Believe, page 7
“But Mr. Joseph, why do we see these things up there?” It was a tragic story, but Pru couldn’t figure out why such tortured souls would return to reenact their own misery.
“Who knows, miss? Guilt? Madness? Grief? Who can tell what laws govern spirits in the next world? Now,” he reached for his pipe and placed it back in his pocket, “Hankins will not hear tell of this, and what with our world today, few are the folk who notice anything anymore. It’s your youth, I’d wager, that makes you more sensitive, and I thought you deserved to know about it. But I’d advise you not to tell others, nor mention your experiences again if you wish to keep your post.” He turned and began to walk away from the table, pausing to say over his shoulder, “I’ve got to be getting along now, but if you should see something again, come find me and tell me about it, I’ll be around the place.” He winked kindly at her. “That way you won’t feel so frightened or alone with it preying on your mind.” With those words he left her alone at the table.
Prudence felt all at once overcome with fatigue. She found her way to her room and fell onto her bed, asleep almost before her head touched the pillow, without bothering to undress.
It was several hours later, long past when she had been due for work, that Ellie wakened her.
“Pru! Prudence! Wake up, you sleepy thing! What are you thinking, sleeping without setting your alarm and missing your duty?!”
Wide awake now, Prudence jumped up. “Oh no! Oh Ellie, am I in trouble? Is Hankins looking for me?”
Ellie wagged a finger in her young roommate’s face. “No, but you’ve benefited from someone else’s misfortune. The entire household was thrown out of order today.”
“Why?”
“Because Old Joseph, that head groundskeeper—you know who I mean? —they found him dead today! He wasn’t in any of his usual haunts. One of the underkeepers needed something from him, and went looking---anyway, they found him in his room, lying on is cot, just as if he were asleep, except he was dead. The doctor said he must’ve passed sometime in the night.” Ellie crossed herself without thinking. “We’ve all been put onto different tasks all day, and the Earl has been deeply affected, as old Joseph has been on the estate for 80 years, so no one’s noticed that you were missing.”
“But he couldn’t have died last night. I was talking to him just this morning!”
“Nonsense,” Ellie shook her head. “You stayed behind in the kitchen when the rest of us went to work, and then you went to bed---Joseph was cold and dead already when we were all eating together. Brrr,” she shivered and rubbed her arms, “gives me the chills just to think about it.”
Prudence felt the hairs rise on the back of her arms and neck. For a moment she thought she could smell the faint, sweet smell of pipe tobacco.
6
Ghost Hunter
“Are you sure? Do you really think that’s him?”
“Yeah! I mean I think so…”
“Go ask him!”
“No, you go.”
“No, you!”
He heard the whispered conversation coming from somewhere behind him and wondered how much longer it would take. Would it be both of them, or just one? Would she have something specific she wanted autographed, or would a bar napkin do?
The first sip of his third Jack and Coke slid down his throat. This bar tender knew how to do it right: plenty of Jack, with just enough Coke to give it that candy taste, but not so much that the bite of the bourbon was lost.
“Excuse me?” A timid voice behind him.
Jesus, she’s going to make me turn around, he thought, and took another long sip.
Both of them had come, but one was standing just behind the other, peering at him over her friend’s shoulder. She gasped, “I knew it!” then blushed and looked away.
“Are you,” the front one began, “I mean, you are Josiah Maximillian, aren’t you?”
He held up his right hand. “Guilty as charged,” he smirked. These were just kids, pubescent packages of fan worship. He scanned the restaurant to see where their families must be sitting, waiting for them.
“Oh my God!” The front girl squealed, and displayed all of her braces in a wide, star-struck smile. “Your show is, like, my favorite of all time!”
“Thank you,” he said, trying not to roll his eyes. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. He’d left the crew at the hotel bar in order to get away and not have to talk to anyone for an hour or so. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Is it all real?” The quiet one, still standing behind her friend, asked, voice trembling. “I mean, do you use special effects, or do you really see ghosts and other weird stuff?” Her friend turned on her, glowering. “I mean, no offense or anything,” she got pale, and began stuttering. “I-I’m just interested in CG and s-stuff like that…so if you … I mean…” she withered under her friend’s glare.
“Mr. Maximillian, your show is the best,” her friend turned back to him, cheeks blazing. “I believe in everything you do.” She smiled again. “I love the story about how you got started because of a real ghost, and what the ancient Native American shaman told you, and all the cool haunted places you’ve gone ghost hunting!”
“Are you filming here? Is it because of the Silver Mine Ghost?” The other girl practically whispered her reference to the local legend, recently the subject of renewed interest because of a string of murders in the surrounding area.
“I’m sorry,” he shook his head and winked, “I can’t give you any spoilers, ladies.”
The girls squealed simultaneously, and the first one held out a paper napkin. “Could we, I mean, would you mind giving us your autograph?”
He took the napkin and asked their names.
“Tracey and Jill.”
He wrote the usual, “Keep the lights on! –Josiah Max,” addressed it to both of them, and handed it back.
They twittered their thanks and backed away from him, eventually turning and heading toward the table where their parents were watching.
Joe turned back to the bar, picked up his glass, found it empty, and signaled the bar tender for another one.
“That’ll be your fourth,” a gravelly voice on his left said.
Without bothering to look, Joe replied, “So?”
He heard the creak of the bar stool as the other man shifted his weight. “I doubt you’ll be able to hunt down any spirits when you’re already so full of them yourself.” The man chuckled softly at his own joke.
Joe decided not to answer. The bar tender put another drink in front of him, and he focused on the burnt caramel liquid, the ice cubes, the buzz of conversation in the restaurant around him. Shooting didn’t start until tomorrow afternoon, so even if he woke up with a hangover, he’d be fine by the time it mattered.
He took a sip.
What mattered, what really mattered, was this episode.
He’d suffered through the meetings with the showrunners and executive producers about the falling ratings, the likelihood of cancellation if something didn’t change. They’d be looking at the numbers after this episode to make their decision, and that’s why he was trying something new: a simulation of a live show, which they’d stream simultaneously with the broadcast. They planned to let viewers vote to decide certain aspects of what he did, which meant pre-filming several different scenarios. It was more expensive to shoot the extra scenes, and it was going to take two more days than usual for shooting and then editing in the “ghosts,” but the gamble was worth it.
He hoped.
Because without “Ghost Hunting: Take It To The MAX!” he wasn’t sure what else there was for him.
The whole gig had come about by accident. A couple of faked videos he and his buddy Ben made on Halloween four years ago…a sudden YouTube sensation…a phone call from a network headhunter…and Joseph MacMillan was transformed into Josiah Maximillian, ghost hunter extraordinaire.
And if it dried up?
Back to…what? He didn’t want to return to college now any more than he had when he dropped out a decade ago. But working at his father’s hardware store had been misery, and he would rather live in a cardboard box than go back to that.
“You’re not a bad actor,” the man on the next bar stool interrupted his thoughts. “I’ve seen one or two of your shows. They’re garbage, of course, but you yourself---you have something, my lad.”
Joe could tell by the over-precision of his words that he wasn’t American, but he couldn’t guess the accent.
“Garbage?” He said, still looking straight ahead, raising the glass to his lips.
“Of course!” That low chuckle rumbled behind the words. “Nonsense. Pure fiction. Fantasy—and mind you, not particularly good fantasy. Do you have writers, or is it all—how do they say it now? —by the seat of your pants?”
He was clearly trying to get a rise out of him, but why? Whatever his game was, Joe didn’t feel like playing. It was time to shut this guy down.
“Look,” Joe swiveled toward him, looking at him for the first time. “If you’ve seen the shows, you know we only hunt real ghosts, in historically authentic haunted places.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back.
“Like here? This town?”
“The old silver mines outside of town, actually, but yeah.” He reached for his glass and almost drained it. “Enjoy your little critique, buddy, ‘cause it doesn’t matter to me. It’s the people who watch that matter, and they love this stuff.”
A bushy grey eyebrow rose an inch or so up the old man’s forehead as he tucked his chin and said, “You mean, they used to, don’t you?”
Jesus, who is this guy? Joe shook his head once, then turned away. “What’s the matter old man, don’t you believe in ghosts?”
“Ah,” it was more of a sigh than a word. From the corner of his eye, Joe saw the old man signal the bar tender, and watched as he was brought two shots of something. “That is an interesting question, isn’t it?” He slid one of the shot glasses toward Joe. “Why would someone who doesn’t believe in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night create a whole television program about finding them? And go to the trouble of making up a false history for himself? And fake the supernatural findings of his ‘hunting’?”
Joe just shook his head. “No comment.” This guy could be wearing a wire or something, trying to do some scandal story for a gossip rag. Best to just ignore him.
“You see Joe,” the man continued in a friendly way, as if they knew each other well, “often what people pretend to be gives insight into what they wish they could be. So perhaps you, in the midst of your chicanery and snake oil sales to the gullible public hungry for deeper meaning in their desperate lives, are actually looking for ghosts. Real ones.” He took the shot glass in front of him and tossed it back.
Joe eyed the glass close to him. His Jack and Coke was gone, and at this point the warm, everything’s-going-to-be-all-right feeling it had helped create felt like it needed a boost.
“What is that?”
“Jägermeister. Go ahead. Drink it.”
He did. It was hard and smooth, and made him think of the darkness between tall trees at night. He shuddered.
“So, what now? Are you going to tell me your ghost story, old man?”
“Joseph my boy, I could tell you stories that would keep you awake every night for the rest of your life.” He leaned close and lowered his voice. “But that’s not what I’m here for.”
The room seemed a little off-kilter, and Joe wondered what proof that Jägermeister was. “What are you here for, then? Just to bother me?” He sniggered, but the old man’s face remained serious.
“I’m going hunting. I thought you might like to come along.”
Joe peered up at a TV screen showing a muted news broadcast. “It’s after 11:00---who goes hunting at this hour?” He straightened himself in his chair and leaned onto the bar, trying not to let his dizziness show.
“You of all people should know the answer to that question, Joseph,” the man smiled at him, but only with the corners of his eyes. “If you wish to join me, it’s time to go.”
The long walk through frigid night air chased away any lingering effects of the alcohol. It wasn’t a big town, as most old mining towns weren’t, and they’d left it long behind them. Now they were trudging through scrubby winter chaparral, heading toward wilder back country, where mountains began their rise from the valley floor. The rocks were hard, and the trees were thick and old. All the abandoned silver mines were higher up, but Joe’s companion wasn’t leading him in that direction, instead keeping among the trees and deeper forest trails.
“We’ll be taping up there tomorrow,” Joe said, panting lightly. “Why not just wait and go in with me then?”
“You do all your filming in daylight?”
“Mostly, yeah.”
“So filters and other devices create the illusion of dark for your viewers?”
“Well, we can do that when we need to, sure,” Joe still wasn’t comfortable telling this guy trade secrets.
The old man stopped until Joe was caught up and standing beside him. “We need real darkness for real ghosts.” He held Joe’s eyes in a steely gaze before continuing on.
Why did I ever agree to this? Joe shook his head and followed. It must’ve been that Jagerstuff he gave me. Then again, he squinted up into a night sky that was pricked with stars and filled his lungs with the bracing, clear air, at least I’m not tossing and turning on a lumpy hotel mattress. This beats LA any day of the week.
“Shh!” The other man held his arm out to signal Joe to stop. They were somewhat higher now, on a path with a bit of a precipice falling off to their left, and he was staring down at the ground below them.
Joe squinted into the darkness, and thought he saw something yellow glinting in the bushes. “What is that?”
“Police tape. It means we are getting close. Come.”
They continued walking for some minutes, but more slowly, stepping with caution. The path they followed made a sharp turn around a craggy outcropping of rock. When they rounded it, Joe saw a shallow cave in the side of the mountain.
“Here,” the old man whispered, gesturing for him to follow as he clambered over the small boulders and through the scrub, up toward the cave.
When they were safely within, Joe said, “This doesn’t look like part of a mine.”
“Very observant, Joseph,” the old man smiled grimly at him. “Nor is it. However, it is just the place we need in order to snare our quarry.” He had produced from under the long coat he wore a satchel, which he began to unload. Joe watched in silence as the man pulled out dark glass vials, a bundle of sticks, some stones, and various other things he might almost have picked up from the ground along the way: feathers, a clod of dirt, a bit of fur which, Joe realized as he looked more closely, was actually a dead rodent of some kind. He shuddered and wondered again just what he’d gotten himself into.
“Hey,” he suddenly spoke, “How’d you know my real name? I never told you. And what’s your name, by the way?”
“Much is there to be seen by those with clear vision,” he muttered obscurely, as he was arranging his things in two piles. “You may call me Abraham.”
“Abraham,” Joe said to himself. “All right, Abraham. What are you doing?”
“Do you follow the news, Joseph?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Then you must have heard about the string of murders in this area over the past year.”
“Of course. That’s why we decided to shoot the episode—rumors of the Silver Mine Ghost. We figured we could spin the episode as kind of an NCIS thing, ghost hunting and murder-solving, get more viewers that way.” He watched Abraham construct a small teepee of twigs and sticks, as if for a miniature campfire. “We wanted to get here and do this fast, before the police catch up with the real murderer.”
“Local folk wisdom is often deeper than it is given credit for,” Abraham said, striking a match and holding it to the wood. Joe watched the flame gutter, then spring up as the dry twigs and sticks caught. When the flames were steady, Abraham at last looked up, across the fire at Joe, and sat back on his heels. “The police will never find the murderer because it is not a human being. It may occupy human bodies in order to work its evil in the world, but it is not human itself. This is what we have come for tonight, Joseph: we must capture and destroy this thing before it can do further harm.”
For a moment, not longer than a second really, Joe believed him. Then something in the small fire popped, and Joe shook his head. “Come on old man. This has been a nice little nature walk, but it’s late, I have to shoot tomorrow, and the fantasy is over. Let’s climb back down and call it a night. Nice try, you had me there for a second, but you can’t kid a kidder, man.”
Abraham smiled, a grin that slit across his face and carried no mirth. “I would not recommend a walk through this area at this time of night alone. No, I would not.” He shook his head, still grinning. “Why not wait for me to complete my task, and we will leave together, eh?” He cocked his head to the side. “Humor an old man?”
Joe rolled his eyes and sat on the ground. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
Abraham dropped the grin and nodded with satisfaction. “Good. I will tell you. You will see. Then you may decide what you believe.” He handed Joe a feather, two rocks and what looked like a bunch of small bones. “Place these around the fire when I tell you. Otherwise stay quiet and do not get in the way.”
From another pocket, Abraham pulled out a small draw-string bag. He reached into it and sprinkled something over the fire. The flames changed color from yellow gold to blue and green, and seemed to leap higher.
Then he began to chant. Heavy words, deep and hard sounding, in no language Joe had ever heard before.
He sprinkled more sand. The flames became purple with hearts of white.
The chanting grew louder, kind of a song from deep in the old man’s chest, echoing against the cave walls.
