Chapter 18
I’ve got to hand it to Mr. Whistler – he knows how to put up one hell of a show. It’s more of a grudging respect, really. On the one hand, I’m pretty sure that I’ll never be able to get along with him, but on another, he’s one of those guys that you can’t help but admire from the sidelines. If my parents had him for a son instead of rebellious old me, my sister probably wouldn’t have to try and hide me from the cameras. He’d already shown how talented he was at playing the hotel manager, and now, as Sigrun and I watched through Margaret and Robert’s gift, he was playing the role of television host that rivaled even Oprah. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to relish the comparison.
The drone of the laptop’s fan made it impossible to hold the image, however, raking against my temples like…a rake. Damn it, I couldn’t even make decent metaphors, I thought, gritting my teeth as I rubbed the sides of my head.
Sigrun’s hand shot from the darkness, a dim silhouette under the gentle glow of the laptop screen. I didn’t have to squint to know what she was holding, which I immediately rejected.
“I want my head clear while watching,” I said, turning my attention back to the screen where Whistler was chattering on about the room he and the rest of the guests – including Margaret, Robert, and my girlfriend – were in, having no trouble at all in keeping their interest. “The drugs you guys gave me earlier are just starting to wear off.”
The bed creaked as Sigrun shifted her position. “It’s not just the drugs, Chris. You’re still fatigued from using Gram.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted. My head protested as a loud bang was heard on-screen. The crowd gasped and Whistler grinned as he lifted the lid of a chest that had unceremoniously closed, offering little in the way of explanation as he gestured for them to move on.
“No, you’re not. Your head is still hurting, isn’t it?” she challenged. “And how many hours did you spend unconscious again? Chris, you’re drained.”
I didn’t respond. Whistler led everyone into a room that was obviously set up for a main event of sorts, which was just as well since they’ve been going on for almost three hours and despite my protests, I really did feel faint. I wouldn’t admit to it, but my arms and legs felt unusually strained now that the painkillers from earlier were wearing off, like they would after going through a marathon with a cow tied to each limb.
Sigrun sighed. “Please let me do this for you. Get some rest.”
Shaking my head, I pointed at the screen. “It looks like they’re finishing up anyway. Just a few more minutes.”
In the darkness, I sensed Sigrun throw her hands up in exasperation as she lapsed into defeated silence.
On-screen, the crowd had taken their seats on the carpeted floor, Margaret placing the camera on top of what must have been a dresser. A few of the classier ones, including Brendan and Glory, both of whom I hadn’t seen since last night, either stayed standing or had found decorations they could use as seats. Mr. Whistler didn’t seem to mind and pressed on with his speech.
Like I said, the room had obviously been prepared for a show. From what I gathered during Whistler’s preamble, it had originally been a first-class suite for those who could afford it. Unlike the room Sigrun and I were in, this one was decorated with far richer ornaments, glistening even underneath the cellophane they were covered with.
Perhaps it was just an effect of the room’s current lighting. Though a chandelier hung ready for use above the guest’s heads, it was switched off along with the rest of the electricity-based lights. Instead, candles were scattered liberally across the room, their placing casting odd shadows on the faces of those present. I searched the room for Elaine and Margaret and found them seated on either side of Mr. Whistler. Okay, now I was sure he had it in for me.
Seated comfortably in a lotus position, he explained the kind of gory history the room had. The suite used to be the favorite of many great men and women, and a lot of not-so-great ones that happened to have a lot of cash on them. It had been during the 80s, he began, when a particularly famous couple at the time (whom he so fortuitously forgot the names of along with any other “great men and women”) had decided to use the Lodge as the site for their marriage. It had been an extravagant few nights, because who doesn’t like holding a wedding on a mountain in the middle of winter wearing silk? If anything, the threat of pneumonia must have brought the families closer together.
It sure had brought the sister-in-law and groom together.
The morning after the wedding, the whole Lodge was abuzz with the knowledge that the groom had gotten cold feet and had decided to warm them inside his sister-in-law’s britches, which was one “r” too long. The couple had mysteriously vanished along with a couple dozen grand and a town car. The bride, of course, was devastated by this, or would have been if she wasn’t found later in the room’s closet, her bridal gown still on, the veil stained red where her head had been bashed in.
What must have been a cold wind, judging from the number of shivering forms, blew across the room, ruffling a few hairs and dimming a few candles. As expected, all eyes turned to the only closet in the room, which happened to be the dresser where the camera stood. The blinking red light caused a few people to jump, a few more to scream, and a few to tilt their heads quizzically.
Mr. Whistler remained calm, as always, and said in an equally smooth voice, “Ah yes, unfortunately one of our guests can’t be with us physically so he’s here in…spirit?”
That drew a few uneasy chuckles from the crowd and a gag from me.
“Say ‘hi,’ Mr. Pierce,” he said, with an unmistakably smug grin.
A few from the crowd waved, Margaret more enthusiastically than the others. I could only imagine the kind of joy she was drawing from their experience right now. I held up a particular finger and was thankful that the show was one-way. Sigrun coughed, which was a dead giveaway in itself because she almost never coughed.
“We dislike him,” I said, my jaw aching.
“Heh, sure we do,” Sigrun allowed, coughing some more to hide her laughter.
I scowled at her before turning back to the screen, muttering, “Bastard.”
Once the crowd had settled down, Whistler continued, explaining what they were doing there. “As you can probably tell, the room has fallen to disuse.” He gestured at the room, somehow making the plastic wrapping the furniture stand out more. “Naturally, after the incident, the room was closed for several weeks, losing the Lodge a great sum in profit. After it was reopened…well, let’s just say the room lost its novelty.”
A made at the time had apparently been the first to experience the garish presence. She had been cleaning up in preparation for yet another “great man and/or woman” with a huge wallet, when she’d felt the unmistakable feeling of someone watching her. Yeah, we all know it well. That prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the slow chill crawling up your spine down to your arms and legs, that twitchy feeling in your hands as you resist the urge to look. “Hard” scientists say it’s a trait of schizophrenics and epileptics. Others say it’s just a reaction to something in your peripheral vision or even to other non-visual sensory cues. Evolutionary psychologists say it’s a left over from that time when we played predator-prey before we discovered guns and tanks.
In the case of the maid, it had been none of those. It had simply been the unyielding pressure of eyes boring into the back of your head. Of course, Mr. Whistler hadn’t said all this in so many words, but he said it in a way that forced his listeners to fill in the blanks, and the effect was evident in the guests’ pallor.
The maid had given in to the urge and had spun around to check. She came face to face with but an innocent closet, its door slightly ajar. One thing to note though was that nobody wanted a bloodied closet in their room, so the evidence had been removed and burned after it played its role in court. This had been a new closet.
It was bloodied as well.
The maid was no stranger to the events only a few weeks back and had promptly fled the room, screaming obscenities. The closet was burned yet again. But that did nothing to dispose of the presence. Time and again, guests and employees would complain of odd noises and stains on the dresser, and a distinct inability to keep it shut. They tried to remove the decoration altogether but the problem only escalated, with nearly everyone in the Lodge who was aware of the story dreaming of a room flooded with blood.
Mr. Whistler finished with a smile, “I hope this does not affect your night.”
Another round of shaky laughter rippled through the crowd.
“After renovation started,” he continued. “Employees would still complain of such instances during their rounds. Would that match your theories, Mr. Gordon?”
Robert sat up, shaken from his reverie, and nodded. “Without going into too much detail, my team and I are of the belief that spirits such as that which you’re describing are naturally anchored to areas that have an intense emotional connection to them – be it positive or negative. This place,” he waved at the room, “if your story is valid, would match the description and would probably register high EMP levels.” There was a hostile set to his jaw that neither I nor Whistler missed.
Sensing it, Whistler laid a hand on Robert’s arm and squeezed. “I apologize for the inconvenience but we’ll have plenty of time for your research tomorrow. I promise.”
Robert grunted, clearly unsatisfied with whatever went on between them, but let the subject lie.
“Now,” Whistler said. “The reason I brought us all here tonight is because of one thing – we wish to either prove or disprove this tale. We wish to make contact.”
My eyebrows rose involuntarily at that as did several others’ who were in the room. Silence settled on the crowd then, many shifting uneasily where they sat. There were a few muttered protests about how tired they were but those were all drowned out by Brendan’s booming voice. He stepped forward from where he stood, hands on his round belly, and laughed like a maniac.
“I’m sorry, but since when did this become Ghostbusters?” Brendan said.
Mr. Whistler gave him his wintry smile and it was pitiful to see the old businessman stumble backwards. “We won’t be doing any ‘ghostbusting’, as you put it, Mr. Taylor. Only a confirmation. A litmus test, if you will.”
It took a few moments for Brendan to regain his composure and when he did, he muttered, “Fine. Show us what you got, kid.”
Whistler’s smile grew wider. “Unfortunately, I don’t have that kind of talent. But,” his gaze moved to Margaret. “We have someone who does. Ms. Wright, if you would be so kind?”
The sudden attention made Margaret jump, her gaze shooting across the room as people turned to look at her. She opened and closed her mouth several times, as if to speak, but failed each time; a deer caught in particularly harsh headlights probably while bathing.
“No need to be coy, Margaret,” Mr. Whistler said soothingly before he addressed the crowd, introducing Margaret and explaining her abilities. Skepticism littered the sea of faces. By the time the explanation was finished, Margaret had visibly calmed down. “I hope I’m not expecting too much of you.”
“Not at all…um…Adam,” Margaret said softly before modifying her sitting a bit so that her back was as straight as a ruler. She gripped her knees firmly, closed her eyes, and just sat there. At least, that would’ve been how it would look to most of the people in the room. But for someone like me who’d trained under a Valkyrie, it was a clear attempt at meditation; clearing one’s mind. Her breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. After a few beats, she opened her eyes again, the bright green now a flawless emerald. “Please be silent,” she murmured, barely audibly through the laptop’s speakers.
Then, she began to chant a monotonic drone, one that was completely impossible to make out to anyone outside the room or even inside, if the figures leaning closer were any evidence. Mr. Whistler held his hands up to the more impatient of those present and just smiled at Margaret.
“Smug bastard,” I said, leaning back on my pillow and scowling at the screen.
“But a clever one at that,” Sigrun chimed in. “Using a talent like Margaret like this is sure to yield rather impressive results, at least to the current audience. And if it gets out of hand, I’m sure she can control it.”
I rolled my eyes and turned them back to the screen. Margaret’s form was now covered in a shimmering silver haze that I doubted anyone in the room could see. “Do you think he knows that Margaret’s the real deal?”
“Possibly. Even if he didn’t believe in it, our host doesn’t seem the kind to invest in something he didn’t think he’d profit from,” she said approvingly.
By now Margaret had lapsed from a chant that at least resembled English, to one that clearly wasn’t. “Is that Latin?”
Sigrun scoffed. “Common archetype. I can’t see why people always assume Latin is the language of the Arts. Gods know that Scandinavia has a far richer history in that aspect. No, Chris – it’s a variant of Finnish.” She leaned closer and touched the screen where the silvery haze around Margaret seemed to be branching in silk-like tendrils around the room. “Very impressive.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Considering how tired she must be from this afternoon.”
“Indeed. Hmm, chances are, her séance might not even be a success. But still…she may not have much raw power but she truly has a talent…with enough training, enough refinement, she could become a valuable asset. Perhaps I should consider taking her in once we’re back in New York. Tell me, did she happen to leave you a card?”
“Already thinking about replacing me, Sigrun?”
She glanced at me obliquely, smirking. “You’re damaged goods. She probably won’t take as long as you to learn to control Gram.”
We exchanged challenging grins. There was no seriousness to either of our words. It was a running joke between us – me taking so long to learn and her starting to get fed up. She never did, of course, but I had to wonder…Muninn making contact all of a sudden. The last time that happened, she and her brother had been questioning my proficiency as a Knight. If it hadn’t been for the intervention of an older Knight and a very pissed off vampire wannabe, she probably would have…well, I didn’t really know.
The moment was shattered by the abrupt disappearance of the laptop image as static took over. Both our eyes snapped to it immediately and after a brief second, the image came back. Margaret was still in her sitting position, but her upper torso had pitched forward. She had fainted.
“What the hell?” I and several people in the room exclaimed as they crowded around her.
“Give her room to breathe, people,” Elaine said, taking control of the situation. She crossed around Mr. Whistler who was staring slack-mouthed at the scene (Hah!), and took Margaret’s shoulder, possibly to sit her up to aid in her breathing.
She didn’t get the chance though, as Margaret sat up herself, and began to scream in a horrid way that reminded me too much of the wolf-thing (No, it wasn’t a kid. It wasn’t.) from that afternoon. Everyone in the room, except for Mr. Whistler who seemed to have frozen and Elaine who was trying to cover Margaret, stumbled back in surprise as the candles strewn across the suite erupted in bright blue flames that spanned thrice the length of the candles themselves.
The video crackled as the screaming continued and when it stopped, so did the flames, plunging the screen in blackness. It couldn’t have been completely black though, since I was sure a few of the windows were clear of curtains or blinds. As if echoing my thoughts, something glinted in the distance as moonlight reflected from the plastics covering furniture.
It didn’t last. The reflections shook as if the entire room was vibrating. I realized, with coldness in my gut that that wasn’t the case. Only the closet was shaking.
The static got the best of the camera and the image completely disappeared, leaving Sigrun and I blind to the events transpiring in the room. We didn’t need the camera anymore though to know what was going on.
The screams were a dead giveaway.