The Belly of the Beast, page 5
part #3 of The Graveyard Series
Shatterbone is also ridiculously haunted.
Over the years, Mike and I tried, unsuccessfully, countless times to get Kane to allow us to film an episode there. While he was familiar with Graveyard: Classified, and a fan of the show—he told me once while autographing one of my hardback copies of The Faceless Name—he didn’t want to disrespect the spirits he cohabitated with. He was so familiar with the ghosts of Shatterbone that they were like the family he never had, and out of respect for the tormented souls who hadn’t crossed over yet, he couldn’t allow us to go poking or prodding.
Back in those days, we didn’t hear ‘no’ that often, but our discussions always ended cordially with Kane’s unfulfilled promise to write me into one of his novels, or at least name a character after me, while I would promise to bring him on the show one day—a promise I never had a chance to keep.
We were not boon companions by any means, but we were on good terms with Kane, and yet we still had to convince his agent that we weren’t requesting an audience to beg for another chance to film there. We had to namedrop Addison Keller, have the agent relay the message, then wait for Kane’s enthusiastic, yet curious, reply before we were allowed an in-person visit.
So that’s how we ended up sitting at an iron gate blocking the driveway of one of the world’s most well-known authors, speaking into a small metal box, then cruising along a short, winding road bordered by seasonal flowers, fresh cedar mulch, and stone statues of gargoyles attacking cherubs, vampires with their teeth buried in the soft-looking skin of fainting damsels, and a six-headed dragon rising out of a manmade pond.
“Jesus,” Mike said, amazed.
“More like ‘Jesus wept.’ Look at all this. Spooky.”
I steered the rented Mazda around a dilapidated green pickup parked on the right side. It was full of rakes, shovels, buckets, and two push mowers. The gardener waved as we drove by, Mike returned the greeting with a salute, and the man went back to pruning a bush.
“We had money,” Mike said, “but we never had hire-your-own-personal-gardener money.”
“That’s a luxury I couldn’t care less about.”
“As if you’ve ever had dirt underneath your fingernails.”
The house—no, check that, the mansion—came into view once we rounded the next bend. I’d seen pictures in magazines but they never do a house like that justice. Three stories, beige colored stucco siding with more paned glass windows than a hospital, along with a second story balcony overlooking a circular driveway and the coastline off in the distance. I guessed maybe thirty rooms, but once we got inside, I found out how conservative that estimate was.
We parked, climbed out of the rental, then left the paved surface of the driveway and walked along a path made of bleached and broken seashells that resembled the remnants of shattered bones.
Shatterbone. Clever.
We rang the doorbell and while we waited, I asked Mike if he had his DVR in the pocket of his shorts.
“Always.”
“Do me a favor. Leave it off in here. I know this place has been high on our Wish List for years but don’t try to sneak it out for EVPs.”
Mike arched an eyebrow. “Hadn’t planned on it, but why, exactly?”
“I don’t want to piss Kane off, especially if he knows anything about Keller’s lost chapter.”
I heard the metallic clunk of a deadbolt disengaging, followed by the clatter of mechanical door parts as it swung open, revealing a tall gentleman dressed in the pressed, splendid attire of an old world butler. His tuxedo was immaculate and crisp, unlike the sagging skin around his neck, along his cheeks and under his eyes.
“Barnes!” I said.
“Yes?” came the guttural, grumbled reply.
If he was surprised that I recognized him, or knew his name, he didn’t show it. Fenworth Barnes had been Kane’s longtime butler since back in the 80s, imported from Merry Olde England. The man himself had been the subject of numerous lifestyle interviews in magazines and newspapers, mostly concerning what it was like to wait hand and foot on one of the world’s wealthiest authors, and being the Kane Junkie that I am, I’d learned enough about Barnes to feel like we were at least on a last name basis.
The air he presented, staring down the bridge of his long, hooked nose, judging the simple cretin that stood before him, gave him a regal, authoritative presence that required a similar response in return. I said, “Please allow me to introduce myself,” then bowed. “I am Mr. Ford Atticus Ford, here with my partner Mr. Michael Long, requesting an audience with your employer, Mr. Carter Kane.”
I could sense Mike’s attempt at stifling a chuckle.
“Ah,” Barnes said, “you’re expected. Right this way, please.” Once we were through the arched entrance, he eased the door closed behind us and added, “You were made aware of the rules, I presume. No attempt will be made to contact the spirits residing here. Do not touch anything that appears to have value. Do not waste Master Kane’s time. If you are caught in violation of these terms, you will be removed from the property.”
Mike made a click-click noise of acknowledgment with his tongue and gave Barnes a thumbs-up. “You got it, dude.”
Barnes studied Mike, nose upturned, not hiding his disdain. “Very well, dude. Please have a seat. Master Kane will be with you shortly.” His exit was so effortlessly fluid I could have sworn he floated away.
Mike waited until Barnes was out of sight before he whispered, “You could shove a piece of coal up that guy’s ass and have a diamond by the end of the day.”
“Now there’s a mental image I could have done without.”
We sat. We waited in silence.
Mike tapped his toes and fidgeted, eyes darting around the cavernous room. I don’t know what he was looking for. Ghosts, maybe? And while his gaze flittered from statue to photograph to the bay window the size of a NFL football field, I sat with my hands in my lap, studying a painting that hung over the fireplace. I had seen this one in some art magazine years ago and had always been curious about it. Supposedly, in addition to being one hell of a talented author, Kane spent his downtime learning to paint like a Renaissance master. He’d been at it for twenty-five years if I remembered correctly, and he had referred to the fireplace painting as his breakthrough piece.
A hulking demon—charred, black skin and muscles like Conan the Barbarian—was presented in such exquisite 3D-detail that he appeared to be marching directly at the viewer, coming off the canvas head on. Its flame red eyes matched the background and felt as if they were boring directly through mine. Blood dripped from a single, razor-sharp horn protruding from the left side of the demon’s skull. One hand held a sword high, its edges jagged and erratic, like a sawblade missing some teeth. In the other hand, the demon held the ankle of an unconscious nude woman, dragging her over the ragged volcanic rock under his feet.
It’s an image from the plot of Kane’s second novel, Soul Harvester, and at six feet tall and four feet wide, it’s an imposing one that seared itself into my memory.
I shuddered. I had to look away.
A beat later, Carter Kane appeared through a door on the eastern side of the sitting room, all smiles in a sunflower yellow polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sailing loafers that squeaked with each step against the spotless white tile under our feet.
Kane didn’t look a bit like someone who had scared the living daylights out of hundreds of millions of people over a thirty-year career. He reminded me of my Grandpa Garfield—my mother’s father (and don’t tell anyone, but he was my favorite of the four before he passed back in 1997).
At seventy-six years old, Kane looked sprightly for his age. He was distance-runner fit, trim like he hadn’t had a cheeseburger in decades, head shaved bald with a razor, a white mustache like an albino caterpillar, and a matching set of diamond earrings. He’d gotten a tattoo since the last time I saw him in person—and it wasn’t just any tattoo. It was a full arm sleeve that depicted an angel falling through so many levels of a fiery hell.
Interesting. Gotta stay hip when you’re his age. You know, instead of breaking one.
Kane is also fabulously gay and has been out since before it was cool. I read in an interview one time that he struggled with his sexuality growing up. Having gone through so many dark places in his life, looking for answers and acceptance wherever he could find them, that was the fuel for his demented, paranormal-influenced imagination.
Also, he had been emotionally wrecked by a vindictive lover in the late ‘60s and remained single since, which, I assume, is partly why he was so attached to the spirits in Shatterbone. Not to mention the fact that any partner who chose to be with him would probably have a hard time sleeping soundly next to the man who wrote A Knife in My Dreams.
Kane opened his arms wide and said, “Gentlemen! So lovely to see you both again.”
We exchanged handshakes, hugs, and double-cheek kisses, then Kane motioned for us to follow him into the breakfast nook where Barnes had hot tea and scones waiting for us.
Kane seemed to really take notice of Mike for the first time. “My word, look at you. So much weight gone. Muscles look good on you, my friend. I’ll tell you what, if I was thirty years younger…”
Mike blushed and joked, “Well, I am getting a divorce.”
“Don’t tempt me, sweetie,” Kane replied.
“Be careful what you wish for with this one,” I said, sitting down at the white breakfast table bordered by four white chairs. Underneath the tri-window that overlooked the rose garden was a handcrafted bench; on it sat white cushions and pastel pink pillows. “Anyway, Mike’s love life aside, I’m not sure how many times we’ve met, or how many times I’ve told you this, but it’s an honor. Thanks so much for having us, sir.”
“Sir,” he coos. “Oh, please.”
I’ve rubbed elbows with a plethora of Hollywood A-listers in my day—no big deal—but Carter Kane is the one person that gets me starstruck every single time.
Gawking like I’m a teen girl who just met The Beatles for the first time, I managed to fumble out, “I’m sure I’ve told you this too. I love your work. Love it. You’ve been scaring the shit out of me since I was a teenager.”
“Yes, every time we’ve met.” He winked. “Whenever someone tells me that, I don’t know whether to thank them or apologize.”
“Same goes for us,” Mike said.
“I’d imagine.”
“But nothing like what you’ve had to deal with, I’m sure.” Mike, eager to get down to business, added, “And speaking of scaring the shit out of people, the reason we’re here is, we came to ask you about—”
“Tsk, tsk,” Kane interrupted. “Small talk first, then we’ll titter like a bunch of hens. Besides, Barnes went to so much trouble getting these scones just right. Try one. The man deserves a medal.” Kane took a bite, eyes rolling back in pastry-induced orgasmic delight.
Too starstruck to be hungry, but wanting to appease one of my heroes, I reached for the top scone and paused, hand frozen in mid-reach as the chair next to me began to shake violently, dancing around on its legs before it shot across the breakfast nook and slammed against the wall so hard, one of the framed ocean paintings rattled and fell off its hanging nail. It was only a canvas stretched across the frame, no glass, but I cringed regardless as it hit the floor and bounced underneath the bench.
With a raised, frustrated voice, Kane scolded, “Margie! You stop that right now. I’ll have you know that these gentlemen are our guests, thank you very much.”
If it had been anyone else, and if we hadn’t been involved with the paranormal for the last twelve or thirteen years of our lives, it would have seemed an odd sight, watching this little old man reprimand an invisible person.
“I’m so sorry,” Kane said, crumpling his napkin and slinging it onto the table. “I warned them all that you were coming, but they’re just so belligerent sometimes. That’s mainly the reason why I never allowed you to investigate my home. They would never forgive me, and then what would it be like around here? Oh, dear, I don’t even want to imagine.” Kane pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose.
They are the seven spirits who inhabit Shatterbone; supposedly, according to the modicum of information that Kane has released about them, they’re a family who was lost at sea and returned to their former residence. Unable, or unwilling, to move on from the last place they were the happiest. The family consisted of a mother and father, and their five children; three girls, two boys, the eldest of which was Margie.
Kane sighed and took a deep breath with his eyes closed. “Okay, she’s gone. Probably up to her room to pout.”
I’ve mentioned that I’m sensitive to spirits—tingling skin, goosebumps whenever something is near—and at that moment, I felt nothing either. The three of us were alone again, except for Barnes lurking in the distance, waiting to be summoned.
We spent the next hour catching up, filling each other in on our lives. Mike’s troubles, my own, what we were up to now, our romantic situations, what manuscript Kane was working on, and all manner of general chitchat. In that time, I watched a spoon float up and out of Mike’s teacup—a product of Paul, the youngest spirit, and his mischievous nature. I felt two fingers caress my cheek. Kane assumed it was the middle daughter, Anna, who was the flirtatious one. A nearby cabinet door opened and closed by itself. Kane informed us that the youngest daughter, Mary Beth, and the eldest boy, Homer, were fond of playing Monopoly and he’d had to hide the set from them because they never cleaned up their mess.
It was all quite charming and I never once felt threatened or scared.
It was so casual; I could have been visiting a grandfather’s home for brunch. It also made me realize that filming an investigation there would have been fun for us, but the activity had been so tame, our fans would have gotten bored and changed the channel.
With the three of us in the same room, you couldn’t have possibly thrown together a more perfect triumvirate of people who were completely comfortable in the midst of such continuous paranormal activity.
Until I finally brought up the name of Dr. Addison Keller.
The lights dimmed on their own.
A deep chill blanketed the small room.
I jumped when I felt the sharp edge of a fingernail slide across my jugular vein.
“Oh my. Oh no.” Kane sat up straighter, hand shaking as his fingers touched his lips. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”
Chapter Five
How That Came to Be – Part 4
Mike pushed his chair back from the table and stood up, hand diving into the pocket of his cargo shorts. He removed his DVR and before I had a chance to say anything, Kane touched Mike’s arm and said, “No, no. I know what that is, sweetie. Put it away.”
“But—”
“No buts. It’ll make it worse.”
“Make what worse?” I asked. So far, the paranormal activity in Shatterbone had been lighthearted and playful, minus my scratch, minus Margie’s jealous fit when we first sat in the breakfast nook. The air felt decidedly different now. Charged. Intense. The scrape on the side of my neck burned.
Kane replied, “Keller’s name has come up a few times over the years, and in every single instance, it feels black in here for a couple of days. The activity picks up. Gets malevolent. Whomever it is—whatever it is—is most definitely not a fan of that poor old man.”
“But you knew we wanted to come talk to you about Keller and invited us anyway?”
Kane urged Mike to sit down, to fill his mind with positive energy, before he explained. Mike obeyed, and Kane went on. “It was the weirdest dose of kismet when you called about him. Just yesterday morning, I was up in my attic, rifling through some boxes that I hadn’t been through in years. I was looking for some pages of an old manuscript that I’d buried God knows how long ago. I couldn’t find them, but I managed to dig up Keller’s unpublished book on ancient biblical languages.”
“The one you edited.”
“Yes. I can’t believe you found his copy with my note in it. What a strange, small world we live in.” He accentuated it by cupping his hands as if he were holding a tiny Earth. “That book was so profound. Such an absolute shame that they shut it down before it changed the way a lot of people viewed religion. Keller was a genius.”
At this mention of the doctor’s name, heavy footsteps thumped down the stairs with the measured precision of someone calculating each step.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Barnes stood in the kitchen entryway, gaze stuck straight ahead, either unable to hear what was coming, or too rigid to break out of his professional character. He reminded me of a redwood. Tall, regal, and motionless. Enduring. So he wasn’t the source of the noise. As far as I knew, the four of us—and the spirit family—were the only ones in the mansion. I pointed over my shoulder. “Is that…”
“One of the family members?” Kane asked. “No. But it won’t hurt us. At least I don’t think so.”
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Despite Kane’s shaky assertions, it made my skin crawl.
Not many moments are spookier than the sensation of being stalked by something you can’t see.
“Shall I go on?” Kane asked, turning from Mike to me.
Mike nodded silently. I answered yes. I had to know what Keller learned.
I said, “The chapter they removed, the one about the Johnson house. What was in there?”
Kane looked out the window with that thousand-yard stare of reflecting on the past. He tapped the table with his index finger then pushed his half-eaten scone away. “I put two and two together, you know, back during that Halloween episode when that little girl got attacked. I hadn’t thought about that house since the late seventies.”
I noted that he said, “got attacked,” not, “you let her get attacked.” Add one bonus point of admiration for Master Kane.
He continued, “I thought I recognized the home as soon as you did that flyby intro piece, but I had to go find Keller’s book just to be sure. I skimmed through and the details brought up so many memories about that missing chapter that I tossed the book into the attic without looking and forgot about it.”
