He smiled. “Mick, my man, you're out of beer. Why don't you run down and buy us some.”
“Sure, Pete. Are you staying?”
“You got plans?”
“Nope.”
“I'm staying, but if anybody asks, even if you run into Jennifer or my wife, you haven't seen me. Got it?”
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