The Supernaturals

ONE

Kelly Delaphoy waited for her presentation, and the accompanying memo, to set in like rainwater soaking into dry, barren earth. It was exactly what she thought of their minds: barren. She continued watching their faces. Maybe her words, along with those of the former anchorman, would sink in slowly, or maybe the tale would just run off like rainwater against hardpan soil. She hoped it would spark thought and planning, but knew their unimaginative minds only saw dollar signs in everything they considered — which, she noted with reluctance, was why they were all in the positions they were in.

“As you can see in the folders before you, I was sent a copy of the investigation by a network contact at the Pennsylvania State Police. It was verified by a court clerk who filed several injunctions after rulings in the Kennedy case.”

The men and women sat around the large conference table and eyed the beautiful young woman with suspicion as she stood smiling an arrogant smile. Only her producer, Jason Sanborn, pretended to read the package she had painstakingly pieced together and placed before them, although he knew the contents almost as well as Kelly did.

“I assume you know that possessing this report is a criminal offense, since the case hasn’t been closed yet.”

Kelly looked straight into the eyes of Lionel Peterson, who sat motionless at the head of the table. She refused to rise to the challenge of a remark laid out like bait to a starving fish. Peterson thought she feared him, or was at the very least intimidated, as he intimidated so many others in this room. However, she had the hottest show on the network and was personally responsible for bringing in countless millions of advertising dollars. The smug president of the UBC entertainment division was helpless to do anything about her small legal transgressions unless she was caught by the authorities, and that would never happen. She eyed Peterson, which she knew irritated him to no end. The thought that the former stock analyst, with his slicked back black hair and his Armani suit, could make her cower in fear was almost laughable to her. He had the reputation of being a shark, and everyone at the network from Los Angeles to corporate in New York knew he was after only one thing: the position of network president. There was only one thing standing in Lionel’s way, and that was the seventy-two-year-old chairman and CEO.

“It’s nothing I haven’t done fifty times for this show, as far back as when we were a mere half-hour throwaway on basic cable in Cincinnati. I never use these types of items in our case studies, so no one is ever the wiser. And you have never once questioned my research, as long as the advertising money comes in.” She continued to challenge Peterson, staring directly at him. “Should I have also not accepted the notebook and police entries?”

“Okay, let’s put the legalities aside for the moment.” Jason stood and moved to the small refrigerator, removed a bottle of sparkling water and then returned to the conference table. “Did you get a chance to talk with this Harvard educated—” he leaned over and looked at his notes for show as he opened the bottle, “Professor Kennedy?”

For the first time in a production meeting of this nature, Kelly lowered her head, looking defeated just minutes into the expected confrontation. She would corner Jason later about embarrassing her with his question.

“He won’t see me. He wants nothing to do with us,” Kelly finally said.

“You mean you’ve finally come across someone with a little dignity?” Peterson smirked.

“We don’t need him.” Kelly smiled broadly, and then looked around the room for effect while biting her lower lip. It was the best little girl being attacked face she could muster. “I have the sole owner of the estate, the great-grand nephew, Wallace Lindemann.”

That created the buzz she was hoping for. People started talking all at once. Her show, Hunters of the Paranormal, would indeed air live in two months on Halloween night from the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania; she knew it by the excitement in the room. They had already forgotten about her not being able to obtain the reclusive psychiatrist, Gabriel Kennedy.

As she looked from person to person, her eyes finally fell on Lionel Peterson. He was looking at her with his left eyebrow raised once more, in that maybe you have us hooked, and maybe you don’t way of his. Peterson had been overruled two years before by the man who had previously sat in the entertainment president’s chair, and so a small cable series that had shown promise in the ratings had become a network franchise that was now a juggernaut according to the television God, Nielsen. The man just would not, could not, let go of his failure and embarrassment at the way Kelly had outmaneuvered him years ago.

Peterson slapped the table twice. His entertainment people quieted, returning to some semblance of a professional group.

“I can’t help but think we’ll look like Johnny-come-latelys on this, Kelly. I mean, so many ghost hunter shows have investigated the Lindemann summer house and found absolutely nothing since this Kennedy fiasco — they couldn’t even air the footage they had in the can.”

Kelly was actually stunned that Peterson knew of the summer house and its television history. She tried not to show her surprise.

Peterson looked down at the conference table and thumbed the thick pages Kelly had placed before him, and then looked up with a smirk.

“Kennedy won’t see you because he probably made a deal with his missing student to take it on the lam so that Kennedy could get a book deal out of his disappearance.” He again thumbed through her proposal and pulled a sheet of paper from the binding. “In addition, devoting four primetime live hours, and another four live hours into late night, well, that may cost us too much. The advertisers would run for cover. As you said, there’s not much of an ‘evil owner’ angle here. Even I’ve heard about the philanthropic Lindemanns.”

Kelly pulled out her chair and sat down. She had done the interviews herself, everyone from Philadelphia television news reporters who had covered the Kennedy story, to a few of the cancelled ghost hunter shows that couldn’t keep up with hers in the ratings. They all claimed the same thing: the place was so beautiful and charming and so very much not haunted. After listening to them all, she even started having her own doubts. Then she’d heard what happened there in 2003. It was something the other shows never touched on because of legalities, or they claimed never to have even heard of the Kennedy incident. Her research had taken her from USC to the Poconos; from Beaumont, Texas — where either USC or the Pennsylvania authorities tried to hide Kennedy from the rest of the world — to this very boardroom, pitching the greatest live event since Orson Wells and his War of the Worlds broadcast in the thirties. The one difference that emerged from her research was the one thing the other shows lacked, her imagination.

“That’s true, those shoddy shows and news reporters didn’t find anything, but they don’t have our experience. Even if the place is benign, which I know it isn’t, we have the official Kennedy account from the great-grand nephew of F.E. Lindemann himself, sole heir of the great sewing machine magnate, that says something horrible did happen there in the summer of 2003, contradicting the official state police report. We tell that story along with the others we have related to you in the slide show, and then, if we have to, we’ll make our audience believe. And there’s one thing the other shows refused to touch on: whatever is in that house was triggered into action by Kennedy and his team. He awoke something in that house that had lain dormant for over three-quarters of a century. With a cast of ‘experts,’ I can get the house to awaken once more. Only this time, it will be on my cue and on live television.”

“Am I hearing you right?” Peterson asked, staring straight at Kelly. “You want to fake events at that house if it proves not to be haunted? I want to hear you say it, Kelly. I want everyone here to understand it clearly.” He pointed a finger from her to the others around the room. She only wished she could reach out and snap that prissy little manicured finger right in half.

“That’s a rather hard turn of phrase, Lionel. All I mean is that since we don’t have Kennedy, we push the boundaries a little. That’s all.”

“And your above-board hosts, writers, and other producers are good with this?”

“They will be, yes. They’re troopers. They’ve been through thick and thin on this show for five years and they’ll do anything to keep Hunters of the Paranormal on top of the ratings. I have a line on two of the students that walked out of that house with Professor Kennedy.”

“What of the other three?” Peterson asked.

“They have never spoken to anyone about Summer Place. Their parents wouldn’t even tell me where they were currently living. It’s like they dropped off the face of the earth.”

Lionel Peterson clearly did not like this. She could see it on his face. As much as he would have liked to see her fail and take her show down with her, his advertising revenues would plummet and never recover, no matter what show they replaced her with. No, his fate was tied to hers. She suspected that prospect gave him far more chills than her ghost hunting show ever could.

“How much?” he asked.

“The largest expense is the house rental itself. That will run one million dollars.”

“For just one night?” Peterson asked, loud enough to startle a few of the more timid people around the table. His eyes bore into Kelly’s and she could tell that this time he wasn’t putting on a front.

“The nephew, Wallace Lindemann, is rich beyond measure, but is also a cutthroat little bastard. He won’t take a penny less than the one million for the two weeks we need the house. That’s one week for signal testing and setup two weeks before, and one week for the actual broadcast on Halloween night.”

“You’re bordering on blowing a quarter of a season’s budget on an eight-hour special? The network brass would go ballistic. No way am I approving this.”

Kelly smiled with as much fabricated embarrassment as she could muster. “I, uh…already broached the subject to Mr. Feuerstein in New York when we attended the Emmys a month ago. He said corporate would be onboard, on one condition.”

Peterson frowned. Kelly was sure he thought her an arrogant bitch for going over his head and making him look like a moron, or at the very least a dupe. However, she watched as he looked around the table at his very own people. Their enthusiasm for the project was obvious. He forced himself to smile and nod his head. He knew the game she was playing very well; after all, he had almost invented it.

“Okay, I’m all jittery inside with expectation and anticipation,” he said sourly. “What’s Mr. Feuerstein’s condition?”

“They want Julie Reilly of the Nightly News to go along, for window dressing and legitimacy.”

Peterson didn’t say a word at first. He stared at her and then lowered his head with a shake.

“You want the best investigative reporter at the network to tag along? And what if she sees through your little scam?” He finally looked up. “Some people in that money-losing division are actually good at their jobs.”

“Lionel, she works for the network. She’ll do as she’s told. Besides, it will never come to that. We can trick the house out days before — and don’t give me that look. It won’t be people dressed in bedsheets being caught on camera, or things moving by a string the audience can see. I think I know a few things, after all these years, about how to scare people. Small stuff, it doesn’t have to be much, just enough to get viewers’ eyebrows to raise and their hearts to race a little. We’ll fine-tune it during the test broadcast two weeks before.”

She could see the gears turn in his head. If corporate wanted their star reporter in on this, it was so that entertainment could help prop up the sagging ratings of the news division. Ultimately, it would help those people he just mentioned — the ones who were good at their jobs.

“You’re taking an awful big risk for a house that, at least historically speaking, is not in the least bit haunted, despite the shady testimonials of people not named in your research,” he said. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but wasn’t it Julie Reilly who made her bones by hanging Professor Kennedy, asserting that he was a publicity-seeking opportunist who wanted nothing more than to sell books. I believe she reported that an unnamed source claimed that the only way he could do that would be to have at least one of his students vanish into thin air. She cost him his career, and now corporate wants her to tag along? Ms. Reilly is another person who climbed to power by not naming her sources. This is quite a cast of characters you’ll be pulling together, Kelly.”

“Look, there have been other deaths at the estate. And if it was a hoax, why hasn’t this student ever turned up? I’m willing to cut Julie Reilly loose and see her investigate that, regardless of the outcome — it would make just as good a story if we could prove Kennedy is a nutcase and a murderer, or at the very least, the opportunist you claim he is. The angle here is the missing student and the stories about the house’s past.”

“What other deaths? I thought the only incidents were a disappearance, a horse riding accident and a supposed assault.”

“Several prominent families have died on their way home from weekend stays at the retreat in the twenties and thirties…maybe not right at Summer Place, but on the roads leading from it. You see, it’s not just the earlier stories that will sell the show, it’s everything rolled into one ball. And one very important bit of information you’re overlooking, Lionel, is the small fact that Kennedy has refused to write or discuss a word of that night, even though one publishing house offered him a flat two million dollars in advance money. And that, Lionel, is documented and quotable.”

The conference room grew quiet.

“This house sits on land that has some of the most treacherous roads in Pennsylvania. Let me venture further, most of these accidents occurred long before there were paved roads in the area. Am I correct?”

“I really haven’t checked the—”

“In addition, the fact is that the longer Professor Kennedy waits, the more money he will get when he finally does write his book. Am I right?”

Kelly Delaphoy raised her eyes from the table and looked into Peterson’s. She knew he was attacking her because of her discussion with corporate. She had a good guess he also knew she was after his job, just as he was after the CEO’s.

“Yes on one, but not on the other two points. Kennedy was frightened by something in that house. In order for him to write about it, he would have to relive it. He doesn’t want to do that.” She looked at the faces around the table that were silent, waiting for her last push. “I believe there is something here that goes far beyond the accidents, the opera star, actress, the columnist, and finally the Kennedy incident. This Halloween special will bring viewership to an all-time high. I’ll see to it that all these puzzle pieces fit into one terrifying eight hour show. And here’s something for you to chew on: the reason Professor Kennedy chose this house above all others when he sought his research grant from USC, was the fact that it supposedly scared the holy shit out of one of America’s literary giants, Shirley Jackson.”

“The Haunting of Hill House was required reading in English Lit,” Jason Sanborn offered, lowering his water bottle to the table and then looking up in thought. “What was the famous passage from that book of hers?”

Kelly could have kissed Jason for his quick thinking. She would now let that earlier indiscretion pass. She hurriedly rifled through her notes, letting tension build, and then smiled. She quoted from the page even though she knew the passage by heart: “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.”

“You have to admit, Lionel, that coupled with these tales, this whole thing is pretty creepy stuff,” Sanborn said. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and placed it in his mouth.

All eyes turned to Peterson, whose jaw muscles were working as he looked at Kelly. She could see the hatred in his eyes at what she had done, but she knew with this latest bit of information out in the open, others would now bring pressure to bear on the entertainment president.

“I’ll let you know in twenty-four hours,” Peterson said. “I don’t have to be in New York for five more weeks.”

“But we need to get—”

“Kelly, I said twenty-four hours, and not one minute before. And leave the Kennedy file here with me. I want to look it over.”

Kelly slid the thick file down the long table, passing it from one person to another until it reached Peterson’s girlish hands. She then picked up her laptop computer and bag. She started to say something, then thought better of it. A few executives nodded their supposed support as they left the room. Her eyes went to the four inch-thick file on Professor Kennedy sitting under Peterson’s hand. She bit her lower lip, hesitated, and then turned and left.

Once he was alone in the conference room, Peterson opened the file to the eight by ten color glossy of the house in question. Kelly hadn’t even had the good sense to issue a black and white photo to give the mansion a more sinister look. His lips curled into a sneer. The picture showed a flattering view of the property. The four-story Summer Place had a pool that would make any hotel in Las Vegas envious. It had the kinds of gardens and walkways you would see on European estates.

Peterson shook his head and wondered what a joint like that would cost to build in today’s dollars. All of this opulence from money provided by the sewing machine — well, that, and ten thousand sweat-factory workers in New York City. He perked up at that thought, and then just as quickly deflated. It had been a well-known fact that the Lindemanns, at least the founding branch, had been the least likely candidates for scandal. They treated their workers like family and were never even remotely scrutinized for any wrongdoing. They had three schools and six parks named after them in Philadelphia and New York. No, no angle there to play. It was Kelly’s slant or nothing. Anyway, since it had already been brought to the attention of the president of the network and the board of directors, he could do little about it.

As he looked at the picture of Summer Place, his eyes wandered over to the black and white photo of Professor Gabriel Kennedy that was stapled to the opposite side of the folder.

What happened to you and your supposedly lost student, Professor? Peterson asked himself. Knowing that just may give me a leg up on our little spook girl.

The picture of Kennedy, of course, did not answer. It only stared back at Peterson with the eyes of a haunted man. He had screamed for three solid months about the house in the Poconos — the house that everyone said could never be haunted. The house that was indeed not just haunted, but a killing place.

A corner of another picture poked from the folder and he slowly pulled it free. It was an old photograph of the Lindemann family. The patriarch was sitting in a large wicker chair. His wife of royal blood, Elena, stood at his side with her right hand placed securely on his left shoulder. The eight children, ranging from nine to one years of age, were arranged around the parents, with the baby on a small pedestal at Lindemann’s feet. Even though hardly anyone smiled in photographs in those days, this photo was different. He could see that the Lindemanns were happy. Every one of them, with the exception of the baby, wore warm and inviting smiles. Of course, being the fifth richest man in the country probably helped the family bite the bullet, as they say.

He was about to place the picture back into the pile when the small, beautiful face of Elena Lindemann caught his attention. She was a stunning woman for her time, and Peterson took back what he had thought a moment before. She did have sad eyes. With her hand placed upon her husband’s shoulder, her small fingers splayed out as if she were not caressing, but holding him at bay. Her slim fingers were slightly raised from the surface of his coat. But it was her smile — it never quite reached her eyes.

Peterson shook his head and slid the photo back inside the file. He knew he was just looking for something bad in the family. All he had to do was open any history book or delve into the historical society pages of any leading newspaper to see that this family was more than just impeccable, they were damn near Christ-like in the way people spoke of their legacy.

Peterson lay the folder aside and looked at the facsimile of Kennedy’s notebook entry, the one also supposedly found on the wall that the boy had disappeared into. He furrowed his brow as he read the harshly written words once more.

“They are mine.”

The entertainment president repeated the three words from the fax aloud repeatedly, expecting them to lose meaning the way repeated words usually do. These did not.

“They are mine. They are mine.”

Kelly Delaphoy sat with her show’s two hosts inside her large study in her Studio City home. Greg Larsen and Paul Lowell stared at her, wanting desperately not to believe what she had just told them.

“You mean we have a chance to finally get into that house, and instead of really investigating it, you want us to fake it if something doesn’t happen?”

Kelly had known the two men since they were nothing but freelance photojournalists eight years before. They had been her closest friends during good times and bad. She smiled. “Listen, Paul, we’ll have too much invested in the live show. We won’t be able to explain away a flop to the sponsors and our viewers. Sometimes, as you know, ghosts don’t show up on cue.”

“But Kelly, we’ve always been on the up-and-up. If it isn’t haunted, we say so. That’s why people watch us. The word is integrity — do you want me to spell it for you? In addition, when we do declare a house free of paranormal activity, that doesn’t mean the episode is a failure. There’s still enough spooky stuff to make viewers tense and uneasy. To fake something as large—”

“We need this,” she said, cutting Paul off mid-sentence. Her eyes could not hold his, so she looked away.

“You mean you need this. You’re not fooling us, Kelly, we’ve known for a while what you have your sights on, and it sure as hell isn’t the integrity of our show. It’s the entertainment division of the network that you’re after.”

Kelly looked at the bearded Greg Larsen and forced a tear to her eye. She swiped at it as if she were embarrassed at the weakness.

“Do you really think that?”

Paul looked at Greg, and then back at Kelly. “Yes, we do. For quite a while now, actually — ever since the network picked us up. You’ve changed, Kelly.”

“That’s unfair. Where would you be if I hadn’t sold this show to UBC? We’d still be stuck in Cincinnati, going nowhere! I have never asked for anything. I do the work and you two get the glamour. I want this—we need this!” She alternated her eyes from Greg to Paul. “Soon our ratings will start to slide, you know it and I know it. This one special will guarantee us at least two more solid seasons, probably three with total sponsorship. Then we get out while we’re hot. We’ll move onto another show, different format. All of us.”

“Kelly, we’ve never faked anything that—” Greg started but was once again cut short.

“Camera angles, tripping by clumsy soundmen, house settling noises? Come on, we’ve faked a lot. Okay, so omitting is not the same as faking, but don’t sit there and tell me you’re so clean and I’m so dirty. It’s all in the editing. Remember that statement, Greg?”

Greg Larsen shook his head. He had said that to Kelly years before — that scaring people on film or videotape was just a case of creative editing — and now it had come back to haunt him.

“Come on, at the very least we have an opportunity to go to a place we’ve always wanted to investigate. In addition, we can put on a very convincing show just explaining the history of Summer Place and the Kennedy thing. That’s enough to creep people out right there. I promise we won’t go overboard on tricks. Jason Sanborn and we three will be the only ones in the know. We will storyboard the entire eight hours. No camera operators, investigative assistants, or soundmen will be in on it. We won’t even bring the director in. We will feed off all their reactions to the prearranged gags, okay?”

The two hosts sat for a moment. Paul was absent-mindedly scratching his temple and Greg just held Kelly’s eyes as he thought. Then with one look at Paul, he cleared his throat.

“Don’t you mean, if the place really isn’t haunted?”

“There is something in that house, damn it. I know it. But you know and I know how many houses and abandoned sanitariums we’ve been in that were haunted, where nothing happened on cue.”

The two hosts sat quiet for a moment. It was Greg, just who she thought it would be, that spoke first.

“We only use outside people, a technician whom Paul and I trust to trick out the house, and only sound gags. No material props that can be caught by the investigative team. That’s the only way we’ll do it.”

“Deal! We’ll test sound gags during the test broadcast. That’s a full two weeks before Halloween, and I’ll have so much information for you two guys to explain on the air that you’ll scare the hell out of everyone just from the script. I’m going to make another attempt at seeing Professor Kennedy. I know I can make this work — for all of us.”

“It had better, Kelly.” The two co-hosts of Hunters of the Paranormal stood. Greg stared down at Kelly. “And when you become president of the entertainment division, if you ever do become president, you better remember your old friends, or they could come back to haunt you,” Greg said as he held her gaze, the threat very clear in his words and the pun just as clearly intended.

TWO

Professor Gabriel Kennedy’s fall from grace almost broke him, spiritually as well as monetarily. It seemed as though he had hit every sharp rock and academic outcropping on his way down the professional mountain. He just hadn’t fallen in the way the news reporters had hoped. Money had never been the driving force behind Kennedy, as many of them had said. The acquisition of money was only a means to an end. Gabriel Kennedy had invested everything he had ever earned on his chance to get inside Summer Place. His books, though selling well enough before that night, only helped him in that quest.

The Summer Place incident had never been planned as a ploy to gain monetary stability, nor self-serving notoriety. It had been a chance to prove to the world that parapsychology was a science and not just a topic for ridicule at university social functions.

The long, difficult fall had taken Kennedy from the well-funded psychology department of USC to a moderate Behavioral Psych position at Lamar University in Beaumont, Texas. He was there only because he had gone to school with Lamar’s Science Chair, Harrison Lumley, a million years before. An old dorm room pal, Lumley used to sell methamphetamine for spending money and take speed to assist with his finals. Harrison Lumley was everyone’s pal at one time or another.

Now he was here at Lamar, relegated with a broken heart and shattered spirit to quoting Freud instead of voicing his own research on the science of the mind and paranormal.

Kennedy stood at six foot three and had a narrative voice that commanded attention from a generation of kids that cared for nothing other than their iPods and cell phones. He had long before moved the classroom’s clock to the wall behind him, so that he would not notice the minute and hour hands that never seemed to move.

Kennedy was hiding from the world; hiding from the questions that he couldn’t answer without going back in his mind to that night at Summer Place. Most would have thought he would be eager to clear his name and prove his science, but he was not. He had come to this place to hide and have his nightmares about a house that transcended the realities of the physical world. A world he had once thought he knew well enough to teach to young minds.

Anyway, just what would a grown man say to explain such a fear as his? A grown man who once thought that the monster under the bed was dispelled by age and the advent of the electric light, only to be proven wrong. Age and light had nothing to do with mentally ousting those demons; Kennedy knew now that the thing under the bed was very much a real threat.

He had even tried to explain the night in question once. When Harrison Lumley offered him the position at Lamar, Kennedy felt the need to tell his friend what had happened, to explain he wasn’t what the newspapers and television shows said he was. He had failed miserably in his attempt to explain the unexplainable, just as he had failed to explain it properly to the police in Pennsylvania. Just reliving that night with his friend, he nearly had a mental breakdown. Gabriel thanked God everyday that Harrison had known him when he had been considered a brilliant — if a little misguided — clinical psychologist on his way to the top.

Beaumont, Texas was a good place to hide for the remainder of your life. People did not care about the stuff they talked about in the larger cities. As long as the Lamar Cardinals and the Dallas Cowboys were winning, and the bottom didn’t fall out of the oil market, Lamar University couldn’t give a damn about Kennedy, or his lost student, Warren Miller.

“So, where do we stand to this point?” Kennedy asked with his back to his large class. “Freud never said that most issues of the human consciousness could be traced to a mean daddy or unloving mama. He didn’t say that it must have been Uncle Bob that molested you when you were seven, that made you climb the bell tower and shoot thirty-five people on the street.” He paused for the laughter from his first year students, as he turned away from the blackboard and faced them. “What he did say was people are built like we build cars: parts are added to the mind as you go through life. Good parts, bad parts, and sometimes the human thought process produces what the auto industry calls a lemon. Everything we read, see and experience is placed into that human mind, but how it is processed, stored, maintained and then acted upon is the real work of clinical psychology.”

The buzzer sounded and the students started to rise and leave for the weekend. Kennedy felt as if he himself was the student who could not wait to get the hell out of this environment. As Kennedy placed his study guide and papers into his briefcase, he looked up. Since that night at Summer Place, he had been sensitive to the feeling of being watched. Still, he almost didn’t see the woman sitting at the rear of the class, hidden well in the theater-style seating. He reached down to his desktop, picked up his wire-rimmed glasses and put them on and then looked again. The woman was blonde and had her hair cut short. Kennedy didn’t recognize her, so he continued to put his papers away.

“I’m not doing any outside tutoring this semester, sorry.”

The woman did not respond. She sat quietly and watched the professor until he looked up once more. He studied her a moment and then frowned.

“No,” he said as he closed his briefcase and secured its latches. “I don’t speak with newspapers, television people, or ladies’ sewing circles.”

“Well, I don’t work for a newspaper, and I haven’t sewn anything since summer camp twenty years ago. So I guess that leaves me guilty of television,” the blonde woman said. She stood and slowly made her way down the slight incline of rowed seating.

Kennedy looked at his watch. “Listen, I don’t even have the time it would take to say no again. I have to—”

“Go home to your apartment, eat a Swanson’s frozen dinner and stare at the walls?” She placed her case on his desk.

“Actually, it’s a Marie Callender’s Salisbury Steak frozen dinner. I have distinguishing taste.” He lifted his briefcase and turned away. “And it’s not the walls I stare at, it’s Jeopardy. This week is Tournament of Champions week, so, I gotta go.”

“You may not remember, but I wrote to you, and called. Boy, did I call.”

Kennedy took a few steps away and then stopped. His head dipped in exasperation.

“I just want…” He paused, turning so the woman could see his face, “to be left alone. I have nothing to offer anyone, and I will never allow someone like you to make money from me saying anything about Summer Place. I owe it to my kids — to one of them in particular.”

“We’re going back into Summer Place, Professor. We’re going on Halloween night for a live broadcast.”

Kennedy closed his eyes and turned away, walking toward the door at the side of his teaching podium. His knuckles were white from his tight grasp on the briefcase handle.

“Halloween…That’s a selling point for sponsors,” he said, not even affording her a look. “I wish you luck, Miss. Now, as I particularly like Salisbury steak, I’ll be saying goodbye.”

“This is your chance, Professor. A chance to let the world know what happened.”

Kennedy continued walking without looking back. The door opened and then closed.

“Damn it!” she said, and slapped her hand on her case.

Kennedy watched the microwave dinner rotate through the double-paned glass, his eyes fixed but not at all focused. Kelly Delaphoy had guessed correctly — a Swanson frozen chicken fried steak twirled in front of him. He couldn’t afford the luxury of Marie Callender’s. Though he stared at the spinning dinner, his eyes were seeing the bright yellow house with the white trim and manicured grass, the ornate and meticulously carved wood of the interior. The white walls of the billiard room and the gleaming water of the pool.

He was so intent on his memories that he jumped when the bell went off. He shook his head and popped the small door open, but when the smell of the meal hit his nostrils, he frowned and slammed the door again without removing the dinner. He rummaged in the cabinet above the sink until he found the small bottle of Tennessee whiskey. He spun the cap and let it fall to the floor, and then poured a small shot into a milk-stained glass that his hand found in the sink. He lifted it to his mouth and then hesitated. The sharp smell of the alcohol hit him directly in the face and he let the small glass crash back into the sink. He leaned over and threw up his lunch, on top of the broken glass and dirty dishes.

He didn’t know how long he leaned over the sink, but it was long enough for him to develop a kink in his back when he finally straightened. After running cold water from the tap and splashing his face, he turned and took two quick steps to the small kitchen table and its one orphaned chair. He sat and pressed his palms to his eyes as hard as he could.

It was only then he realized that he had not thought of Summer Place in over two months. He had mentally blocked it from seeking its strong handhold on his mind, and he had done so without any psychology tricks learned in practice or school. He had just been working and, finally after years, sleeping.

But there would always be someone in the world willing to throw his life for a loop because of what happened to him. He chuckled to himself — not a good sign if he was on the other side of the couch, but he laughed nonetheless. What happened to him? He laughed again. He looked around the dreary kitchen. What happened to him? At least he had a dump of a kitchen to go to. His former student would have been happy to have just that. Instead, he had been eaten alive. Kennedy froze in mid-laugh, and then thought for a brief moment. The laughing slowly gave way to sobbing, as these outbursts usually did. He knew himself as a once-strong man, a former football star. Now he was reduced to crying in his kitchen over the thought of a house that just wouldn’t die.

Kennedy fell into a deep sleep at the table. Unlike most nights, tonight he had cried himself to sleep without the need for alcohol.

At three in the morning, he came awake just long enough to stumble to his foldout couch — it had not been made up from the day before, or even the day before that — and collapse. Gabriel was well on his way to reliving that night long ago when he tried desperately to save his lost boy and the sanity of his remaining students from an entity, an enemy, that could not be defended against.

As he drifted back to sleep with that night surrounding him once more, he knew that Summer Place was a live thing, a hungry thing, and somehow he also knew that dinner service was once more being offered at the Pennsylvania retreat.

The house was once again awake, and very hungry.

Greg drove the van over the uneven blacktop that wound around the furthest reaches of the estate. He had turned off the state maintained highway and onto the private road that led to Summer Place.

Kelly sat in the front seat with a road map and her cell phone — and the phone’s GPS, which was telling her that the road map was mostly wrong. Paul Lowell sat in the backseat with Jason Sanborn, who had his ever-present water bottle in his right hand and his pipe clenched in his teeth. Every once in a while he would give his goatee a fatherly swipe of his hand.

“With all the money this damn family has, they could fix these roads!” Greg said angrily as he swerved to miss a large pothole in the macadam.

“I’m not really convinced that Lindemann has that much money.”

Greg looked over at Kelly and then quickly back to the road.

“You mean he went through the family fortune in less than twenty years? That had to be something in the range of a billion dollars.”

“Bad investments, four wives, and the collapse of the base company back in the seventies helped drain most of it away. At one point, right around the time of the Kennedy fiasco, Wallace was flat broke. Only the death of the original Lindemann’s brother’s granddaughter bailed him out of his financial straits. She left him her small fortune of twenty million. He’s been scraping by ever since,” Kelly said facetiously. “The real fortune was left to the Lindemann philanthropic foundations in New York and Philadelphia — more than a billion dollars, untouchable to Wallace. That must kill him, to have that much money being doled out to the poor, museums, and art galleries.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sanborn said, almost to himself.

Greg looked in the mirror and Kelly glanced at Jason in the backseat.

“Did you see that?” Jason asked, pointing up ahead, “Through the trees?”

All of them strained to see what Jason was pointing at. As the van slowly came around a bend in the road, they saw it. There, through the thick pine trees, was Summer Place.

“My lord, it’s gorgeous!” Kelly said.

Greg slowed the van to a stop. The house sat in a large cleared valley below them like some turn-of-the-century countryside painting. The yellow painted wood slats of the main structure were trimmed in white, making it gleam in the sun. The large pool sparkled and the yellow and green striped awnings and deck chairs around the brilliant blue stood out starkly against the marble white concrete.

“I have never seen a private residence this large look this gorgeous and homey,” Jason mumbled. He glanced worriedly at the back of Kelly’s head.

Behind the pool, the giant barn and stables were impeccable in their red and white paint. But it wasn’t the beauty of the grounds that gave them pause; it was the four-story structure of Summer Place itself that held their fascination. It dominated the small valley. The wraparound porch was spectacular and the high-pitched gables bordered on gothic. The grounds were trimmed and clean and they could even see one of the caretakers off in the distance making the last run of the season on the grass with a large tractor-mower.

“This looks like a resort, not someplace where people have come to die,” Paul said, leaning over Kelly’s seat.

Greg placed both arms on the steering wheel and looked at the house sitting two miles distant. “It looks like something from a Walt Disney movie.”

“Yeah, just as scary, too,” Jason said.

Kelly didn’t answer them. She was looking at the numerous windows that lined the second and third floors of the house. The house had twenty-five bedrooms, but at this moment with their high vantage point above the property, it seemed so small. Her eyes roamed to the windowless fourth floor and the upper reaches of the gabled roof. The many angles caught the sun and she crooked her head and smiled.

“You’re not getting the same vibes I am, boys,” she rolled her head and then closed her eyes. “This is the place where dreams come true.”

Greg looked over at the blonde woman who had carried them from Cincinnati to LA — a woman who had never missed a beat as far as the show’s creativity went. Now he looked at the creator of Hunters of the Paranormal as if she had gone off the deep end.

“We don’t need dreams here, Kelly, we need nightmares.”

She opened her eyes and looked over at him with her perfect left eyebrow raised. “The sweetest of dreams can turn into nightmares, Greg, far more often than you realize.”

Thirty minutes later, the van sat idling at the fifteen-foot-high wooden front gate. The crisscrossed beams of hewn wood were thick and looked as effective as steel. A small guard shack sat empty on their right, its glass still sporting the streaks of someone’s cleaning rag.

Greg honked the van’s horn several times and succeeded only in startling birds from the green hedges and trees that had yet to taste the first real frost of fall. The hedges lined the front gates and the long, high fence that encompassed the main drive. Fancily trimmed, they were sculpted to look like the parapets of a castle. Behind them, the never-ending tree lines fronting the Pocono Mountains enclosed the house like tall guardsmen, and were just as unflinching.

The sound of an approaching tractor stopped Greg from honking a third time. As they watched, it slowly wound its way around the large barn and onto the main paved drive. Kelly’s eyes went from the young man sitting atop the tractor to the main doors of the house that sat underneath the largest portico she had ever seen outside of a grand hotel. The long row of stone steps that led to the large double doors was clean, straight, and recently washed down.

The tractor pulled up and the driver shut the loud diesel engine off then blithely hopped from the large machine while wiping his hands on an old red rag.

“Property’s shut down for the season,” the young man said as he stepped up to the thick wooden gate. “Hell, we’re shut down every season.” The boy brushed a lock of long, oily blond hair from his face.

Kelly rolled her window down and stuck her head out through the opening. “Are you one of the Johansson boys?” she asked.

The teenager stopped wiping his hands on the filthy rag. He appraised Kelly as if she had been a delivery and it was up to him to inspect the shipment. Greg got out and walked around the front of the van to get between Kelly and the kid who acted as though he was lord of the estate.

“Yeah, Jim Johansson. Now, who are you?” He seemed to take offense at Greg’s attempt to block his view.

“We’re supposed to meet the owner here at noon,” Greg answered before Kelly could.

The boy tilted his head to the side and smiled at Kelly from around her guardian. Facing Greg, still smiling, he spat on the ground.

“Mom and Dad never said nothin’ to me, and they would have, seeing our family’s been caretakin’ here for the past sixty-two years.”

“Well, regardless of that fact, we—”

“Jimmy, what in the Sam Hell you doin’?”

The voice that cut Greg off came from the shed on the other side of the guard shack. As they watched, the boy looked down at his shoes and then tossed the rag from hand to hand.

“Don’t you have to finish mowing? I have to winterize that damn tractor early tomorrow morning, now get to it.”

The voice belonged to an older man who stepped onto the drive from behind one of the hedges. She had the strangest feeling he had been watching them from his hidden shed the whole time they had been sitting there.

The man stood about six feet, five inches and was heavy around the middle. His denim work shirt was clean but wrinkled and his green John Deere hat was crooked at a jaunty angle on his head. A toothpick was stuck in his mouth.

“Sorry, we didn’t tell the boy that there would be comp’ny today,” the man said. The tractor engine fired up and his son drove off with one last look back at Kelly. “Wife’s up to the house with your lunch on the table. Mr. Lindemann hasn’t shown yet.” He looked around Greg toward the van. “I thought there were supposed to be more of you.”

“Yes, we have a large broadcast van and tech-crew truck coming in about an hour; could you let them in when they arrive?”

“Well, Miss, I guess I will, since that’s the job they pay me to do.”

As Greg climbed back into the van, Kelly watched as the middle aged man unlocked the thick chain holding the two halves of the wooden gate securely. His eyes never traveled over to the strangers as he pulled the chain through. It was as if he had no interest in them whatsoever. As he pulled open the left side of the double gate, which was plenty wide enough for them to get the van through, he tipped his hat as Greg pulled in.

“Thank you,” Kelly said as they passed, but the large man said nothing.

“Friendly folk out here in the wilds of Pennsylvania, I must say,” Sanborn quipped. Turning, he watched the man through the rear glass as he closed the gate behind them. Johansson looked their way, and a smile — or maybe more of a smirk — crossed the caretaker’s face as he shook his head. “Yeah…friendly folk…” Jason mumbled again, his words trailing off to nothing.

“You said the original Mr. Lindemann hunted this valley before he built Summer Place?”

“Yes, this used to be a hunting camp in the early 1880s.”

“I can just imagine this place back then. The deer had to be everywhere,” Paul ventured from the back.

Kelly, in the front seat, took the opportunity to examine Summer Place as they approached on the circular drive. As she took it all in, she felt in turn as if it were examining her. She jotted the thought down in her notebook for use in the script.

“It was an evil house from the beginning; a house that was born bad.”

“What — what was that?” Jason asked.

“Oh, just a quote from Shirley Jackson’s book,” Kelly answered, half-turning to smile at Sanborn.

The long circular drive led to massive front steps, covered by a roof that sent a high gable climbing toward the sky. A large old-fashioned wood carved chandelier hung low as the van drove under the portico and parked.

“I don’t see any valet,” Greg said, making the others chuckle in the backseat.

Kelly tossed her notebook into her bag, then grabbed her briefcase and stepped out of the van. The large veranda was laden with chaise lounges, and actual swinging bench seats hung from the thick-timbered rafters of the wraparound porch overhang.

“I have to admit, this place is something. I could see why the rich and famous would come here to get away from the grind of counting money,” Paul sniped as he stood and stretched. He turned and looked up the large stone staircase leading to the massive double doors and suddenly went rigid. A woman was standing at the top of the stone stairs, staring down at them.

Kelly had to smile. “Some ghost hunter you are.” Quickly, and with her best smile, she turned and bounded up the stone steps two at a time. “You must be Mrs. Johansson?”

“Yes, name’s Eunice. I was told you were fourteen?”

“We’re it for now. The other two vans will be along shortly.”

“Mr. Lindemann hasn’t arrived yet. I have instructions for you to start your lunch without him.”

“Thank you,” Kelly said as the tall woman started to turn away. She was dressed in regular denim jeans with a bright red blouse, and Kelly thought she looked nothing like a housekeeper of a mansion was supposed to look. She smiled, knowing that she had read too many haunted house books in her childhood. She had been expecting an old woman in a black dress who would issue dire warnings about the dark. “Uh, would you mind if I ask you just a question or two?”

The woman turned but kept walking. She was pretty, in a rough farmwoman kind of way. Kelly was having a hard time placing this attractive woman with the burly man at the front gate. She had to be his daughter, or his niece.

“Not at all, ask away,” she said. Her hand paused above the large door handle on the left.

The three men joined them at the front doors. Greg raised a brow as he took in Eunice Johansson and nodded his approval.

“I know you two,” she said looking at the show’s two hosts. “We watch your show religiously, right after Wife Swap.” She smiled, looking from Greg to Paul as if sizing them up, or as Greg was probably thinking, down. “That show’s a little spicier than yours, but you have your moments, too.” She placed her hands on her hips and looked closer at Greg. “I thought you would have been taller.”

“Camera angles,” Paul said, smiling.

“Do you and your family live on the property?” Kelly asked, getting the woman back on track.

“Yes, we live five miles down the road, in a house that was built especially for our family by the Lindemann’s.”

“So you’ve been in their employ for—”

“My family, along with my husband’s folk, have been in this valley since revolutionary times. However, we’ve only worked for the Lindemann’s since just before the war — World War Two, that is. My grandmother worked here when the house was first built, helping out with Mrs. Lindemann’s summer functions and all. That’s my husband, Charles, who let you in. You’ll also run into my four daughters and three boys around here. It takes all of us to cover the grounds and house full time during the summer months. The girls take turns going to school in the fall and winter.”

“Must be hell.” Kelly caught herself. “I mean, it must be hard to get the kids to school, living way out here.”

“My oldest girl is going to Penn State, thanks to the Lindemann Foundation. My children, like myself and their father, and my parents before, are homeschooled. We don’t take to the townspeople around here much, just as they don’t take to us. Never have.”

“Why is that?” Kelly asked.

“When our family was chosen long ago to caretake this place, others around here didn’t take too kindly to old man Lindemann’s choice; steady income, and all that. With the hard winters, jobs become scarce if you don’t work for one of the ski resorts. The Bright Waters folk keep clear of this place and spread their gossip, and lord knows if gossiping was a paying job there would be more than a fair share of other rich people here ‘bouts.”

“I see,” Kelly said.

“I’m sure you do, Miss. Now, if you’d like to follow me, I’ve set your lunch out in the formal dining room.”

“Thank you.”

Kelly, Greg, Jason and Paul entered the house for the first time. An immediate feeling of hominess came to them in the huge and comfortable foyer. Large landscape paintings of the local area were hung on thick, rich wood paneling around the welcoming entrance. Even a picture of George Washington hung above the large cloakroom that had obviously seen busier times. The smell of wood was everywhere and the bright sunshine was dispelling every bad thought the four may have had.

“Boy, this is something you would see in New York. These people had taste, simple but elegant.”

“Yes, it’s nice until you have to oil all of this wood and dust all the picture frames. Then it brings itself into perspective,” Eunice Johansson answered. She gestured for them to follow her. “You can just leave your coats on the cloak counter — I’ll hang them up later.”

They passed through the grand living room. Every piece of furniture was impeccably cleaned and dusted. The massive stone fireplace — twenty feet wide and twelve feet high — was cold and empty, but looked as if it would have been very warm and inviting in the early spring and late summer. Kelly could picture guests congregating here, drinking brandy and smoking cigars.

“I’m surprised there aren’t any animal head trophies on the walls,” Paul said.

“The Lindemann family didn’t hunt on the property after the house was built. The entire estate is free of hunters, and the animals here ‘bouts know they’re safe anywhere in the valley. That was always one rule that was, and is, strictly enforced.”

Kelly wondered who did the enforcing of the Lindemann laws. She decided she would ask later and wrote down the thought on her notepad.

They followed the housekeeper through the arched doorway and into the formal dining room. They all had to stop as they took in the fifty-foot cherry table centered in the room. The ceiling that hung over it was forty feet above them and had etched flowers in the plaster. Down at the far end of this expansive table was their lunch. A silver service waited on a large credenza with gleaming white china stacked beside it.

“Oh, something a little less troubling would have been fine,” said Kelly turning to Mrs. Johansson.

“Was no trouble, I enjoy cooking for guests of Mr. Lindemann. I hope you like brook trout; I also have a nice Chicken Kiev for anyone who doesn’t like fish. There is a bar to your left, and water on the table. Please keep to the main floor until Mr. Lindemann arrives.” She looked at her wristwatch. “He should be along any time now. I have to excuse myself, my family and I must be—”

“Leaving before it gets dark?” Greg asked with a mysterious air to his voice.

The woman smiled at Greg as if he were just an obstinate child.

“Not at all. We still have chores to do before three, and tonight is American Idol night. We like to leave at three and get our own chores done at home, and then eat early so we can watch people make fools of themselves.”

“Oh, I…”

“Thank you, Mrs. Johansson, we appreciate it,” Kelly said with a smile. She eyed Greg, who turned away, feeling rather stupid for what he had said about the darkness. Still, Kelly caught the drift when the housekeeper said watching people makes fools of themselves. She had given away her true thoughts on Hunters of the Paranormal.

“Mrs. Johansson, can I ask one more question?”

The woman stopped and turned with her smile still in place, but Kelly could tell that the housekeeper had anticipated her question and put on her happy face for the answer that was to come.

“Young lady, I don’t know anything about what has gone on here. To us this is just a house. We have from time to time had some excitement out here, and have had to clean up some god-awful messes by vandals and such — and that man, Professor Kennedy. However, if you’re going to ask me if this place bothers us, or if we have ever experienced anything like what your show investigates, the answer is no. We love this house and the property. It provides for my family, so how could that be bad?”

Kelly smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

The housekeeper nodded her head and then turned away. “Just leave everything on the table and I’ll clean up in the morning. The refrigerator and pantry are full. If you would like something to eat this evening, just help yourselves.”

“Mr. Lindemann can afford all of this? I thought his money was tight?” Sanborn asked.

“We’re paid through the Lindemann Foundation,” Eunice said. “The upkeep, the food, the repairs, our paychecks, all of it comes from an office in Philadelphia. Now,” she said looking at her watch, “have a good evening.”

The four of them watched her leave. Jason slapped his hands together and started for the table. He stopped when Kelly placed her manicured fingers on his shoulder.

“Do you for one minute think we’re going to eat when we have this place to ourselves?”

“But the food—”

“The housekeeper said to stay put until Mr. Lindemann—” Greg started to say but stopped when he saw the mischievous look on Kelly’s face.

She smiled and started pulling at Jason’s sleeve, tugging him away from the food and cutting off Greg’s concern.

“I checked. Wallace Lindemann has already cashed the check from the network. What’s he going to do, give back the money because we went exploring?”

The men exchanged uneasy looks.

“Okay, guys. It’s time to introduce ourselves to Summer Place.”

Lionel Peterson listened to the voices of the Chairman of the Board, Abe Feuerstein, and CEO Garth Timberline, who had initiated the conference call from corporate headquarters in New York. He had to assume Kelly Delaphoy had called them to say she had received grief from him in the production meeting, and that they had waited a few days to call in order to cover the fact that she had done so.

He gestured for his assistant to pour him a drink from his private bar in the corner of the spacious office, even though it was only ten-thirty in the morning.

“I understand you’ve given her a blank check for this Halloween special. That doesn’t alleviate the fact that we have concerns about covering the cost through sponsorship. With the high price of ad time, we’ve already had three sponsors decline. Eight hours of uninterrupted feed is going to cost us in revenue, and it will totally wipe out our late night lineup.”

Peterson accepted the drink without so much as a nod in thanks.

“Yes,” he answered, “I understand the company’s position on how this will cement viewership for years to come. My main concern here, Mr. Timberline, is that Ms. Delaphoy’s inexperience makes this a risky proposition at best. My sentiments will not change, despite the faith the board has placed in her.”

Lionel sipped his drink with a scowl.

“Yes, sir, her advance team arrived on-site this afternoon eastern time. They’re going to set up camera angles and…well…other things at the house, and they’ll be running a line and air test from the valley to be sure we can go out live from the location on Halloween. I’ll be monitoring the test from here.”

Peterson avoided mentioning the fact that Kelly and her technical team, along with the show’s two hosts, were there to explore the areas of the house that would best serve the faked part of her risky business. He was saving that small tidbit. A few days before the show, he would announce to the board in New York that Kelly had done the planning for her little con on her own. That might get the special stopped, and Kelly out of his hair for good. Then New York would look to him as their savior from this eight-hour live fiasco.

The CEO informed him that all of corporate in New York would also be watching the live test feed from the house in Pennsylvania this evening. Lionel frowned. He hated it when New York looked over his shoulder for any reason.

“Well, it should be pretty boring, but the test is a must. So, if you want to doze off, please feel free to watch.”

Peterson hung up the phone with a bad taste in his mouth.

The four of them stood before the grand staircase. It was impressively wide — at least fifty feet at the bottom, and tapering to about thirty feet at the top. The broad risers were covered in an expensive Persian rug. At the top, the landing spread out left and right, leading to the thirteen bedrooms on the second floor. A smaller staircase led to the third floor and the other twelve rooms there. The two sides were separated by a deep, high valley, through which you could see down to the first floor, sixty feet below. The direct center of the house climbed to two hundred feet above their heads, culminating in a cathedral ceiling made up of the thickest wood beams any of them had ever seen. To the right of the grand staircase on the first floor was the expansive ballroom, complete with sixty-foot bar and raised stage for a band. To their left was the entertainment room with one of the old fashioned silver movie screens. The small, ornate room was outfitted with fifty theater-style red velvet seats, and even boasted a small half-round concession stand with popcorn popper.

As they slowly climbed the beautiful staircase, they examined the portraits of the Lindemann family lining the wood paneling that faced the stairs. These were arranged from the great-great grand nephew, Wallace Lindemann, all the way to the founding member of the sewing machine empire, Frederic Lindemann, and his wife, resplendent in a white gown and diamond-laced tiara.

“What a line,” Paul said. He held tightly to the curving wooden banister. “She must have been one of the lucky ones to get out of Russia with some of the jewelry, before the Communist revolution started.”

“The interesting thing about the old family line after Frederic and his wife, and one that we have to stress in the script, is that their eight children all died before the age of twenty-two.”

Jason Sanborn pulled a folded packet of papers from inside his jacket.

“Well, according to your research, four of them died in the influenza epidemic of 1937. So there’s nothing mysterious there. Then another two in 1939 from a measles outbreak at their boarding school in upstate New York. Again, tragic, but explainable. The last two — the oldest, a boy and a girl — died together in a house fire in Orono, Maine, where they had gone to University. The house was leased by the Lindemanns for the kids’ privacy. Something we can touch on and maybe even elaborate upon,” he looked up as he slid the papers back into his jacket, “you know, for some creepy innuendo.”

“There is one thing that stands out. Since the attacks here began, the Lindemann family luck kind of went to hell, didn’t it?”

Each of the men looked at Kelly. Indeed, losing that many children to accidents was on the impossible odds side, even if they had lived in a time that tried especially hard to kill kids. They had to catch up with Kelly, who was already moving again.

Soon they found themselves at the very top of the stairs on the second floor landing, looking at the patriarch and matriarch of the family; F.E. and Elena were facing them from on high at the uppermost landing. The great ten-by-eight portrait was one of the most impressive any of them had ever seen outside a museum.

“Well, he doesn’t look like I thought he would,” Greg said. “Maybe we could get that portrait changed out for something that looks a tad more evil. He looks like someone’s kindly grandfather.”

Kelly saw just what Greg meant. The portrait was done in soft tones and bright hues of paint, unlike most paintings from the turn of the century. Often, they were done in dark colors and were styled so that the subject had a stern and determined look. The faces in this one were kindly, and there were none of the harsh brushstrokes associated with that era. He was even smiling, showing white, even teeth. In addition, what could anyone say about Elena? She was picture perfect.

“We’ll avoid showing these. We need something out of an Edgar Allen Poe poem, not people out of a Dick and Jane children’s book,” Kelly agreed.

They looked both ways down the long carpeted hallway. It wrapped completely around the second floor, with only the larger of the rooms hidden from view beyond the turns.

“This place could be bought up by Marriott and never miss a beat. It’s massive,” Jason said. He sipped from his water bottle.

“Come on, let’s check out the master suite before Lindemann arrives,” Kelly said. She hurried forward, deeper into the house. The others quickly followed.

The bedrooms were hidden behind thick, rich cherry wood doors and were passed by without any concern by the four. The doors were closed soundly against the intrusion of the visitors, except for one. It opened a crack as the padded footsteps moved further into the long hallway. The eyes that moved behind the door watched Kelly as she walked jauntily toward the huge master bedroom at the end of the hall.

“Look at those doors,” she said. “They look like they belong in a church.”

They all came to a stop. The double doors rose to a height of twenty feet. Carved into the wood was a scene from the Nativity. Christ was depicted lying in Mary’s arms, with all the animals looking on, and Mary and Joseph smiling down at what they and God had created. The carving had to have taken the hand of a master artisan. The face of the Christ child was done in such exquisite detail that it seemed to be alive. The soft features and eyes seemed to be looking down at them from over his mother’s loving arm.

“We’ll have to have an infrared camera angled down the hallway and aimed right at these doors. This we can definitely work with,” Kelly said as she ran her small hand over the polished wood. “Just by using a handheld, we can get these shadows in the crevices on the carvings to literally move.”

“I agree. I want close-ups of these doors, maybe from one of the rooms nearby,” Jason said. He turned, thinking he heard the creak of an opening door behind them. Light shone down on them, supplied by a floor-to-ceiling window at the opposite end of the long hallway. All the doors were closed and still.

Kelly tried the left side door of the master suite and found it locked. The large and ornate cut glass handles gleamed under her touch as she transferred her hand to the opposite handle. It too was unmovable.

“Damn,” she muttered, frowning. She looked to the top of the door and the etched window perched there. She thought she saw a shadow pass by beneath the gilded glass on the other side. “Did you—”

“That door is locked for a reason, Ms. Delaphoy.”

Kelly jumped and Jason let out a girlish yelp, spilling his water on his blue shirt.

Standing five feet away, making Greg and Paul wonder how he had approached without any of them aware of his presence, stood Wallace Lindemann. He wore a black suit with a scarlet tie over a silken white shirt. His blond hair was combed straight back and cruelly parted on the right side. He stood only five-foot-six, but commanded a presence of a man much larger. He looked directly into Kelly’s eyes. One hand was in his coat pocket and the other twirled a set of keys.

“You scared us. We were just—”

“Snooping on your own?” he asked, though he clearly had no expectation that they might answer truthfully. He stepped forward with the large set of keys and unlocked the large doors of the master suite. “As I said, this room is locked for good reason.” He swung both doors open and gestured inside. “There are many valuable pieces of furniture and paintings in this room, of which my family is very fond.”

As Kelly and the others stepped inside, they could see the truth of his words. Kelly saw several paintings, one of them an original Rembrandt. The furniture was antique, with names had never heard of, but just by looking at the rich polished wood she knew them to be old-world and expensive. The large twin beds were spaced ten feet apart and the Persian rugs were worth more than the combined salaries of Kelly and her crew.

“We didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did. You come with a reputation, Ms. Delaphoy, and even before you signed the papers for the rental of Summer Place, I had you checked out. You’re used to following your own rules. But here, I call the shots and make all the rules.”

“Well, I just—”

“Just follow the parameters of our agreement and this little transaction should go off without a hitch.” He waited for them to vacate his great-great-uncle and aunt’s room, and then locked the doors again. “The only reason I am allowing you in Summer Place is that I can’t get rid of this property, thanks to the reputation it garnered after I rented it to Professor Kennedy and his students. Therefore, I may as well try to make the best of a bad situation and get what I can out of this place. Who knows? When you find nothing here, maybe I will be able to clear up some of the misconceptions surrounding this property and get it sold.”

“It really is a beautiful house, Mr. Lindemann, really not at all what we expected,” Greg said. Kelly appreciated the way he tried to ease the tension.

“It is splendid,” agreed Paul. “I can’t wait to set up and run the transmission test.”

“Your technical crew is here. I directed them to the main foyer.” He faced Kelly once again. “We do understand each other? There will be no damage inflicted upon the house; the insurance you bought will not adequately cover anything here for its real value. Whatever fallacies you intend to lay on the American public are your concern, but I stress again: no damage.”

“No damage to the house. Will you be staying for the test feed?” Kelly asked with her best and most condescending smile.

“If I may. Maybe from your control van, if that’s all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Kelly answered.

“And you should be safe here, Ms. Delaphoy, as I’m afraid everything that you’ve heard about Summer Place is a blatant lie. The house has been, and always will be, a wonderful place to stay. Now, since you have decided to forgo your lunch, maybe I should let you get to work.”

“How many times have you personally stayed at Summer Place, Mr. Lindemann?” Kelly asked, watching his face.

Wallace twirled the set of keys once, and then a second time.

“I’ve never spent one night in the house,” he said finally. “I’m more what you would call a city boy.”

Kelly started to ask why, but Lindemann had already turned away. After a few feet, he slowed and turned back.

“As I said to you in New York, you have the complete run of the place, except for those locked rooms where family keepsakes are stored.”

“Wait. You mean we’re denied total access to the house? We never agreed to that,” Paul said. He turned to Greg for support.

“That’s right, we—”

“This is not your normal house, gentlemen. Summer Place is my house, and certain private areas will not be exposed to the public.” He looked at his wristwatch. “The day grows short. If you have any questions, I’ll be in the bar until dark.”

The four watched Wallace Lindemann walk down the expansive hallway and then turn at the staircase. Before they could look back at each other, a man with long hair and a beard bounded up the steps, nodded at Lindemann, and then smiled when he saw Kelly, Paul, Greg and Jason.

“What a great place, huh?” Kyle asked as he bounced to a stop.

Kyle Pritchard was one of the best gagmen in the industry. He would be laying some of the sound effects for the EVP segments on the live broadcast. He would also lay hidden speakers for the Electronic Voice Phenomenon wherever he could, for some of the more blatant scares they had in store for their unsuspecting investigative team and the viewing public.

With the exception of the technicians in the control van and the electricians, the test group was now complete. The only staffers at Summer Place who knew that the house wasn’t actually haunted — or at least, who doubted that it was — were the five conspirators now gathered on the second floor.

“Hey, Kyle,” Greg said.

“Kelly, you or Jason better get downstairs and get the broadcast crew out of the house as soon as they’ve eaten. They’re making the owner a little nervous.”

“I’ll go,” Jason said. “Kelly, you take the guys on a set-up run for camera, audio and still photog placements. I’ll get the tech boys situated outside in the production van. The electricians will need someone to guide them through their setup. Besides, I’m starving.”

Greg had already produced a roll of white medical tape, placing a small ‘X’ on the fourth door down from the master suite. “We’ll have to use a stand for the camera, but I think this is a good angle.”

“Professor Kennedy said in his testimony that the elemental — or, stronger force — manifested on the third floor. I want cameras covering every angle. If we need to adjust, we can do it after the test. This is the time to make sure our placements for cameras, digital recorders and electromagnetic monitors are where we want them for the show.”

Greg and Paul were used to Kelly’s habit of micromanaging every aspect of setup, but that didn’t make listening to her orders any easier.

“Kyle, where do you think we can best disguise the speakers?” She took the longhaired man by the arm and led him toward the staircase opposite them.

Greg and Paul watched them leave and both wondered what bullshit they were going to try to get away with. If it was too obvious to the rest of their unenlightened team, they would be in danger of having to answer some very embarrassing questions from New York.

“Hey, remember, the rest of our team isn’t as dumb as you may think. Don’t make this too blatant,” Paul called out to Kelly.

Kelly stopped and turned. Her smile was genuine, but that didn’t make it any less creepy.

“What will sell the gag is your reaction. Genuine is the key. If you buy it, your team and thirty million viewers will also. You’re trusted, so get used to it.”

As she turned her back with Kyle in tow, Greg shot her the bird.

Kyle and Kelly had been on the third floor for the past twenty minutes discussing possible placement positions for the audio test. As the sun lowered behind the mountains in the west and the light drained from each of the four windows in the corners of the hallways, it was the absence of sunlight that made the house first begin to feel less than welcoming. The antique lighting, manufactured to look like old gaslights from the 1890s, were not very efficient at dispelling the long shadows of the potted plants and small stunted trees on the floor, lining the papered walls.

“What do you think?” she asked Kyle as he stepped down from the stepladder.

“These old heating ducts are way too obvious for speakers. Besides, they would echo to beat all hell, and make the unenlightened more inclined to check them out — which, for the sake of being thorough, I assume they will anyway.” A thoughtful look crossed his face.

“What is it?”

“Actually, obvious may be what we want here. Look at the size of the iron vents. They’re large enough for me to slip my entire body inside. If the speakers were placed far enough back where the team couldn’t see them, we could have a real nice effect here. We’d only need one or two speakers. You see, all these old-fashioned vents are connected through the entire house — sideways, up, down, that sort of thing. That would make pinpointing the sound almost impossible. If we find that it echoes too much, look behind you. There’s always the dumbwaiter.”

“I don’t even want to think about climbing in there,” Kelly said. She jotted a note on her notepad. “And the dumbwaiter is too obvious. The vent will do, but as I said, you won’t find me going into one.”

Kyle smiled. “What’s wrong? Is this beautiful old house getting to you?”

“No, it’s just that I’m very afraid of tight spaces.”

“Oh. I don’t have a problem with it. These damn vents are bigger than my apartment in Pasadena.” He smiled at her, but didn’t get a smile in return. “Well, what do you think? The simplest gag is always the best, right?”

“I like it. No electrical lines at all, clear?” she said.

“I’ll trick out the speakers to run on batteries, with remote wireless to initiate the sounds. By the way, what sort of phenomenon you looking at?”

“For tonight, just voice. No, wait…a jumbled, very deep voice. No actual words for the network guys to keep looping to figure out what’s being said. Can you manage that for the test?”

“Yeah, no problem. I am public school educated, I can make people not understand me.”

Kelly ignored the joke and just looked at Kyle. Then she relaxed with a sigh, knowing she had to lighten up on the effects man or he would be too tense and afraid of screwing up. She needed him bold and inventive.

“Okay. Install it, but don’t let Greg or Paul see you do it. I want their reaction to be as believable as possible. They may figure it out later, but they won’t say anything while we’re streaming a live feed.”

“You got it, boss.”

Kelly glanced up toward the old iron grate in the wall and shivered. “Don’t get stuck in there.” She looked at her watch. “The broadcast test is in a little over five hours. I’ve got to check on the tech team and see where we stand.”

Kyle watched her leave without a look back. Then he stepped onto the stepladder again and examined the screws which held the cast iron grill in place. He peered into the blackness of the vent shaft through the scrolled iron leaves. While he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he thought he heard small scratching sounds from somewhere deep in the vent.

“Oh, great. Rats!”

Kelly, Greg and Paul stepped into the well-appointed barroom and found Lindemann sitting on a high-backed barstool, talking on his cell phone. Eunice Johansson was standing next to him, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She cleared her throat when she noticed the three guests stride into the room. Lindemann half turned, then said a few words into the cell and closed it up. He put the phone into his coat and then took a large drink of whiskey from the expensive, handcrafted glass.

“Thank you, Eunice. You have a nice evening. Tell Charles not to bother locking the gate tonight. I’ll take care of it after this thing wraps up.”

“Yes, sir. Goodnight,” she said with a nod of her head.

Eunice half smiled as she passed the three of them.

Lindemann took another swallow of his drink and watched them over the rim of his glass. He then placed both of his elbows on the bar as if he were examining three strange bugs.

“Sorry, happy hour’s over,” he said with a smirk, and shook the ice in the empty glass.

“We were hoping for the rest of the tour from our gracious host,” Kelly said. She advanced into the room with what she thought was her best smile in place.

Lindemann watched Kelly as she moved. Her figure was impeccable and her clothes clung to her as if painted on. He decided that she would be worthy of his company after this joke of a show was wrapped up. He smiled at her as his eyes moved to her chest and not her smiling face.

“Well, this is my favorite room of all. I spend most of my time in here when I visit,” Lindemann said. He turned and looked over the richly paneled barroom. “Well stocked with alcohol. Except for the beer taps, it’s all ready to go.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of seeing the third floor and the basement, and then maybe a quick look at the barn and stables?”

Wallace Lindemann looked at Kelly with a momentary frown, then just as quickly turned it into a half smile. He slid the empty glass down the bar, where it came to rest near the waitress station. Kelly guessed that this was a practiced move.

“Sure. Although I normally don’t do the tour guide-thing myself, I’ll be more than happy to show you how mundane this joint truly is.”

“We thank the gallant gentleman for his time,” Kelly said. She turned and rolled her eyes at Greg and Paul.

As the four went through the expansive kitchen, which would have made any top chef envious, Kelly saw the large door that led to the basement. A large lock secured it. Lindemann produced his keys and slid one of them into the deadbolt. The tumblers moved to accommodate the key with a loud thump which echoed on the other side of the thick door.

Lindemann turned and smiled. “The stairs are very steep and I don’t want one of the Johansson kids taking a spill. All I need is a lawsuit from the very people I already pay too much. Besides, nothing is stored in the lowest root cellar any longer. The main basement, during prohibition, stored several hundred barrels of the best Canadian whiskey in all of Pennsylvania, for distribution to Philadelphia and New York, to private concerns and very close friends of old uncle F.E., of course.”

“But, of course.” Kelly smiled at his comment about paying the Johanssons, since she knew he did no such thing. The foundation paid the family of caretakers, as Eunice told them earlier. The guy tried so hard to make them think he was in control, when they could all see he was hanging on by his fingernails.

“But alas, the romantic days of yore are past, and liquor is legal once again.” He pulled the door open with as much fanfare as he could muster. “If you don’t mind, I would rather not exert myself at this late hour for some cobwebs and dampness, so I’ll only warn you to be careful on the stairs and stay away from the root cellar. It’s the only area of the house that isn’t inspected or maintained.”

Kelly nodded and moved past Lindemann as he turned the old-fashioned light switch on the wall. Looking down, she could see that the stairs descended into darkness about fifty feet below them, and then turned away to the right. Standing at the top, she could not see the bottom. Greg and Paul followed.

As they took the old wooden steps slowly, they heard Lindemann’s footsteps lead away from the door. Kelly figured he was returning to the barroom. They finally made the turn and saw the concrete floor beneath them. Lindemann was right — the musty smell smacked Kelly hard and produced a grip that held onto her face like a hand.

As they gained the floor, Kelly could see the history of the kitchen. Many of the original appliances, including the two original woodburning stoves and three iceboxes, were lined up against the wall like a domestic museum.

“Seems like it would have been easier to get this stuff out the front doors than to negotiate those stairs to get them down here, wouldn’t you think?” Greg asked.

“Lindemann probably thought they would be worth something if he kept them, and he’s probably right,” Kelly answered. “But they’re not what I’m interested in. Basements can be a nice feel, very visual for ghost hunting. We should think about getting an infrared camera down here.”

Greg slapped his hand against one of the concrete walls.

“It will have to be recorded; these walls would never allow a live signal out. Maybe a handheld would do. We’ll definitely get down here, though. We can probably get a signal with a backpack transmitter linked to another link at the top of the stairs, if your boy Peterson allows it in the budget.”

Kelly made the notation. “I’ve already got four transmitters. They’ll be here.” She looked up with her I ate the canary smile, then continued writing.

“Hey, look at this.” Paul stomped his foot down on a flip-up door. A hollow sound reverberated through the basement.

“That must be the root cellar,” Kelly said.

“Damn, how deep does Summer Place go?” Paul asked. He reached down and opened the door, holding it in place as he stared into the darkness. “Doesn’t seem to be a light switch. How the hell are you supposed to see anything?”

“Jesus. Close that up,” Greg said, pinching his nose at the earthy smell.

Paul let the door fall back into place just as Kelly tuned and made her way to the stairs. The two co-hosts quickly followed. As they did, pressure from somewhere below in the root cellar made the door jump. Then it settled and lay still.

Lindemann was waiting inside the giant kitchen when they were finished down below, this time with a drink in hand, ready to conduct the rest of the tour. The house was, as expected, gorgeous. They covered the ballroom and the family room, with pictures of functions from summers past. There were a few spots where the paint was brighter, where pictures had hung for ages and had only recently been removed. Kelly made a note to inquire about them later.

When they had finished with the pool area, followed by the stables, they reentered the grand ballroom and waited while Lindemann poured another drink for himself — without offering any to his guests. Then they climbed the grand staircase once more and examined the bedrooms and suites on the second floor. When they stopped again at the second floor landing, Lindemann started heading down.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Kelly asked.

Lindemann drained his glass and eyed her for a moment.

“The third floor bedrooms?” Kelly reminded him. “The famous wall of the third floor hallway, and the suite where our opera star disappeared.”

“And also the room where that supposed assault occurred,” Greg added.

Lindemann dipped his chin to his chest and held it there a brief moment.

“I guess I forgot, didn’t I?” He abruptly stepped back onto the landing and made his way back down the hallway, toward the upward-leading stairs on the opposite side of the second floor.

“Strange man,” Paul said quietly, deliberately lagging behind.

“Strange, my ass. Did you see his face?” Kelly said, almost in a whisper, watching Lindemann’s back. “Our Mr. Silver-Spoon-Up-The-Ass needed a stiff drink before even coming up here. He’s scared shitless.”

Lindemann paused at the stairwell after their long walk to the opposite side of the house. Then, after it seemed he had built the courage to do so, bounded up the stairs.

When they reached the third floor landing, Kelly looked both ways down the hallway. The Persian carpet runner was centered perfectly on the hardwood floor and everything looked recently cleaned and dusted. Eunice Johansson and her daughters undoubtedly had been told that Kelly and her team would want to utilize the third floor for the show.

“Corner suite, outside wall is where that crazy bastard said his student disappeared. The opera star’s room is directly across the hall, opposite corner. The one with the double doors. As for the silent film star’s suite, I have no idea. That was one of the blatant lies I’d never heard before. The large suite at the end of the hallway was my great-great aunt’s sewing room. Be respectful, please. She loved it there, so the stories go, and never really went anywhere else in the house when there weren’t any guests,” Lindemann said. He turned, and was already on the second riser before Kelly halted him.

“You’re leaving us?” she asked. It was curious that she had never heard mention of any sewing room, especially one so high up in the house. A tad inconvenient, she thought.

“I have calls to make, Ms. Delaphoy. I can’t babysit you and your crew the entire evening.” He took the steps quickly, before she could halt him with any more questions.

“Chicken shit,” Kelly mumbled. She turned to her left and started toward the largest suite.

Paul and Greg followed, examining the papered wall as they went. The bright yellow floral pattern, while meant to be cheery, felt very much out of place.

“Does the wallpaper look new to you guys?” Kelly asked. She had reached the corner suite on the opposite end of the hallway from the sewing room.

“Hadn’t noticed,” Greg said. The look he gave Paul warned him not to encourage her with a positive answer.

Kelly paused with her hand resting on the cut glass doorknob. “I would like more input from you two. I saw you looking at the wallpaper and I know you also think it’s out of place. The other floors have solid colors, so why does this have a floral print?” She turned her head and looked at the two hosts. “Lindemann tried to add a false cheeriness to this floor, and failed miserably, when it was cleaned up after Professor Kennedy’s visit.” Kelly turned the knob and opened the door. “Get with it; I can’t do this on my own.”

Greg shrugged his shoulders and then stepped up behind Kelly to look into the large suite.

The room was huge. The main bedroom was occupied by one of the largest beds any of the three had ever seen. It was at least sixteenth century, and was complete with a canopy and a bedspread that looked as if it were made of mink. The oil paintings on the walls were of the surrounding Pocono valley. The walls were papered in a satin-type rose colored print with fine stripes, the type seen in boudoirs at the turn of the century. There were three very large cherry wood wardrobes, with three Japanese silk screens at the side of each. The Persian rug was of the same quality as the others they had seen in the house, only this one was far more expensive in look and texture.

Kelly walked to the opposite wall where a large window looked out and down onto the pool and the grounds beyond.

“So far the only creepy thing around this place is the damn owner, and I very seriously doubt if we could fill eight hours with just him,” Greg said as he opened up one of the ornate wardrobes. He suddenly jumped back from the black sequined evening gown hanging in front of him. For a moment, he thought it was an apparition.

“What?” Kelly and Paul asked at the same moment.

“Jesus. Ah…it’s only a dress.”

“Yeah, I suppose it’s a sequined evening gown?” she asked mockingly.

“As a matter of fact, yeah, it’s black and it’s sequined. It’s also the only thing hanging in here.”

Kelly lost her smile as she stepped in front of Greg and peered inside. Her brows rose as she pulled the dress out of the closet and looked at it in the light. Years of dust fell free of the gown and a small piece fell to the rug at her feet. Moths had had their way with the old dress for nearly a century.

“Why would they leave that here? This can’t be the opera diva’s dress, that’s just a little too farfetched,” Paul said.

“I doubt it,” Kelly answered him under her breath, and then she quickly hung the gown back up. “If it is or isn’t, I want shots of this thing on Halloween. That’s got creep factor.”

She pushed the silk-screened door closed, checked her watch, and moved out into the hallway.

“We’ll try and find the actress’ room later. We’ve got to start the set-up,” she said. She looked up the long hallway, staring toward the sewing room at the far end until a voice intruded on her thoughts.

“Look at this,” Paul said. He was kneeling on one knee and probing the wallpaper with his fingertips. He slid his hand up the wall until he had to straighten. Then he ran his fingers down the wall again.

“What are you doing?” Kelly asked.

Paul finally straightened, then stepped back from the wall and tilted his head. He was still staring when Greg touched his shoulder.

“Are you going to let us in on it?”

“The glue for the wallpaper didn’t adhere in some spots. Look.” He pushed with his index finger, and Kelly and Greg both heard the soft crackle and saw the bulge dimple inward.

“Okay, shoddy paperhanging, I’ll call the union,” Greg said.

Kelly stepped back against the opposite wall and looked at the spot more closely.

“I see it,” she said.

“See what?” Greg asked in frustration as he stepped backward to join her.

“The place where the glue didn’t stick to the plaster? It’s in the shape of a man,” Paul said. He stepped out of the way so that they could see it better.

Kelly could see the torso, arms and legs. The head was slightly too large for the body, but it was there also.

“Okay, now that is creepy.” Greg swallowed.

“We need to get one of the cameras on this and make it look like an accidental finding during the show. We’ll test it tonight. Maybe it’ll get a rise out of New York and LA. We’ll need to side light it, maybe with a standard flashlight…yeah, that’ll do it. We’ll bring it out in relief, use shadow to highlight what the audience will be looking at.”

Paul turned and looked at Kelly.

“This isn’t where that student disappeared, Kelly. Hell, come on; this is just a fluke. Bad workmanship, that’s all.”

“Okay, I’ll buy that, but this is something we can use, damn it. I sure as hell wouldn’t have thought of something like that.”

“Okay, point taken,” Paul said. Kelly jotted it down in her notepad.

“Now, let’s check out the sewing room,” Kelly said. When there was no immediate answer, she looked up with her pen poised above the paper. “What?” she asked. She was starting to get annoyed at her team’s hesitation. Then she saw both men looking to their left. Her eyes followed theirs. The door to the sewing room was standing wide open. It looked as if the room was welcoming them.

“That door wasn’t opened a moment ago,” Paul stepped back and brushed against the wall with the outline in its paper. He took two quick steps forward, away from the outline.

“Lindemann must have opened it on his way back down,” Kelly said.

“Lindemann went the opposite way back to the stairs,” Greg said. “We need to get downstairs; we’ll check that room out…later. Maybe during the test.”

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to grab a sandwich and start helping with the setup. I’m not used to working with an entire production van and a director.”

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Kelly asked. The two hosts shrank from her gaze. But they ignored her the best they could and turned for the staircase as if she weren’t even there.

“Yeah, and of all the directors it has to be Harris Dalton, for Christ’s sake,” Greg added without a backward glance at Kelly.

“Isn’t he the one that started with…like, Monday Night Football or something?”

Kelly finally shook her head at both men’s timidity. They were afraid not only of a wall, but of a room where a mother once darned socks and made dresses for her daughters. She shook it off and followed the two men toward the stairs.

“He’s supposed to be a real prick,” she heard Paul say.

“He’s not God, but we better get going nonetheless,” Kelly said, looking back at the wall and the sewing room one last time. She scribbled another hasty note and then underlined it. The one hundred and thirty-second entry in her notepad read: Check out the sewing room after the test!!!

Paul also looked one last time at the flaw in the wallpaper. He decided he would give the stand-up shot to Greg and one of the assistants. He didn’t want to be too near the strange outline.

As Kelly stepped up next to her partners, she glanced back and her eyes widened. The sewing room door was closed.

THREE

Kelly, Greg and Paul stepped into the large broadcast trailer that sat on leveled blocks behind the Peterbilt truck. They sat in various chairs around Jason Sanborn, who was huddled with the director, Harris Dalton, watching the sixteen screens arrayed on the wall of the trailer — one for each of the cameras throughout the house. For Kelly, this was a reward of sorts, a standard none of the Hunters of the Paranormal production team was used to. Usually they ran control from the back of a Ford van with just enough small computer monitors to cover the live action cameras. Almost everything on their show was run from a small laptop. This van had enough equipment to rival a NASA remote station.

“This shot here, that’s no good.” Harris Dalton tapped the screen with the taped letterhead CAM-RMT-ONE. “You must have placed the camera too close to a wall conduit or something. We have a serious picture degradation issue,” Dalton finished, placing his headphones on.

“Damn, that’s the camera in the opera lady’s suite on three,” Greg said. Static lines coursed through the green-tinted infrared picture. He knew he would have to move it.

“And this one here — Number Twelve — what the hell do you have that aimed at?”

“That’s the first floor ballroom,” Paul answered.

“We’re getting too much of a fisheye effect. The camera is covering far too much space. Either place another one, or only take a partial view with the camera you have. As is, we won’t be able to see anything unless someone walks right up to the lens. In addition, the infrared camera on the second floor landing is cocked at an angle and we can only see the first five or six rooms. I suggest you don’t point it at any of them, but just center it on the hallway. Forget the rooms.”

Kelly wrote the instructions on her notes and shot Greg a look that said he should have known better. Dalton was the best at getting the most out of every piece of equipment.

“All right…We have ten digital sound recorders going and seven still photog stations. We’ll need sound tests. Is our direct link to the recorders operating?”

One of the five techs turned a knob. “Yeah, we have our mics placed next to the recorders. We should hear what it does, unless it’s an EVP.”

They had a stock footage shot of Greg and Paul explaining what an EVP was, for the television audience. Electronic Voice Phenomena were sounds or voices that could only be heard by the digital recorder and not by the human ear.

Dalton checked the strength of the signal that emanated from the telescopic tower on the back of the production trailer. “Okay, we’re getting a good signal from the tower,” he said. The tower, in turn, sent the signal to a satellite. “Send out an audio test to New York, please. This is where you will learn how to do a live feed. Obviously you have yet to work with a qualified director, so pay attention.”

Kelly hated being spoken to like an amateur, but Harris Dalton was the best in the business and had the Emmys to prove it. She bit down on her reply and resigned herself to putting up with his arrogance.

The lead audio technician, a woman Dalton had worked with before, pushed a large red button and sent a signal out — just five beeps and three dashes in electronic language.

“Bright River, this is New York. We have a 100 % audio signal from the satellite. It is bouncing well to New York and LA Thank you — we show audio test complete and A-okay.”

“Thank you, New York. We are on schedule for nine o’clock sharp,” Dalton said, looking at the digital readout on the large monitor in front of him.

“Okay. If our hosts will get to their places, we can start,” Kelly said, stepping in to give her team direction before Dalton could have a chance to do so.

Dalton shot Kelly a harsh look. “Take note that all camera angles are subject to change. Handheld number one, are you ready?” he said. It was a not-so-subtle barb, and Kelly caught it. He was reminding her that her placement sucked.

“Mobile camera one, up and ready,” a voice answered over his headphones. The camera man stood in front of the small theater. “It’s really dark in here, and that pure white screen is going to give off one hell of a bright reflection. I think—”

“They pay me to think, they pay you to listen. Just don’t point anything directly at the damned movie screen. Now, number two — infrared handheld — Billy, are you ready?” Dalton asked, again shooting Kelly a look. She supposed he wanted her to have covered the silver screen in the theater with a blanket or something.

“Camera two, on the second floor. Ready,” came the late reply.

“Then say so, goddamn it. Third floor, John, camera three?”

“Handheld three, ready for the fun.”

Satisfied that all of his handheld cameras and their accompanying sound techs were ready, Dalton nodded. “Soundboard, how are you reading your soundmen?”

“Loud and clear, strong signal,” the audio technician answered three chairs down.

“Okay, boys and girls, we queue with the standard Hunters of the Paranormal opening narrative and credits, and then Kelly will take the test over, and then we’ll follow Greg and Paul on the tour. Let’s keep chatter to a minimum during the test and only talk when we have a technical issue. I want the recorders started now for detailed tech review later. Let’s do this thing.” Dalton adjusted his headphones and moved his mic close to his well-trimmed, graying beard.

Greg and Paul exited the large van. Summer Place stood before them. With all the interior lights on and the exterior landscape lights burning bright, the house and grounds looked warm and inviting. They were going to have a hard time selling this thing as haunted.

Upstairs, in a second floor bedroom that overlooked the front yard, Jimmy Johansson watched the van below through a space in the ornate drapes. He had almost been caught looking at Kelly earlier on their brief tour, when the door had creaked and one of the men had turned and looked his way, but he had managed to close the door just in time. Jimmy had snuck into the house after telling his parents he would be late for supper. He loved the way the woman’s ass moved and was excited to see her panty line through her black slacks. Now it looked as if she was going to stay in that big van and not come back out. Bummer, he thought.

Jimmy turned away from the large window, narrowly avoiding the large bed in the semi-darkness. As he felt his way toward the door, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. He shook it off as he reached out for the glass doorknob and glanced back at the window and the soft nighttime light coming through the space between the two curtain halves. He suddenly felt as if he were not alone in the room.

He had been in the second floor bedrooms a thousand times before and had never felt uncomfortable. He swallowed and turned the knob. He felt his heart skip — the door was locked. He jiggled it and then turned it harder. Still locked. He closed his eyes and calmed himself, and then reached down and turned the ancient key in the plate beneath the handle. He let out a relieved sigh. He must have accidentally turned the key when he closed the door.

“Idiot,” he whispered to himself. The old-fashioned key protruded a good five inches from the lock. He was happy to hear the heavy release of the lock inside. When he tried the handle again, his smile and self-rebuke faded. It still would not turn.

The large walk-in closet doors slowly swung open with a crawling, squeaky noise. Jimmy could not make himself turn around to investigate — he knew for sure that if he did, he would see something dark and scary. Instead, he started shaking the handle and pounding on the door. The thoughts of Kelly’s ass and of getting caught in the house after dark by his parents were no longer much of a concern.

Outside in the hallway and only eight feet away from the room where Jimmy was frantically calling out and pounding on the door, Kyle, the effects man, had placed the large cast iron grate back in the wall and screwed it back into place. He hopped down from the stepladder and slapped some of the dust from his clothes. He thought he heard a sound, but decided it was just the old house settling.

Almost directly across from where he was standing in the hallway, Jimmy Johansson was pounding and screaming for someone to let him out of the room. Kyle could hear none of this. He picked up his toolbox, folded the stepladder and walked away, passing inches from the room where Jimmy Johansson was learning the meaning of stark terror.

Kelly opened the van’s large door and allowed Wallace Lindemann inside, pulling the curtain back to usher him into the control area. She introduced him to Harris Dalton, who just held out his hand without turning from the bank of monitors.

“No, Goddamn it, I want Paul on the outside standing in front of the ornate doors and Greg in front of the damn staircase, then he’ll greet Paul when he comes inside the house for the first time. How fucking hard is that?”

Kelly grimaced, and then nodded at an empty seat for Lindemann. On the broadcast monitor, Greg finally stepped through the front door and then stood with his soundman. He waved, showing Dalton he indeed could follow instruction.

“Yeah, we know you’re there, numb-nuts,” Harris mumbled. “Okay, send the picture test signal out and see if New York can see these dumb-asses.”

“Test pattern is up and New York is receiving,” Kelly said. She placed a set of headphones on her head.

“Cue intro.”

Peterson watched the test pattern from Pennsylvania go from the old Indian head to the Hunters of the Paranormal ghostly logo. Then their theme song began; Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear The Reaper came through the speakers loud and clear while the opening credits and pictures of the hosts and their team rolled. Peterson shook his head. He had never understood why people — viewers or sponsors — would waste their time on this sort of programming.

“Well, the signal’s good and clear, at least,” his assistant said as she handed him his drink.

“Great. A good signal is what I live for.” Peterson frowned and looked at his watch.

The sun outside his office window had yet to set, and that didn’t help his suspension of disbelief in the ghost show coming from three time zones away — another problem for west coast viewers that they would have to solve for a live broadcast. Maybe they could push back the show’s normal starting time until at least dusk. “Peterson, are you watching this?” a voice said over his phone’s open speaker.

“Yes, sir, we have a crystal clear picture here,” he answered CEO Feuerstein in New York.

“Good, looks like everything’s up and running. It is a beautiful house.”

“Up, running, and beautiful,” Peterson mumbled. He sipped his drink. “Terrific.”

Jimmy Johansson became still. There was a presence in the room — it was behind him. His breath came in sharp, short gasps of air that he could clearly see in front of him. The temperature in the room dropped below freezing. The glass knob had frosted over.

Light peeked through the drapes from the floodlights outside. The television people were starting their test. But the light didn’t reach him — he saw it being absorbed by a swirling blackness that appeared before the window. The glow in the break between the curtains was dispersing, bending and then darkening, and something large seemed to be assembling before him. It resembled smoke being sucked out of a powerful vent. His body felt limp and he slowly slid down the door to the floor, the skin of his back making squeaking noises as his shirt hitched upward.

The black mass formed into a shape, and then just as quickly spread apart, only to reform once more. The light from the window was completely gone, but Jimmy was seeing the impossible in front of him. A tendril of inky blackness reached out and tentatively caressed his face. Everywhere that the tendril touched, frost formed, producing long streaks of ice across the boy’s cheek and jaw. The mass silently dispersed, blowing apart softly as a dandelion, and then it slammed into the floor almost as if it had become liquid. Then the darkness curled past Jimmy and slithered under the doorframe.

“Hold it, Greg, we have a malfunction on infrared number five on the second floor,” Harris said. He ordered Camera Six to take its place.

“What was that?” one of his people asked, watching the monitor at his station.

“What was what?” Harris shifted angles. “Greg, hold the intro a sec, we have—”

The color monitor showed the multicolored view from the forward-looking infrared camera, or FLIR. The screen flared bright blue and green as if the air in the hallway suddenly froze, and then it flashed quickly back to its normal hue.

A garbled, deep sound reverberated through the speakers mounted on the van’s interior walls. The crew listened, and watched the gauges on all the sound monitors peg out in the red. Kelly leaned back and smiled at Kyle, who was looking up at the speaker. Then Kyle looked Kelly’s way, and she didn’t like the expression on his face at all. He slowly shook his head and mouthed that’s not us. He held out the small device that was meant to trigger his sound effect remotely, and she could see the instrument was dark. He had not even turned it on. She slowly turned away and backed toward the bank of monitors and the angry director. The sound still droned, halfway between a moan and garbled speech.

Harris Dalton angrily pushed his right headphone into his ear. “What the hell is that? Latin?”

“New York is picking it up also,” his assistant said.

“No, not Latin…something…wait. It’s English, but it’s being spoken so deep that we can’t understand it,” the audio technician said.

“Harris, are the recorders working?” Kelly asked. She stood and brushed past Wallace Lindemann, who was sitting wide-eyed and listening to the eerie sounds coming from inside of his house.

Harris looked over at the video feed from the second floor. “I can’t tell from here. Now, what’s wrong with that camera? What kind of equipment are you people using?”

“The FLIR has returned to normal function on the second floor, normal heat signature. The flare-up was more than likely electronic,” the assistant director called out.

The infrared camera poised next to the low-light stationary camera suddenly went fuzzy around the edges.

“There it is again, the same thing as before,” Harris’ assistant said, pointing to the monitor.

It looked as if part of the viewing angle went inky black, while the rest stayed normal green.

“We have a serious degradation problem on that damn floor. Jesus Christ, turn that noise down!”

“New York wants to know what the problem is,” the assistant director called from her workstation.

“Tell New York that when I know, they’ll know.”

Kelly looked back at Kyle, who was watching with bemusement. She nodded toward the house and raised her eyebrows — a gesture that ordered him to find the problem with his equipment before the whole test was blown. He stood and leaned toward her.

“I’ll go check it out, but that’s not the recording I used. Mine is just incoherent mumbling. This crap is actually saying something,” he whispered to her. He parted the black curtain and left.

Kelly watched on the monitor as he bounded up the steps and into the house, carrying his toolbox and ladder. An astonished Greg quickly stepped out of his way. Then he held his hands up in the air in a what the hell is happening? gesture.

Before the audio engineer inside the van could turn the incoherent noise down, the sounds stopped just as suddenly as they had started. Harris looked from monitor to monitor but could no longer see any malfunctions at all. He shook his head just as Kyle came into the grainy picture on the second floor.

“What is he doing?” Harris asked as he ran his hand through his hair. “Paul, you’re on the main floor. Get your ass up there and pull that asshole out so we can get these kinks worked out.”

On Camera Two, which had the benefit of bright lighting, they saw Paul shake his head as he turned and ran up the staircase, his sound and camera people close behind.

“No, damn it, just Paul!” Harris yelled, but the camera and soundman bounding up the large staircase ignored him. “These people better start using some freaking common sense!” he said through clenched teeth as he watched the three men continue on their way.

Kelly closed her eyes, knowing that every single word was going out live to New York and LA. She could picture the brimming smirk on Lionel Peterson’s face.

At New York corporate headquarters, Abraham Feuerstein watched the test. The other executives stared at the large screen where the fiasco in the Pocono Mountains was unfolding. However, Feuerstein was seeing something very different from the rest of them. He was watching a lot of network money being spent, for sure, but he could also smell even more money coming in. Advertisers — after a little creative editing of these test sequences — would see the potential of this special. One corporate sponsor, possibly GM or Chrysler, would pay handsomely for a show that would guarantee a forty percent share on Halloween night. Halloween was a far different day now that people didn’t particularly trust trick-or-treating any longer. They stayed home and did family things. And that was just the way this show would be pitched: a family time styled ghost story.

The CEO pulled up his coat sleeve. He had goosebumps. He didn’t even believe in this crap, but that beautiful old house scared the shit out of him for some reason. His Jewish blood remembered all the stories he had heard about the old country, and the strange things that happened there before the war brought the tales to an end — to be replaced by the real-life horrors of the Holocaust.

The door opened and Julie Reilly, the news division’s number one field reporter, walked in. She kneeled in the dark beside the CEO.

“So, has our intrepid producer produced?”

Feuerstein reached over and touched Julie’s cheek softly.

“Right now, it’s in doubt. They seem to be having trouble with the electronics, but we’ll see. You just may be off the hook if it keeps going the way it is.”

“Thank God,” she whispered. The testing droned on around them.

Feuerstein gave Julie a closer look. He wasn’t sure if she was relieved that she might not have to do the show, or relieved that she wouldn’t have to relive ruining the career of Professor Gabriel Kennedy. He suspected some of both. He also suspected that old tough Julie regretted her reports on Kennedy, even though they had bought her the fame she needed as a small time reporter back in the day.

The other executives, when they snuck glances toward their boss, saw that he was actually watching the debacle with interest. They sat quietly in the darkened screening room, watching the man who signed their paychecks.

As Paul reached the second floor landing, he saw that Kyle was on the stepladder looking into the large ornate iron heating vent midway down the long hallway.

“Hey, Harris is pissed. He said to get the hell off this floor. Remember, you’re not even supposed to be here.”

Kyle tuned and looked at Paul and his two-man camera and sound unit. His face didn’t look all that healthy.

“The sound isn’t coming from here, it’s—”

Suddenly all the power went out, including the battery operated sound equipment and camera. The static video camera at the entrance to the long hallway went out and the four men were cast into darkness.

“Oh, shit.” Paul inched closer to his large camera operator.

Suddenly the still camera, which was battery operated and equipped with a bright flash and attached motion sensor, started popping off bright flashes of light, creating a strobe effect. Then it stopped as suddenly as it started.

Harris Dalton lowered his head in frustration. He couldn’t believe they had lost all power.

“Do these people ever check their batteries? And please tell me the electrical for this house has been upgraded since the turn of the GODDAMN CENTURY!”

“Damn it, Harris, everything was charged before the test began. We’re not amateurs here!” Kelly said angrily. “Now, you tell me what the statistical odds are that when the power goes out, our battery backup also goes on every piece of equipment. Huh, smartass?”

Harris backed off when he realized Kelly was right.

Paul was breathing heavily. There were sounds ahead of them in the hallway.

“Kyle, I suggest you take it easy coming down that ladder,” he said. He felt the comforting shoulder of his ex-marine camera operator.

“Man, I can’t move. I swear to God there is something right on the other side of this grate. I can feel hot breath on my face and I smell roses. Jesus—”

The camera operator looked over at Paul’s dark outline. The co-host was actually grabbing his arm for some sort of comfort.

Inside the production van, they heard snatches of conversation from the recorders on the second floor — it was as if the battery packs were being shorted out by something, and they could only hear when they connected.

“We have battery power on some of our equipment coming back online. We have something — not much — but it’s definitely our people’s voices,” the sound technician said from his stool.

“Bring it up as high as you can get it, full gain!” Harris switched out his headphones for another set. “Paul, get your team closer to whoever it was that was talking just a moment ago. Or was that just you?”

There was no answer, just a mewling sort of crying.

“Paul, goddamn it, what the hell is that?” He then turned to face Kelly. “For the live feed, if there is one after this technical nightmare, I want stationary, parabolic microphones placed throughout the damn house!”

“There’s something — Kyle — on the ladder…Jesus, he says — right — front — him.”

“You’re breaking up, Paul, goddamn it! This tech was your and Kelly’s idea. Now get in there and pull his ass out. We have a power problem to fix!”

Paul closed his eyes and tried to adjust his sight to the pitch-blackness before him. He had never in his life seen such utter and total darkness. It was like looking into a bottle of India ink. Even his hearing was faulty — he could swear he could hear whispering coming from all around him.

“Look, guys, batteries are working now. I’m picking up noise on every microphone in the house. It’s like this place has just come alive.” The soundman pressed his headphones harder into his skull and held the mic-boom further into out the hallway. His faintly illuminated gauge told him he was at full gain. “This is a closed system. I shouldn’t be picking up the microphones on other floors.”

“Kyle, you still with us?” Paul asked nervously.

“Shit, man, I can’t move. This thing is right in front of me and it smells to high heaven. It’s not roses anymore, it’s a rotten smell. God, please…You guys have to pull me off of this ladder.”

“We can’t even see you,” Paul said. He hoped beyond hope that Kyle was doing some sort of act that he and Kelly had cooked up.

“Why?” Kyle asked from the darkness.

“Wake up, open your eyes. The power is out, damn it. Even our camera light is dead.”

“Oh, man. The goddamn lights are blazing in here. I can see you — you guys are only about five feet away. Oh, God, the screws are coming out of the damn grate — turning by themselves!”

“All right. If you’re screwing with us, that’s enough. You get—”

There was a loud crash, followed by a blood curdling scream that Paul had only heard in the movies. It was a sound he thought no man was capable of producing.

That was it — the three men turned and ran for the stairs. Paul caught his right foot on the camera strap and tripped. His voice caught in his throat as he heard the two others pounding down the staircase. They were gone, and he was alone on the floor, sprawled on the expensive Persian carpet runner.

“Damn you guys, get back up—”

He heard the footfalls behind him. Kyle’s ladder hit the floor near his head and then rebounded into the wall, knocking wallpaper and plaster into his face. Paul tried to get to his feet, but stumbled and fell. The footsteps sounded as if whatever was in the hallway with him was walking on hollow planks. They reverberated, shaking the landscape pictures on the wall. It was as if a giant was pursuing him. The pounding footfalls were beginning to sound more and more like the beat of a heart.

Shaking, he tried once more to push ahead with his feet, actually bunching up the Persian runner. He rose to his knees, ready for a sprint into the dark, when something closed around his ankle so hard that he heard the bone snap. Screaming in pain and terror, he was yanked backward so hard he found himself airborne.

On the first floor, the sound and camera operators heard Paul’s scream of pain. Then something slammed into a wall upstairs and the house shook under their feet. The two men screamed. Every light in the house suddenly switched on, even though the power to each individual floor was under the control of the electricians standing by at the breaker box outside.

As Kelly stumbled from the van, she saw the house illuminate so brightly she thought there had been an explosion. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she thought they were failing her. The house expanded, as if taking a deep breath, and then all went quiet and the lights went out one by one, floor by floor. A loud sigh echoed in the valley around her, just as Paul’s sound and camera operators came running from the house and down the steps. The soundman took a misstep and tumbled onto the drive with his mic boom flying into the air. There seemed to be another sigh and then a sudden wind sprang up, swirling around the house for mere moments before it vanished. Then the sound of terrifyingly loud footsteps resonated from the interior, as if whatever it was began retreating back to where it came from.

Inside the van, Harris Dalton sat so hard into his chair that the headphones fell from his head and went crashing onto the control panel. The rest of the production crew stared silently at their monitors.

“Someone…” Dalton cleared his throat. “Someone…” He patted his jacket, looking somewhat lost. “Does someone have a cell phone?”

The assistant director held her phone up. At the same time, Wallace Lindemann’s cell phone fell from his hand. He was staring at the monitors in shock.

“Call 911 and get someone, anyone — out here.”

FOUR

In the hour it took for the Pennsylvania State Police to arrive, Harris Dalton took it upon himself to search the house. Kelly was sitting on the porch questioning the soundman and camera operator, but not getting anything useful. These two had been part of countless incursions into houses and situations far more menacing than Summer Place, yet they were still shaking from their experience on the second floor. The only thing Kelly was getting from them was the fact that they had not actually witnessed a thing.

Wallace Lindemann had been furious at Harris Dalton for calling the State Police before they knew what was happening. He paced on the large covered porch, smoking a cigarette as he spoke to one of his high priced attorneys in New York. He evidentially didn’t like the advice he was receiving. Angrily, he tossed his cigarette off the porch.

Harris Dalton and his assistant Nancy Teague, stepped from the open double front doors just as the first unmarked police cruiser honked at the front gate. Mr. Johansson was there — Lindemann had called him — and he allowed the first of four cars through. Soon, red and blue lights colored the landscape and the front façade of Summer Place, just as they had after the Kennedy debacle, years before.

Kelly stood when she saw the large black man step from the unmarked car. He examined the house as if he was seeing a scourge upon the streets of Philadelphia. He shook his head, buttoning his coat as he came around his car.

Kelly recognized the officer from her file on Gabriel Kennedy. Lieutenant Damian Jackson was the man who wanted to pin murder on Gabriel’s lapel so badly that he had knocked UBC star reporter Julie Reilly on her ass, bumping her as he passed her in the grand jury hearing. Even though they both had fought for the same cause and had supplied most of the rope to hang Professor Kennedy with, they still hated each other.

“All right, is someone going to explain to me why I was pulled from my bedtime glass of milk?” The man’s eyes were locked on the soundman, who wiped his face and lowered his head. “And don’t start off with anything like ‘it was a dark and stormy night,’” Jackson added with a scowl.

“Lieutenant Jackson, these people are with me. It seems we’ve had…had some trouble.”

The state detective looked up at the man bounding down the stairs, taking in his three-thousand-dollar suit. His brows rose.

“Mr. Lindemann, I would have thought you’d learned your lesson after the last time.”

“I assure you, I thought I was dealing with professionals this time around. They are, after all a major network.” Lindemann held his hand out to Jackson in greeting.

Jackson stepped past Wallace Lindemann without shaking his hand. He looked at Kelly Delaphoy, studying her for a moment as the bearded Harris Dalton and his assistant approached.

“I take it you’re the man in charge here?” Jackson asked him. “Maybe you can explain why I’m not in my robe and slippers right now.”

“Actually, I’m only the director. The producer is right there,” he said, pointing at Kelly.

“I’m Lieutenant Jackson; it seems I can make a living coming out to this place. Now Miss, please enlighten me.” Several more uniformed state troopers joined the group at the foot of the stairs.

“It’s Ms., Detective, and if I may ask, aren’t you part of the state police barracks in Philadelphia? I would’ve thought they would just send us local troopers.”

Jackson watched the woman rise to her feet. She gave the soundman a comforting pat on the back.

“You may ask.”

From the look he gave her, Kelly knew she could indeed ask as many times as she wanted, but she wouldn’t get an answer. The man must have been close by, perhaps at one of the two motels in Bright Waters. The word had spread quickly that the “television people” were here in force, and she figured the detective still had a stake in Summer Place. More than likely, he had assumed Professor Kennedy would be mixed up with the production, and had decided to spend the night nearby. The man was watching her, no doubt waiting to see if she had anything else to say so that he could show her how in charge he was.

An old station wagon pulled into the driveway, but it had not come from the main gate. Mr. Johansson was there to meet it. As all of them watched Eunice Johansson stepped out. She was agitated, and it looked as though she were arguing with her husband about something. She turned toward the house and pointed a finger directly at them. When she started toward them, Mr. Johansson reached out and tried to take her arm, but she shook him off and strode determinedly to the base of the front porch.

“Is he with you? Please tell me if he is. He won’t be in trouble, I just want him to come home,” she said to Kelly.

Kelly shook her head, then looked at Greg. He had finally joined them after taking some time in the production van to settle himself down, From the smell, Kelly suspected he had accomplished this with a hefty shot of bourbon — or two.

“Is who with us, Eunice?”

The woman was clearly struggling to keep calm. She twisted the bottom hem of her red blouse, which had worked its way out of her jeans. Her husband looked from the production group to the large police officer with worry written on his face.

“Our boy, Jimmy. He never came home this afternoon. My wife, we…well, we figured he would be here. You know, all the excitement…”

Kelly looked from the worried couple to the faces of her team. They all shook their heads.

“We seem to have misplaced two of our own at the moment, so we’re probably not the best people to ask. But this man, that’s what he’s here for,” Harris said, gesturing to the state trooper.

Damian Jackson had met the Johanssons before, during the Kennedy investigation. He shook his head. The cast is almost complete, he thought.

“The last place you saw him was on the property? He couldn’t be in town, whooping it up with the other kids?” Jackson asked the couple.

“Our kids aren’t welcome there, and you know it. No, he would be drawn to something like this. He has to be here.” Eunice looked at him with pleading eyes.

“We’ll look for him. Take it easy. Why don’t you head home, and I’ll send a man over to you as soon as we get in there and check things out.”

“I’ll wait right here,” Eunice said. She shrugged off her husband’s hand once again and started for the steps. “I’ll be puttin’ on some coffee.”

“Ma’am, stay out here until we have a chance—” Jackson started, but stopped with an exasperated sigh. Eunice took the steps at a pace that said she would brook no interference.

Jackson looked at one of his men and then his dark eyes fell on Mr. Johansson. “Well, get after her and make sure she stays in the kitchen.” He watched one of the uniforms and the large Johansson take the steps two at a time to catch up with Eunice. “Damn hicks,” Jackson muttered under his breath. “Now you,” he said, pointing at Kelly, “I assume you were taping…recording, whatever it is you do?

“Both, yes. We have the camera and video footage queued up for you when you’re ready, but the cameras won’t be much good. The batteries were drained. The audio may help…It’s in bad shape, but there’s something on it.”

“That can wait. Right now, we’d better start at the top floor and work our way down, in case one of your people broke a leg or something.” He looked first at Kelly and then Dalton. “My bet would be on someone pulling your leg. If this is a joke, that someone is going to spend the night in jail. Is that understood?”

“If it’s a joke, I’ll turn the key in the lock,” Harris said. He stepped aside to allow Jackson and three of the state officers by.

“That’ll be hard to do from the side of the cell door you’ll be on,” Jackson retorted. He pushed by the director and started up the steps with the officers. Harris sneered at Detective Lieutenant Jackson’s back.

“What a dick,” he said.

“That dick, along with our intrepid reporter Julie Reilly, ruined a man’s life because they got it into their heads that he was lying about this house. He’s not a nice man, from all accounts.”

“Yeah, well he better watch it. I think there’s something in that house that’s equal to the challenge of Lieutenant Jackson.”

Kelly turned and looked at Dalton, watching the man’s eyes roam over the brightly lit house.

“So you’re a believer now?”

“I guess we’ll find that out, if they don’t turn up our two people.” He finally looked at her. “Won’t we?”

“Harris, Mr. Peterson is on the line from Los Angeles. He’s not a very happy camper,” one of the technicians called from the van.

“What are you going to tell him?” Kelly asked.

Harris took a deep breath and started walking away, but then stopped. Without turning, he said, “That we no longer have a show, and that corporate may have one hell of a legal mess to clean up.”

“Shit,” Kelly said under her breath. She hurried to catch up with the director.

Kelly entered the van in time to hear Dalton answer the call from Peterson. She was about to sit down when Nancy, the assistant director, tugged at her sleeve.

“You have to see the—”

“Not now,” Kelly snapped. Hearing this call was more important than anything else right now. The fate of the show hinged on it.

“This is Harris,” the director said angrily into the phone. “Yes, I recognize your voice; you don’t have to be so melodramatic about it, for Christ’s sake. The plug is pulled, so get your blood pressure under control. Yes, yes, she’s right here. Damn…all right.”

Kelly watched as Dalton placed his large hand over the phone.

“Get me an intercom working so Kelly can talk and I can hear. NOW goddamn it!”

The technicians piped the call from Los Angeles into the van.

“Okay, you’re on,” Dalton said into the phone.

“Kelly, are you there?”

“Yes, Mr. Peterson, I am most certainly here.”

“You screwed the pooch out there, huh? I mean, if you’re going to pull stunts like this, we expect you to keep police involvement to a minimum.”

“This is not a prank! It’s as real as—”

“All right, knock it the fuck off, Kelly. Wait until the State Police leave, and then get your two missing people the hell out of there and back to LA. Whose bright idea was it to call the state police anyway, damn it?”

“Mine,” Dalton said, rolling his eyes. “Look, we have two missing—”

“Don’t do it, Harris. Don’t start thinking again. I’ll do that from now on. Kelly, get your ass back here. Don’t pass go and don’t collect two hundred dollars. Here, right now. What I have to do with you, I want to do in person. I also want—”

“Mr. Peterson, I have CEO Feuerstein on the line. He wants to sit in on the conference call,” Peterson’s secretary said in the background in LA.

“Very well. Patch him through.”

“Peterson, that you?” came the voice of the CEO from the east coast.

“Yes, sir, I was just trying to straighten out this god-awful mess.”

“I guess you have a big one on your hands. Look, I don’t want this to leak out until you can get another show to back up Hunters, and try and keep the sponsors intact in case we have to go with an alternate show. I would hate to lose them.”

Kelly listened as the two-sided conversation droned on. The assistant director shook her shoulder again. Frustrated she turned and mouthed the word, “What?”

“You better see this before everyone hangs up,” she whispered, pointing toward a monitor with a green-tinted piece of film framed up. She pushed a button on her remote. “Seriously, you’ve got to see this. It’s from Paul’s cameraman and the FLIR.”

“The cameras were dead and there was no power, how could they have recorded anything?”

“I don’t know. It’s only a few frames. I think I’ve wet my pants!” the assistant director hissed, low enough that no one else could hear.

Kelly watched the frames slip by on the monitor. She could see Kyle standing on the ladder with his head half-turned toward the camera. It was dark, and she couldn’t see all of Kyle because the camera wasn’t centered right on him. The special effects man was talking and looking into the grill in front of him. Then suddenly, the grill fell from the wall and a dark cloud-like shape emerged from the vent. It looked like a large hand to Kelly, with tendrils, finger-like, that wrapped around Kyle’s head. And then he was pulled inside the vent, just that simple and just that quick. Kelly looked over at the FLIR footage that was looped at the same time speed as the night vision camera. This time the hand-shaped blur was blue, meaning the image framed up was cold — possibly freezing. It wrapped around Kyle and squeezed, pulling him into the vent.

“Jesus Christ!” Kelly said. Dalton’s tap to her shoulder made her yelp and jump. She spun in the air with her hand to her mouth.

“Well? Are you going to answer the CEO?”

“Excuse me, I’m sorry — what?” It was a moment before she could get her eyes to focus on Dalton.

“Ms. Delaphoy, my question was: is there anything you should be telling us about any hidden agendas for the test, before Mr. Peterson proceeds with what he has to do?” Feuerstein asked from New York.

Kelly made the ‘rewind’ gesture to the assistant director, twirling her fingers. The woman caught the meaning at once and went to work.

“Admit…Well, yes sir, there is.” She smiled and looked at Dalton. “We’re sending some footage to New York and LA. I will abide by whatever punishment you want to give me, or resign at your pleasure, if after seeing this you still believe that I’ve faked it.”

Kelly nodded toward the assistant, then closed her eyes. The tape started again, and exactly one minute and eleven seconds later Harris Dalton sat heavily into his chair.

“I’ll be goddamned,” the CEO said from New York.

“Ms. Delaphoy, this is Julie Reilly. Mr. Feuerstein allowed me to sit in on the test tonight. Is what I just witnessed real, or are you bullshitting all of us?”

“I’m not about to sit here and be grilled. If you think I faked the footage, fire me now. And as for you asking me about credibility? This footage should be one more knot in your hanging rope, Ms. Reilly. After all, aren’t you the one who hung Professor Kennedy for not being able to produce one shred of evidence about Summer Place?”

“Well, I—”

“That’s a profound denial, Julie. You’ll have to excuse me now, I believe Mr. Peterson was just about to fire me. I think I’ll take this footage to CNN and fuck the Halloween special.”

“Now, now, let’s all calm down,” Feuerstein said.

“Calm down, hell, sir,” Kelly said. “Keep her on a chain. I have lost two very close friends, at least for the moment, and we have a missing teenage boy, and now the president of entertainment programming is sharpening his teeth so he can sink them into my neck.”

“Now, Kelly, Mr. Peterson is a smart man. He must realize we were all jumping to conclusions. We weren’t given all the information to make a logical decision, were we?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Mr. Peterson, we are going to hold off on any rash decisions until we know what’s happening. I’m sure our young lady here is just anxious about her crew, and I think it would be in bad taste for anyone to act prematurely upon anything.”

Peterson, near to three thousand miles away, kicked the desk drawer closed where he had his foot propped, making his assistant jump.

“Yes, sir,” he said with all the grace he could muster.

“Now, get Kelly our best legal team in case the state police want a pissing contest over this. I also want you, Kelly — and you, Dalton — in my office for lunch the day after tomorrow. We’ll all have a nice chat and get to the bottom of this thing.”

The connection from New York was terminated, but Peterson didn’t bother to wait on the line for further insult to his authority. He also slammed the phone down.

Kelly bolted from the control van and fell to her knees, scraping them on the gravel driveway. Then she heaved and threw up violently onto the ground. After a few minutes, Dalton helped her struggle to her feet.

“You okay?” he asked.

Kelly wiped her mouth once more and looked at the looming visage of Summer Place. She shivered.

“I can’t go back in there tonight, Harris.” That was the realization that had sent her stomach into a fit. She was terrified of going back inside.

“Well, it looks like we have to.”

“We need help with this thing. A lot of it.” Kelly tasted blood in her mouth and realized she had nervously bitten through her lower lip.

Kelly and Harris looked at the glowing house. It looked so welcoming now. Then they turned away, as if they didn’t want Summer Place to know it had succeeded in scaring the hell out of both of them.

FIVE

Detective Jackson waited for Wallace Lindemann on the second floor landing. With the ornate hallway fully illuminated, the detective could see that Lindemann wanted to be anywhere but here — even with the six armed Pennsylvania State Police escorting him.

Jackson looked down at the fallen stationary camera. It looked intact. Then he saw, at the midpoint of the hallway, the fallen stepladder and an open toolbox against the wall. He walked slowly down the hallway, looking the scene over. Reaching up, he felt the cast iron grating that covered the heating vent. When he brought his hand away, there was no dust. Then he knelt down to one knee and touched the hardwood floor between the Persian runner and the wall. He rubbed the old plaster between his fingers and then stood and looked at the grill again.

“Look in that tool box and get me a flathead screwdriver.” He gestured, and one of the troopers handed him the screwdriver. The five troopers and Lindemann watched as Jackson set the stepladder upright, then climbed up and started unscrewing the grill from the wall.

“What are you doing?” Lindemann asked. “You don’t actually believe that guy was pulled into the vent, do you?”

“This grill has been removed in the last few hours, that plaster is pretty fresh, and Eunice isn’t the kind of housekeeper that would skip vacuuming this hallway — not the way she keeps this place,” he said as he removed the last large screw. “Besides, our friend had to go somewhere. We may as well start checking here.”

Lindemann cleared his throat and shifted nervously, but didn’t answer. He didn’t want to be standing here if the lights went out again.

Lieutenant Jackson pulled the heavy grate off the wall and handed it down to one of his men. Then he looked inside and then frowned.

“I hate to ask, but who’s the smallest man we have?”

The five troopers looked from Jackson, who still had his head in the vent, to each other. The smallest of the five grimaced and shook his head and silently mouthed the word fuck.

“I guess I am…sir.” He removed his Smokey the Bear hat and handed it to the trooper standing next to him, who was smiling from ear to ear.

“Okay. Get in there and see what you can see. There’s no dust inside, so someone has been in here recently.” Jackson pulled his head out and climbed down from the ladder.

The small trooper grimaced and then went up the ladder. With one last look back at the others, a few of whom were trying to hide their snickering behind their hands, he pulled himself up and inside. Once in, he clicked on his heavy-duty flashlight and started crawling. When he thought he was far enough away from the opening and prying eyes, he silently and carefully pulled his service weapon from its holster, and then continued down the steel vent, feeling a little better with the weight of his nine millimeter.

Jackson turned to the four remaining troopers. “While we wait for our tunnel rat, let’s start checking these rooms.”

“All of these rooms were locked and I have the only key,” Lindemann said. He looked like he was about to bolt from the hallway — his eyes refused to leave the vent’s opening. To him, it had looked like the trooper had willingly climbed into an open maw of an animal. He didn’t want to be there when that darkened mouth closed.

“Mr. Lindemann, I have a worried mother and a pissed off television crew down there. Now, you say you have the only set of keys?” Jackson asked.

“I do.”

“Well, we happen to have a missing boy. Do you think he may have had access to a set of keys, considering that he’s one of the caretakers?”

Lindemann lowered his head, but didn’t answer.

“Start unlocking doors, Mr. Lindemann. This is a big house and we don’t have that many men to cover it.” He looked at his watch. “Now. Someone may be hurt in this monstrosity, and I would like to find them before they decompose.” The large black man leaned closer to Wallace.

Lindemann produced his keys. Anything to stop the large man from looming over him, making him feel smaller than he actually was.

As the first door was unlocked, Jackson glanced back at the vent for a few moments. He gestured one of the troopers to stand by in the hallway, in case the man in there became uneasy. Regardless of his own outward calm, he knew he wouldn’t want to be left alone inside a steel hamster cage, either.

“This room is clear, Lieutenant,” one of the men said as the three of them stepped out of the first bedroom.

“Keep going. We have a lot to check.” He turned to one of the troopers. “The trooper in the vent — his name is Thomas?”

“Yes, sir. Andy Thomas,” the man replied.

“Thomas, are you all right in there?” Jackson called out toward the vent.

“Hell no, it’s hot as hell in here, and — wait, wait. What the hell is this?” His voice echoed inside the vent. “Oh god — what the—?”

Jackson brushed by the officer standing beside the stepladder.

“Are you going to tell us what the hell you’re doing?” he called out angrily.

“It looks like a speaker or something, and uh…a little box with an antenna on it. But it’s covered in, I don’t know, puke or something.”

“All right. Gather it up and keep going.”

“No can do, Lieutenant. The vent drops — oh, shit, it drops straight down and then up from here. I guess I’m at the junction where the vent peels—”

“I don’t need a description. Get that speaker, or whatever it is, and get the hell out of there.”

As Lindemann turned the key in the next door along the hallway, a piercing scream emerged from the room and the door flew open toward him. Wallace was so shocked that he screamed as well, and fell backward into the three state policemen standing ready to enter the room.

Jackson turned around, his small service revolver drawn. A blur of motion shot through the door and into the mass of stunned men. The state trooper standing next to Jackson knocked over the ladder getting his nine-millimeter out. He aimed it at the blur, wide-eyed.

“No!” Jackson yelled and slammed his hand down on the trooper’s gun.

Damian Jackson stared, shocked, at the boy who was trying desperately to crawl down the hallway. His hair was ghostly white and he was jabbering in incoherent words.

“Jimmy — Jimmy Johansson!” he called out, but the boy kept up his gibberish and started crawling even faster.

Jackson stepped around the stunned troopers and Wallace Lindemann. In a few long strides he reached the boy, grabbing the back of his jeans to pull him to a stop. When the boy screamed again, it froze the blood of every man in the hallway. When Jackson turned Jimmy over, he saw that the boy’s eyes were wide and the whites were blood red. He was shaking uncontrollably and he smelled as if he had soiled himself. His fingers were broken, twisted and bloody, and scraps of flesh hung from his knuckles. All of his fingernails with the exception of the thumbs were curled back like banana peels. Yet despite all his injuries, it was the color of his hair that had the men standing over him staring in rapt fascination.

“My God.” Wallace Lindemann choked. He turned away from the boy and shoved through the line of police to vomit against the baseboard.

A loud crash sounded. The police turned with their guns drawn and pointed at the heating vent. Thomas was on the floor behind them, having fallen out with his hands full of speaker and receiver.

“Who moved the goddamn ladder—” The sight of four guns pointed at him made him close his mouth. He swallowed, staring down the barrel of the nearest weapon. “I take it I missed something?”

It was close to 2:30 AM. The crew of Hunters of the Paranormal watched the ambulance carrying Jimmy Johansson drive away from the estate with a Pennsylvania State Police car for escort. Kelly could see Eunice and Charles through the ambulance’s back windows, trying desperately to get their son to respond to them.

“Jesus Christ.” Harris Dalton rubbed his forehead. “What happened to that kid?”

“His hair…what the hell could do that?” Jason Sanborn asked. He stared wide-eyed after the red and white ambulance lights as they went through the main gate. He tried to light his empty pipe with shaking hands.

“Whatever took Paul and Kyle, the kid must have seen it,” Kelly said. “He was in the room right across from where they were. He had to have seen something.”

Harris was tired of Kelly speculating without as much as a thread of evidence. She was taking this disaster far too calmly for his comfort, considering that she had two people missing and a teenager that seemed to have gone insane. Before Harris could say anything to her, a trooper approached them.

“The Lieutenant is in the main dining room. He wants to see you — all three of you.”

Kelly, Jason and Harris slowly followed the trooper inside, each of them with their own personal reservations about going into the brightly lit, cheerful-looking Summer Place.

“The fucking house almost — well, it feels sated, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s not as bad as it was earlier.”

“Kelly, I’ll tell you one time only: cut that crap out. Stop writing script for the goddamn show.”

Kelly looked at Dalton, but decided to let it go.

As they entered the main dining salon, past two troopers standing on either side of the double doors, they saw Damian Jackson with his coat removed, sitting on the edge of the long polished table. He was drinking a cup of coffee. Wallace Lindemann was pacing not far away with a large drink in his hand, talking on a cell phone. They could hear the ice tinkling in the glass from his shaking.

Jackson stood and placed his cup on the table. “Come on in. I have a couple of questions for you.”

Lindemann, without missing a beat, tucked the cell phone between his neck and shoulder and shot forward, lifting the cup and placing a piece of paper under it as a makeshift coaster. The policeman looked from the owner of Summer Place to the cup of coffee and shook his head. Lindemann had vomited on a ten thousand dollar Persian rug runner, but freaked out over the chance of getting a cup ring on his table.

Kelly turned on a small tape recorder and made sure that the lieutenant saw her do it.

“First,” Jackson said, “I want the tape that reportedly shows this…this, incident.” The falsity of his smile was clear, and its intent also.

“Well, we—” Dalton started.

“The tape was accidentally erased when we tried to show it to New York, sorry,” Kelly cut in smoothly. She matched Jackson’s glare.

“Is that right?” the lieutenant asked Jason Sanborn, and then turned to Harris Dalton.

“I never saw it and I don’t know anything about it,” Jason answered truthfully.

Dalton tried not to shift his eyes toward Kelly, who was standing her ground like the greatest liar in the world. He tried with every effort to hold his temper in check. Then he reminded himself that he was a television man — regardless of what he thought of Kelly, that tape was great television.

“I’m afraid she’s telling the truth,” he said. “However, we will supply you with it, nonetheless. We are gong to make a copy of the erased tape and send it to New York. Maybe our technicians will be able to get something off of it. If we do, we’ll shoot you down a copy.”

Jackson didn’t respond, but Kelly and Dalton both saw the man’s jaw muscles clinch under his smile.

“Okay, you can play it like that, if that’s the way you want it. But let me warn you, if I see that damn thing on television and I don’t have a copy of it sitting in my crime lab, I’ll get arrest warrants for all three of you for withholding evidence from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”

Kelly tilted her head, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dalton suspected she knew exactly what size shoe it was going to be.

“Now, maybe you can explain what this is.” Jackson reached behind him, and with a handkerchief, picked up the small speaker and the miniature transmitter.

“It looks like a remote sound unit,” Kelly said before Dalton could. Jason rolled his eyes and Kelly could only hope that was all he would do.

“Can you tell me what this was doing in the vent your crewman supposedly disappeared from? Call me suspicious, but it doesn’t look like it’s original to the house.”

“We were conducting a sound test for the Halloween show, in case we wanted to place microphones in the heating vents for coverage.” She looked at Harris Dalton. “I forgot to mention that Kyle had placed it — that was why he was in here.”

Dalton frowned. He now had his evidence that Kelly had been using a gag — and a bad gag, at that. He now knew she was desperate enough to have engineered this whole stunt. He was tempted to come clean right then about the tape and his suspicions, but decided he would just report it to corporate and let them handle it.

“I don’t see what this has to do with our missing people,” he said instead.

“Is that right, detective Dalton?” Jackson said snidely. He placed the speaker and remote down on the tabletop. “Right now, everything has to do with your missing people and that traumatized boy.” He raised his eyebrow again and pulled a sheet of paper from his inside suit jacket.

Kelly looked from the paper to Harris. He refused to look her way. She knew he was going to explode directly in New York’s direction the first chance he got.

“We ran a check on this gag-man of yours. It seems Kyle Prichard did time in prison — three years in Chino, to be exact.” He looked up from the report. “For…guess what?” he asked smugly.

Kelly glared at Jackson. Anything he had to say about Kyle would news to her. He had been an acquaintance of one of the special effects guys at the network lot.

“No guesses?” His smile faded. “He did time for sexually assaulting a child.”

“Look, we didn’t—”

“It was just a boy, not much younger than Jimmy Johansson,” he said. “Now, we have a boy that’s obviously been traumatized severely, and we discover that one of your crew has a lurid criminal history and is capable of inflicting such trauma. And then, amazingly, he comes up missing.”

“As I was trying to say, we—”

Again, Jackson didn’t allow Kelly to speak. “If we don’t find your men, I’m going to charge you and your entire production crew with criminal endangerment of a minor for having this man on your crew.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Kelly said. “Is this what you did to Professor Kennedy, railroad him like you’re trying to do to us?”

“You’ve already lost one host — he’s probably out in the woods, hiding your child molester.” He stood. “I want to speak with the other host.”

“Answer my question. Is this the way you treated Professor Kennedy?”

Jackson glared at Kelly. He was just starting to respond angrily when two men walked in through the double doors.

“Ms. Delaphoy, please, I advise you to not say anything more, other than what you directly witnessed.”

The two men wore brand new jeans and cotton shirts. One had a briefcase; the other, older man, a scowl.

“My name is Harvey Dresser, Attorney at Law. My partner and I have been retained by the UBC television network to represent your interests.”

“Were you hiding in one of their vans?” Jackson asked.

“No, Lieutenant, we were actually staying about ten miles from here on a fishing vacation. I received a call from Abraham Feuerstein, the Chairman of the Board of General Television and Electronics. I don’t know him personally, but someone I do know does, who also knew I was up here.”

“Now that’s what I call pull,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “Another coincidence.”

“Not pull, Detective Jackson, we’ll call it fortuitous, since I believe you were about to cast an awful lot of circumstantial perversions of this strange situation at the people I now represent. Any other questions can be asked after you conclude your immediate investigation. My clients will, of course, be amenable to further interview at any time. But until then, I have instructions for them to return to New York posthaste.”

Jackson reached out and removed his trenchcoat from the back of a chair. He put it on, following it slowly with his brown hat.

“You bet, Counselor. We’ll be in touch,” he said. His smile didn’t reach his dark eyes.

The attorney and his associate continued into the room, toward Wallace Lindemann. The estate’s heir had stopped pacing and was watching the exchange. He lowered his cell phone and took a quick drink from his glass.

“Mr. Lindemann, I was instructed to pass on to you the network’s sincere apology for what has transpired on your property this evening.”

Wallace nodded and puffed out his chest, looking from the attorney to the other faces watching him.

“Well, that’s the least of your worries my friend. I plan to—”

“Also, I am to pass on to you that if you attempt to break the lease for the dates and times specified in your contract with UBC, we will sue you for the price of said lease, in a breach of said contract. It is my understanding that would be almost all the remaining liquid funds available to you.”

Wallace suddenly lost the liquor-induced bravado he had been feeling just a moment before.

“By the way, sir, I was a great admirer of your family.”

The attorneys turned away and gestured for Jason, Harris and Kelly to follow them out of the salon.

“Detective, the network and their legal department will be eagerly awaiting your findings,” he said to Jackson as they left.

“I’ll be sure to get your bosses everything, Counselor. You can count on that.”

On her way past the large gate, Kelly leaned out of the van and looked back at the brightly illuminated house. If and when she returned, she needed to be armed with the best people money could buy. She had a distinct, inexplicable feeling that the house wanted her next.

She desperately needed one man — a man who knew Summer Place better than anyone alive. She needed him to come trick-or-treating with the rest of America on Halloween night.

She needed Professor Gabriel Kennedy.