"The Hammersmith Ghost started haunting Black Lion Lane and St. Paul's Churchyard in 1804. One night an Excise Officer Francis Smith filled his blunderbuss with shot, and himself with ale, before killing an unfortunate white-clothed bricklayer, Thomas Millwood, whom he had mistaken for the ghost."
~ Plaque at the Black Lion Pub, London
Emile, Chad, and Bexley turn on like lightbulbs at Zandra's suggestion of a ghost hunt. The others are less convinced.
"That's a nice way to put tripping over each other in the dark," Carter says, pausing his snifter beneath his chin between sips. "What are we, 12-year-old schoolgirls at a sleepover?"
"I've heard about this place. It's very haunted. They put it on one of those ghost shows on TV," Melvin says, looking over his shoulder into the abyss of Carey Manor beyond the lounge.
Ah, yes, the epicenter of science and reason: ghost-hunting shows on television. If only this little snipe hunt were really about that.
"Bullshit. Just like everything else about you, Zandra," Carter says.
"Don't tempt the spirits. They don't like that," Emile says with a hiss. "I felt their presences the minute I came in here. There are too many to count."
You must watch the same TV shows as Melvin.
"That's the spirit," Zandra says and nods to Sunglasses. He walks to the kitchen and returns with an armful of what appear to be AM/FM radios. The small, plastic squares come with a single speaker, an on/off button with a volume slider, a record button, and the letters "Paratechno Spirit Box 3000" printed on the sides.
Sunglasses hands a Spirit Box to every other guest, skipping Emile. They fiddle with the boxes as they receive them. Chad's turns on, and produces a squeal of radio static. He drops the box in surprise with a hollow thud that betrays any ideas about manufacturing quality.
"For those not blessed with the gifts of a third eye, these boxes are a shortcut to the spirit realm," Zandra says. "They quickly scan AM and FM radio frequencies. Because they require so little in terms of battery power to operate, even a low-voltage spirit can hop in and manipulate a frequency to select certain words."
The Crocodile finally speaks up. He says, "So it's like a walkie-talkie, but for ghosts?"
"That's correct, child," Zandra says and hacks into her sleeve. "Speaking out loud requires vibrating the air, which in turn vibrates parts of human ears, and that action gets interpreted by the brain as speech. The dearly departed lack vocal cords with which to vibrate physical air, but they can manipulate energy, such as the electricity in these Spirit Boxes. It's all science."
Actually, it's not. A long night of drinking would prove just as effective at hearing ghosts.
Chad's Spirit Box blurts out the word, "Science." Chad drops the box again.
A coincidence. A broken clock is right two times a day.
"Are you sure this is safe, Zandra? We have no idea what sorts of spirits are in this house," Emile says.
"Let's find out. We'll split into groups and spread out. If you pick something up, hit record on your Spirit Box. We'll meet back here in one hour to review the results," Zandra says. She assigns the groups before anyone has a chance to protest. Sunglasses heads off with the trio of Chad, Bexley, and The Crocodile. Carter, Melvin, and Hank join up to find common ground with which to complain.
"That leaves you and me," Emile says from her electric scooter after everyone else leaves the lounge. "I trust there's a reason why."
She remembered our little chat from before. I pegged her for having a convenient memory.
"If you brought that reason with you, then of course," Zandra says, taking care not to say the word, "money," out loud.
Emile holds out a check. The dollar amount written on it is not insignificant. Zandra hesitates.
Checks can bounce. Besides, she should be giving the money back to everyone who believed her two-bit act. Mainly, I just wanted to fuck with her. She's earned that.
"Keep it for now. There's another reason I wanted to pair up with you," Zandra says. "You said it yourself that Emile the Empath was all an act. I'd like to prove you wrong."
Emile frowns. "I really wish you would've kept that between you and I instead of saying it out loud."
"And it is just you and I, unless you believe in ghosts," Zandra says.
Emile plays with the buttons on her electric scooter.
"Cheer up, child. I mean to do you a favor. You're concerned about dying. I am here to tell you that a ghost hunt is just the prescription," Zandra says and starts for the kitchen. Emile follows in her scooter.
"How?" Emile says.
They make their way to a kitchen that would be any chef's dream. Every cooking technique imaginable is represented in the pristine hardware, powered by a vending machine-style pantry that delivers ingredients with the push of a button. That is, if the pantry were still stocked.
"Some people see ghosts as terrifying. I find them comforting. What's more optimistic than confirmation of life after death? That's why I prefer to commune with them over most people, present company excluded now that we've settled that debt," Zandra says.
"That's great, Zandra, but is there a bathroom in here?" Emile says.
Zandra pauses next to Melvin's jar of fermented beet juice, set on one of the prep areas. The metal lid is screwed on tight, but the top is raised.
Once again, you disappoint me, Melvin.
Zandra retraces her path into the kitchen and shows Emile to a nearby bathroom. While she waits, Zandra walks the length of the banquet hall. A long table will soon host her guests and the catering once it arrives. She picks up one of the 30 forks positioned neatly next to the china plates. It puts the "silver" in "silverware."
That one fork alone is probably worth what some people earn in a day's pay.
She thumbs the tines and stares until her vision blurs.
A day's pay.
"Zandra?" comes Emile's voice from behind Zandra.
Zandra sets the fork back down. She turns to see Emile in the electric scooter.
"You ready for this?" Zandra says.
"I am now. What was it you wanted to show me?" Emile says.
They return to the kitchen, where Zandra leads Emile to the entrance of the walk-in freezer. From the looks of it, the padlock spent the past several years securing the door.
"They say this is a walk-in freezer, sealed off for our own protection because it only locks from the outside," Zandra says while rubbing her palms together.
"I'm sensing that's not the case," Emile says.
"In a place like this, child, a locked door means something significant, especially if what's inside is a convenient place to store meat. Any kind of meat, if you know what I mean," Zandra says.
Emile covers her mouth with her hand. "Good lord, Zandra."
"Look around you, child. Do you really think the owners would blink at spending money to replace a walk-in freezer? Why lock it and leave it?"
"Do you know?"
"If you know, you know," Zandra says with a grin. "Don't you want to know, too?"
Emile, suddenly out of breath, manages a limp, "Uh huh."
The master key probably wouldn't match to this padlock. The master is too long. I'll bet they keep the padlock key near the door, since they're so concerned about it "locking from the outside."
Zandra grabs a stool to stand on and braces herself against the freezer door. Feeling with her fingers, she runs her hand along the top of the doorframe.
Got it.
Minding her bad ankle, she hops down from the stool and holds the short key up for Emile to see.
"Don't call it luck," Zandra says. She inserts the key into the padlock and twists. The lock pops. "Better turn that Spirit Box on."
Zandra swings the door open. Musty air boils against their faces, but other than that it's a typical walk-in freezer, oversized at 12 by 16 feet. Zandra hits a light switch on the smooth, aluminum wall, surprised that it still turns on lights along the ceiling. It's not cold inside, but rather the same temperature as the kitchen.
"Hear that?" Zandra says.
Emile breathes in deep through her nose. "I do."
Priming Emile is almost too easy.
"I think we should start right away. Better turn that Spirit Box on. Don't record, child, not just yet. We don't want to be too aggressive, or they may not reveal themselves," Zandra says. She brushes her hand along Emile's side.
Emile presses the on/off button on the Spirit Box. A blast of static erupts from the portable square. The bare freezer walls enhance the volume.
"Now we close our eyes, clear our minds, and make ourselves open. You'll know when they're here," Zandra says in a voice as soothing as she can muster despite the rattle in her chest. With eyes open, she watches Emile close hers.
Remember when you took advantage of the susceptible? The grieving and the confused? You cheated, Emile. You never had to work to prime them. That will cost you.
"Now turn the volume up, so loud that you can't hear it anymore. Let the noise wash over you," Zandra says. Emile obeys. The Spirit Box makes a noise like twisting metal. Zandra stuffs her sleeves into her ears.
Eyes still closed, Emile says, "They're coming," but her words aren't audible over the Spirit Box.
Zandra shuffles to the side of the electric scooter. She moves with slow purpose, so as not to disturb the air near Emile, keeping her eyes on the empath's face with every step. A few steps farther, and she's outside the freezer.
You're lucky you're not a killer, Emile. See you in the morning.
Zandra shuts the walk-in freezer door and secures it with the padlock. She reaches into the pocket of her purple gown to drop the key inside, and then pulls out a pack of cigarettes. The freezer door dampens the noise from the Spirit Box.
Zandra chain-smokes outside the front doors of Carey Manor until the ghost hunt finishes. Off in the distance, she can make out a blur of terracotta Civil War soldiers standing guard.
I wonder how hard those would be to crush.
She flicks the smoldering butt of her cigarette onto the stoop when she hears voices behind her.
"You have got to listen to this," comes a voice from the direction of the lounge.