Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set

Chapter 9

“How’s it going?” Wayne said, patting Kendra on the shoulder and looking at the check-in sheet.

“Forty-three so far,” Kendra said.

“We’ll put you through college yet.”

“Unless I run away from home and join the circus.”

“You’re already in the circus, honey.”

“Well, they’ve certainly sent in the clowns. You’ve got psychics, remote viewers, a couple of cranky quantum physicists, and a woman who claims to be the reincarnation of Madame Blavatsky.”

“As long as she didn’t pay in rubles.”

“I’ve got a feeling she’ll probably add a hillbilly to her past-life collection by the time the weekend’s over,” Kendra said, rolling her eyes to indicate the surroundings.

The hotel had given them its “history room” for registration, the walls replete with old photographs, door handles, wallpaper samples, and other relics of the building’s past. A glass case held an ancient Royal typewriter, its black ribbon cracked and curled. Beside it was a tattered copy of “The Yearling,” and a placard explaining author Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings had stayed at the hotel in the summer of 1936, taking breakfast in Black Rock and dinner in Boone. The glass case also held Southern Appalachian artifacts like corn-husk dolls, a dulcimer, a ceramic moonshine jug, furrier’s tools, and a hand-stitched quilt that looked as if it has been pieced together with dust. The room smelled of linseed oil and old paper.

“It’s all about presentation,” Wayne said, imparting a basic business principal disguised as a parental lecture. “Give them a little atmosphere and let their imaginations do the rest.”

Kendra rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. ‘People don’t buy products, they buy emotions.’ Jeez, Dad, why don’t you get out of the ghost game and launch a political consulting firm?”

“There’s not much imagination in that. Plus you’re on the losing team half the time.”

A tall man with a dramatic swoop of gray in his dark hair entered the room. He wore a rumpled tan blazer and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the wiry hair on his chest. “Is this where we register?” he said, in a low, mellifluous tone.

“Step right this way,” Kendra said, motioning him to the table.

“I paid in advance,” he said. “Martin Gelbaugh.”

As Kendra checked his information and gave him his badge and packet, Wayne lifted the lid on the ancient piano in the corner. He poked the lowest C, and as the note reverberated against the room’s wooden surfaces, he tapped a note higher up the register. The two harmonics clashed, horribly out of tune even to Wayne’s untrained ear.

“The upper C is about eleven vibrations per second flat,” the man said.

Wayne looked at Gelbaugh, studying the hands that appended the badge to his suit jacket. The fingers were gaunt but graceful, like those of a musician or fine craftsman. “Perfect pitch, huh?”

“I’m not convinced that ‘perfect’ exists,” he said, smiling at Kendra. “Unless perhaps it’s the angelic demeanor of this lovely young lady.”

The gallant attempt at flattery would only enrage his daughter. She was convinced that every man over the age of 20 was a hopeless perv, and Wayne endorsed that sentiment. But she disguised her grimace so that it could be mistaken for a shy smile.

The customer is always right, even when he’s an asshole. I’ve taught her well. The Digger’s daughter.

She’s your daughter, too, Beth, but I hope your lessons have ended. Everything we knew might have been wrong.

“She could be the only angel here, Mr. Gelbaugh,” Wayne said, falling into a dinner-theater role to match that of the guest’s. “I’m Wayne Wilson, your host.”

“I’ve read a lot about you.”

“Half of it is true, but nobody knows which half, not even me,” Wayne said. Kendra shot him a look that said Don’t pile it on too thick. Or maybe Lame-o-rama. He wasn’t so good at teen translation these days.

“Is it the half that says you’re a huckster who doesn’t even believe in the afterlife and is only in it for a fast buck?”

Wayne felt his face shift into a cold mask. He studied Gelbaugh’s eyes, looking for a twinkle of mischief, but all he saw was an inquisitive challenge. The tension was heightened by Kendra’s expectation of a response. Maybe he could surprise them both.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, or what you believe, or what anyone believes,” Wayne said. “All experience is subjective, and no one’s yet to offer irrefutable proof of life, much less the afterlife.”

Gelbaugh touched his forehead in a mock salute. “So you’ve been reading about me, too.”

“Sure. I subscribe to Fate Magazine and hit the paranormal blogs like everybody else. Unless a dozen people are out there pretending to be Martin Gelbaugh, you get around.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t come to crash the party. I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“Nobody’s innocent,” Wayne said.

A group of four came to the table, drawing Kendra’s attention. Wayne moved closer to Gelbaugh, not sure whether he welcomed the man’s presence. Gelbaugh was a famous critic of the paranormal, but instead of debunking its science, he challenged the foundation of consciousness. The Gospel According To Gelbaugh went something like, “You can’t prove one plus one is two, because you can’t even prove what ‘one’ is. And if you show me a mathematical formula, all you are showing me is a piece of paper with strange markings on it, and I have no way of knowing not only whether the markings are actually there, but whether the piece of paper exists.”

Wayne had to admit, as radical theories went, Gelbaugh’s was pretty unassailable. The man had published a book called “God Equals Absolute Zero,” and it created a brief buzz before its convoluted logic bored even the fickle pop-psychology crowd.

Gelbaugh’s reputation had decayed from metaphysical whiz kid to cranky nay-sayer in the space of a decade. Now he was trading on the last of his reputation, hanging around the fringes, finding new purpose in the paranormal fad. And he’d paid his registration in cash, too far down the ladder to request free admission in exchange for a panel appearance.

“Come now, Mr. Wilson, if we’re going to debate guilt and innocence, you should at least join me at the hotel bar,” Gelbaugh said.

Wayne licked his lips, the bittersweet bite of whiskey aroused from its slumbering tomb in his memory. Sure, he could have one drink. Just one. This time, he could manage it.

Then, in a flash of prescience that could have convinced him of psychic ability if he were so inclined, he saw himself sitting on a bar stool, elbows riding the oak railing, head tilted into the gray fog of cigarette smoke. Glass tinkling, murmurs of conversation spiked with occasional cracked laughter, the TV set tuned to championship poker or semipro boxing, the drinks coming faster and faster until it was morning and he would awaken against the toilet, vomit and apologies burning his throat, Kendra forced into playing the grown-up of the family once again.

You want to talk about horror...

“Maybe later,” Wayne said. “I’ve got to check on the control room and the hunt schedule.”

Gelbaugh gave a knowing nod, and Wayne wondered if his drinking habits had been part of Gelbaugh’s homework. “Sure. How about after tomorrow’s panel? ‘The Nature of Spirits.’ One could take a number of meanings from that title.”

“It’s supposed to be open-ended,” Wayne said.

“Naturally,” Gelbaugh said. “What better way to kick off a paranormal conference than to turn on the metaphorical fog machine and cloud the collective consciousness?”

“My panelists have credentials that–”

The walkie talkie on Wayne’s belt squawked, and he retrieved it, glad he didn’t have to defend the reputations of people he’d drafted because they were willing to jabber for free.

“Excuse me.” He pressed a button and said into the mouthpiece, “Wayne here.”

“We got a problem, Boss.”

Burton had a flair for understatement. His “problem” was another man’s “life-and-death crisis.” At best, he’d run into a wiring problem. At worst, the whole telecomm system had melted down.

“On my way,” he answered, brushing past Gelbaugh and heading for the stairs. “What you got?”

“In the medium room.” Burton responded. “They were playing around with automatic writing, and a woman fainted.”

“Christ,” Wayne said. His first thought was not of the woman’s well-being, but of his liability insurance. He almost wished he believed in God so he could pray the victim was diabetic or had some other chronic ailment instead of suffering emotional trauma.

All conference attendees were required to sign waiver forms acknowledging the physical and psychological risks of ghost hunting, but his attorney had said the papers were little more than good publicity. A lawsuit was a lawsuit, and in a courtroom, everybody lost but the lawyers.

There was one more possibility, one he wasn’t yet prepared to face. But she would wait for an intimate moment to make her appearance.

You and me, just like the old days. Just like we never have before.

He was leaping up the winding stairs three at a time when Kendra called after him from below. “Something wrong?”

Wayne peered over the railing. “An Elvis sighting.”

“Dad,” she groaned, but he was already thundering to Room 218 and whatever unpleasant surprise awaited.