She realized she was dreaming when she looked down and saw the small child at her side. Pretty child with eyes so dark they looked like she had no iris at all.
“Hurry…She’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Mommy.”
EV tried to move but the acanthus leaf pattern in the rug had grown around her legs holding her in position. She pulled at the grasping vines, but they kept tangling themselves around her.
If this is a dream, why do I feel this?
She felt the heavy thuds before she heard them. The floor vibrating with a weight that was so much more than any human could weigh.
“Hurry…She’s coming.”
“Who’s coming?”
“Mommy.”
EV looked up and opened her mouth. Instead of a scream, salt poured out of her mouth in a steady stream to pile at her feet.
EV awoke with a start. The sheets were bound around her feet and she was shivering despite the fact that she was sweating profusely. She could hear voices in the other room. Joseph was going on and on as usual, the girl was talking as well, only EV couldn’t make out what they were saying. She heard Victor’s voice. It was calm and steady. Controlled. She took a deep breath and relaxed. Her lips tasted salty.
Why do I feel safe around him?
He was a little weird…a little obsessive. He was always looking over his shoulder. Even before the shit went down. He wasn’t like Joseph. He didn’t want to use her for some hidden agenda, some grasp at fame or fortune or whatever it was the “good doctor” was after. EV was used to guys wanting to use her. Victor looked at her differently. He was almost sad when he looked at her. Like he could see something she couldn’t. Or that he knew she was dying of some horrible disease and didn’t have the guts to tell her she was doomed.
She kicked at the sheets and finally untangled herself from their anaconda-like grip. She pulled at them and tossed them into the chair. She couldn’t seem to muster the strength to get up. You would think that after a nightmare like that, a person wouldn’t want to sleep again.
Why do I feel so tired?
She drifted off again.
A soft knock woke her up.
“EV?” It was Victor.
“Yeah?” she said groggily.
“Can I see your keys?”
She reached into her pocket and tossed them blindly at him. He caught them.
Fast hands.
She rolled back over and fell asleep as the door clicked closed behind him.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Postmortem Assessment
The inside of the hotel room measures twenty-seven by forty feet, roughly, including the bathroom. The balcony is an additional four by eight feet.
The room is surprisingly clean. The sheets are freshly starched, without any stains revealed by blacklight. The mattress is less than pristine, but not drenched in forensic evidence. Victor can't find traces of blood anywhere.
There are thirty-nine sheets of hotel stationery left, along with three ballpoint pens emblazoned with the hotel's logo. There are two room service menus, one on top of the desk, one in the bottom drawer on the left.
There are six towels: two large, two medium, two small. There are two washcloths, one folded into the shape of a fan, the other draped over the towel bar.
There is one television in the room.
There are precisely zero explanations for what happened in that cursed fucking house.
Victor has been a pragmatist his entire life, despite the superstitious protestations of his Orthodox grandparents, the stories about the evils in the old country, the gilded icons and myriad saints. When he was a child, he always looked askance at fairy tales, myths about men who achieved greatness, Santa Claus. None of it ever seemed realistic.
He took great comfort in mathematics, though. Victor has always been fond of counting things. Four molars knocked out of a woman's mouth with a mallet. Two minutes before the police arrive to assess the situation. One hundred eighty eight droplets of blood left behind over three hundred sixty four square feet of terrain after a crime, roped in with yellow tape, CAUTION DO NOT CROSS.
What happened in the house can't be quantified with numbers or explained with science and forensics, which is quickly unraveling Victor's view of the world.
Can his senses really be trusted? They seem to be in working order now: the hotel suite is precisely seventy-eight degrees, and he weighs one hundred fifty seven pounds, naked on the sleek white scale left in the hotel bathroom by a previous guest.
He's still been sleeping with the lights on; he doesn't want to have to relive the memory of the terrifying silhouette in the cellar, the panic that drove him to shoot the lock of the cellar door with a bullet that materialized out of nowhere.
There are sixty-seven-and-a-half ceramic tiles on the floor of the bathroom, and no way for Victor to explain the fear that drove him to break the house's window with a chair, shattering glass like a barbarian.
He needs bullets for his gun. He's not sure how to get them; he doesn't want to venture out in public for fear of being spotted by the wrong person. He's mostly sure he's safe, but without knowing how much of a trail he's left behind, Victor isn't willing to risk it.
The more he thinks, the more he counts, the more he attempts to reason, Victor becomes increasingly certain that he will never be able to explain what's happened, and that thought is fucking terrifying.
The room is surprisingly clean. The sheets are freshly starched, without any stains revealed by blacklight. The mattress is less than pristine, but not drenched in forensic evidence. Victor can't find traces of blood anywhere.
There are thirty-nine sheets of hotel stationery left, along with three ballpoint pens emblazoned with the hotel's logo. There are two room service menus, one on top of the desk, one in the bottom drawer on the left.
There are six towels: two large, two medium, two small. There are two washcloths, one folded into the shape of a fan, the other draped over the towel bar.
There is one television in the room.
There are precisely zero explanations for what happened in that cursed fucking house.
Victor has been a pragmatist his entire life, despite the superstitious protestations of his Orthodox grandparents, the stories about the evils in the old country, the gilded icons and myriad saints. When he was a child, he always looked askance at fairy tales, myths about men who achieved greatness, Santa Claus. None of it ever seemed realistic.
He took great comfort in mathematics, though. Victor has always been fond of counting things. Four molars knocked out of a woman's mouth with a mallet. Two minutes before the police arrive to assess the situation. One hundred eighty eight droplets of blood left behind over three hundred sixty four square feet of terrain after a crime, roped in with yellow tape, CAUTION DO NOT CROSS.
What happened in the house can't be quantified with numbers or explained with science and forensics, which is quickly unraveling Victor's view of the world.
Can his senses really be trusted? They seem to be in working order now: the hotel suite is precisely seventy-eight degrees, and he weighs one hundred fifty seven pounds, naked on the sleek white scale left in the hotel bathroom by a previous guest.
He's still been sleeping with the lights on; he doesn't want to have to relive the memory of the terrifying silhouette in the cellar, the panic that drove him to shoot the lock of the cellar door with a bullet that materialized out of nowhere.
There are sixty-seven-and-a-half ceramic tiles on the floor of the bathroom, and no way for Victor to explain the fear that drove him to break the house's window with a chair, shattering glass like a barbarian.
He needs bullets for his gun. He's not sure how to get them; he doesn't want to venture out in public for fear of being spotted by the wrong person. He's mostly sure he's safe, but without knowing how much of a trail he's left behind, Victor isn't willing to risk it.
The more he thinks, the more he counts, the more he attempts to reason, Victor becomes increasingly certain that he will never be able to explain what's happened, and that thought is fucking terrifying.
Peculiar Preboarding
“Where are you headed to Miss?”
I hand the ticketing agent my confirmation information and driver’s license.
“Oregon.”
She looks up and smiles at me. Her eyes are kind and I smile back.
“And how many bags will you be checking Miss Canfield?”
I look down at the brown leather suitcase in front of me. It’s faded and worn around the edges, but still one of my favorite things that my father left me. It looks well traveled. It was. Dad was always going to seminars and conferences for his research. I missed him terribly.
As I stare at the case in front of me, I suddenly realize that this will be my life for the next few weeks at least. I hope I packed everything I needed.
“Just one, thank you.”
I lift it onto the scale. Just under fifty pounds. No extra charge.
She tags the bag and hoists it onto the belt so it can reach my destination in time. She smiles handing me a boarding pass and my tickets.
“You’ll be at gate B11. The security checkpoint is just to your right. Have a nice flight Miss Canfield.”
“Thank you.”
I gather up my carryon and head to the gate.
As I watch all the passengers going through the check point, I can’t help but assess their stress levels through body language. It has always been a compulsion of mine.
Getting through to the gate is relatively painless. I stop off at the deli and grab a sandwich and a drink. The flight will be long and the in-flight meals are always disgusting. I make my way to the magazine racks, grab a few and some snacks and head toward B11 to nestle in for the hour and 45 minute wait.
I am munching on my sandwich I notice a little old woman sitting across from me. I smile, knowing it’s the polite thing to do. She looks about 70 years of age, her shock white hair coifed into a perfect football helmet. She smiles softly. I can tell she wants to strike up a conversation but is nervous to do so. She drops her glasses and in an instant I am out of my chair and coming to her aid.
“Thank you dear.”
“Not a problem.”
I grab my things and sit down next to her. I love getting to know people and the elderly are so interesting.
“Traveling to visit loved ones deary?”
“No, I am going for a job.”
It is then I remember what I am actually doing. I become a little giddy inside. I get to work for THE Dr. Martin. He had called me personally to ask me to join the team. Apparently, one of their members, the one who took the job from me, couldn’t handle the stresses of the research involved. I am relieved to be so level headed. I hoped I was up for it.
Her facial expressions become reminiscent. I can tell she is going to regale me with a story of her past.
“My Henry used to travel a lot for his work too. That was until his accident.”
She is pained. I take her hand in mine to comfort her.
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“You are sweet child, listening to an old lady’s stories.”
“Please go on.”
She pats my hand gently.
“He had been working in the old mill in Portland. He used to work long nights back then. We had three young ones then, and we needed the money. I usually called him in the evenings so that the children could say their goodnights and I could check on him. Well one night he was closing up alone and he swore he heard voices coming from inside the factory so he let me go. He thought it may be burglars, so being the true blue young man that he was, he went to investigate. He was just going to run them out, you know.”
Her eyes were serious as she remembered this vision.
“I hadn’t heard from him a few hours later, so I called up the foreman and asked him to go and check on Henry.”
Her skin was pale now and clammy. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. I squeeze her hand gently.
“When they found him, his body had been tangled into one of the cutters. I remember his eyes being so large with surprise. And his hair…it was shock white.”
“I am so sorry.”
She straightened up, smoothing out the creases of her dress.
“It was a long time ago. I had to raise my children alone and I had to be strong for them.”
“You never remarried?”
“I couldn’t. Henry was the love of my life. I could never betray him like that.”
“Did they ever find out who killed him?”
“The verdict was vandals…but I feel it in my bones that it was something else.”
“What do you mean something else?”
She stared into my eyes, her voice becoming tinged with darkness.
“There are things out there young lady, that neither you nor I can explain.”
The intercom jolted me upright.
“Now boarding to Portland Oregon.”
Everyone bustled to the gate. I looked around for the old woman but she was nowhere to be found. I took my seat, shaken by the story I had just heard. I would definitely chronicle it in my journal. Maybe Dr. Martin would have some insight.
I buckled myself in, pulling one of the magazines out in preparation for the long flight ahead. I hoped to get along with my other teammates. It would be interesting to gain different perspectives on the scenarios we would encounter.
I hoped that this would be my big chance.
I hand the ticketing agent my confirmation information and driver’s license.
“Oregon.”
She looks up and smiles at me. Her eyes are kind and I smile back.
“And how many bags will you be checking Miss Canfield?”
I look down at the brown leather suitcase in front of me. It’s faded and worn around the edges, but still one of my favorite things that my father left me. It looks well traveled. It was. Dad was always going to seminars and conferences for his research. I missed him terribly.
As I stare at the case in front of me, I suddenly realize that this will be my life for the next few weeks at least. I hope I packed everything I needed.
“Just one, thank you.”
I lift it onto the scale. Just under fifty pounds. No extra charge.
She tags the bag and hoists it onto the belt so it can reach my destination in time. She smiles handing me a boarding pass and my tickets.
“You’ll be at gate B11. The security checkpoint is just to your right. Have a nice flight Miss Canfield.”
“Thank you.”
I gather up my carryon and head to the gate.
As I watch all the passengers going through the check point, I can’t help but assess their stress levels through body language. It has always been a compulsion of mine.
Getting through to the gate is relatively painless. I stop off at the deli and grab a sandwich and a drink. The flight will be long and the in-flight meals are always disgusting. I make my way to the magazine racks, grab a few and some snacks and head toward B11 to nestle in for the hour and 45 minute wait.
I am munching on my sandwich I notice a little old woman sitting across from me. I smile, knowing it’s the polite thing to do. She looks about 70 years of age, her shock white hair coifed into a perfect football helmet. She smiles softly. I can tell she wants to strike up a conversation but is nervous to do so. She drops her glasses and in an instant I am out of my chair and coming to her aid.
“Thank you dear.”
“Not a problem.”
I grab my things and sit down next to her. I love getting to know people and the elderly are so interesting.
“Traveling to visit loved ones deary?”
“No, I am going for a job.”
It is then I remember what I am actually doing. I become a little giddy inside. I get to work for THE Dr. Martin. He had called me personally to ask me to join the team. Apparently, one of their members, the one who took the job from me, couldn’t handle the stresses of the research involved. I am relieved to be so level headed. I hoped I was up for it.
Her facial expressions become reminiscent. I can tell she is going to regale me with a story of her past.
“My Henry used to travel a lot for his work too. That was until his accident.”
She is pained. I take her hand in mine to comfort her.
“What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“You are sweet child, listening to an old lady’s stories.”
“Please go on.”
She pats my hand gently.
“He had been working in the old mill in Portland. He used to work long nights back then. We had three young ones then, and we needed the money. I usually called him in the evenings so that the children could say their goodnights and I could check on him. Well one night he was closing up alone and he swore he heard voices coming from inside the factory so he let me go. He thought it may be burglars, so being the true blue young man that he was, he went to investigate. He was just going to run them out, you know.”
Her eyes were serious as she remembered this vision.
“I hadn’t heard from him a few hours later, so I called up the foreman and asked him to go and check on Henry.”
Her skin was pale now and clammy. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. I squeeze her hand gently.
“When they found him, his body had been tangled into one of the cutters. I remember his eyes being so large with surprise. And his hair…it was shock white.”
“I am so sorry.”
She straightened up, smoothing out the creases of her dress.
“It was a long time ago. I had to raise my children alone and I had to be strong for them.”
“You never remarried?”
“I couldn’t. Henry was the love of my life. I could never betray him like that.”
“Did they ever find out who killed him?”
“The verdict was vandals…but I feel it in my bones that it was something else.”
“What do you mean something else?”
She stared into my eyes, her voice becoming tinged with darkness.
“There are things out there young lady, that neither you nor I can explain.”
The intercom jolted me upright.
“Now boarding to Portland Oregon.”
Everyone bustled to the gate. I looked around for the old woman but she was nowhere to be found. I took my seat, shaken by the story I had just heard. I would definitely chronicle it in my journal. Maybe Dr. Martin would have some insight.
I buckled myself in, pulling one of the magazines out in preparation for the long flight ahead. I hoped to get along with my other teammates. It would be interesting to gain different perspectives on the scenarios we would encounter.
I hoped that this would be my big chance.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
House 1
Built in 1850 by Thomas Grey for his family, the manor is settled in a thick forested area outside of Bethesda. Consisting of nine bed rooms, a parlor, a library, dining room, kitchen, servants' quarters and cellar, the house is a well sized estate that raised only two generations of the Grey family. Jonathan Grey and his wife, Marian, inherited the estate after his father, Thomas, passed away of natural causes. They lived in the house until 1915.
Some say that the beginning of the tragedy that befell the house was when Marian's sister married a business associate of Jonathan's. William and Abigail left for their honeymoon to England shortly after the marriage. The ship they sailed out on never returned to port and they were never heard of after that. The ship is presumed to have gone down somewhere in the Atlantic during a rough mid-summer storm.
Shortly after the presumed death of her sister, Marian began seeing a medium. Accounts indicate that the medium, who's name is not filed on record, was introduced to Marian by a member of the Bethesda Women's Auxiliary club. The medium was reputed to be a gypsy from eastern Europe. Marian began seeing the woman in earnest for a few months before she invited the medium to live with them. Also around this time, Jonathan and Marian's young seven year old daughter was taken out of the boarding school she had been sent to due to deteriorating health conditions. Historians believed that she had somehow contracted tuberculosis from other students at the boarding school.
Shortly after the medium moved in with Jonathan and Marian, the women of the auxiliary club held a séance in the cellar to contact Marian's deceased sister. Historical accounts of the séance indicate that more than just the sister was contacted, and that a violent entity was called into the house on that fateful night. Embarrassed by the séance, his wife's actions, and upset by the cost of paying the medium and keeping her in his home, Jonathan threw the gypsy woman out on the street. There was some speculation that after this action, the medium placed a curse on the home.
Three weeks after the medium was gone, Marian woke in the middle of the night. She slit her husband's throat in his sleep with his shaving razor. She gathered all the cutlery in the kitchen and killed the two maids, house keeper, and grounds keeper; each with a different knife, slitting their throats in their sleep. She then went to her daughter's bedroom and slit her throat as well. Authorities found Marian the next day when her husband was reported missing from work. She was sleeping covered in blood, cradling her dead child's body in the child's bedroom. She was taken to a mental institution in Bethesda that day claiming that she had to make reparations and break the curse on their family.
Grey Manor stood abandoned to the elements until 1962 when a new family moved in. Ernest Green and his wife and twin sons moved into the home intent on repairing it to it's original beauty. Construction began immediately after they moved in.
The sons, Matthew and Jacob, were ten years old. Accounts indicate that the boys found an antique Ouija board in the cellar with some other artifacts from the Grey family. Shortly after using the Ouija board, the boys were institutionalized as they began displaying erratic and sometimes violent behavior. The boys had to be separated, sedated, and sent to different institutions after they murdered some of their fellow patients. At home, Ernest and his wife, Lily, began to fear for their own safety as frightening messages were left for them in various rooms of the house. Tools began disappearing and showing up in different locations of the home, and especially the knives were constantly being misplaced. After a frightening event where Mr. Green reported nearly being stabbed with a knife that flew at him the family left the house.
In 1994 the house was bought by a business man as an effort to revitalize it and convert it into a hotel. Again, as soon as the house was bought construction began. The business man did not live in the house, however many accidents were filed by the construction crews. One man was reportedly pushed off a ladder while installing light fixtures in one of the upstairs bedrooms. As multiple accidents occurred, many workers refused to return to the site. The project was abandoned, half finished after the business man went bankrupt.
Since then there have been no other residents of the house. The home is currently owned by the First National Bank. Our team spent two weeks in this home, and here are their stories.
Some say that the beginning of the tragedy that befell the house was when Marian's sister married a business associate of Jonathan's. William and Abigail left for their honeymoon to England shortly after the marriage. The ship they sailed out on never returned to port and they were never heard of after that. The ship is presumed to have gone down somewhere in the Atlantic during a rough mid-summer storm.
Shortly after the presumed death of her sister, Marian began seeing a medium. Accounts indicate that the medium, who's name is not filed on record, was introduced to Marian by a member of the Bethesda Women's Auxiliary club. The medium was reputed to be a gypsy from eastern Europe. Marian began seeing the woman in earnest for a few months before she invited the medium to live with them. Also around this time, Jonathan and Marian's young seven year old daughter was taken out of the boarding school she had been sent to due to deteriorating health conditions. Historians believed that she had somehow contracted tuberculosis from other students at the boarding school.
Shortly after the medium moved in with Jonathan and Marian, the women of the auxiliary club held a séance in the cellar to contact Marian's deceased sister. Historical accounts of the séance indicate that more than just the sister was contacted, and that a violent entity was called into the house on that fateful night. Embarrassed by the séance, his wife's actions, and upset by the cost of paying the medium and keeping her in his home, Jonathan threw the gypsy woman out on the street. There was some speculation that after this action, the medium placed a curse on the home.
Three weeks after the medium was gone, Marian woke in the middle of the night. She slit her husband's throat in his sleep with his shaving razor. She gathered all the cutlery in the kitchen and killed the two maids, house keeper, and grounds keeper; each with a different knife, slitting their throats in their sleep. She then went to her daughter's bedroom and slit her throat as well. Authorities found Marian the next day when her husband was reported missing from work. She was sleeping covered in blood, cradling her dead child's body in the child's bedroom. She was taken to a mental institution in Bethesda that day claiming that she had to make reparations and break the curse on their family.
Grey Manor stood abandoned to the elements until 1962 when a new family moved in. Ernest Green and his wife and twin sons moved into the home intent on repairing it to it's original beauty. Construction began immediately after they moved in.
The sons, Matthew and Jacob, were ten years old. Accounts indicate that the boys found an antique Ouija board in the cellar with some other artifacts from the Grey family. Shortly after using the Ouija board, the boys were institutionalized as they began displaying erratic and sometimes violent behavior. The boys had to be separated, sedated, and sent to different institutions after they murdered some of their fellow patients. At home, Ernest and his wife, Lily, began to fear for their own safety as frightening messages were left for them in various rooms of the house. Tools began disappearing and showing up in different locations of the home, and especially the knives were constantly being misplaced. After a frightening event where Mr. Green reported nearly being stabbed with a knife that flew at him the family left the house.
In 1994 the house was bought by a business man as an effort to revitalize it and convert it into a hotel. Again, as soon as the house was bought construction began. The business man did not live in the house, however many accidents were filed by the construction crews. One man was reportedly pushed off a ladder while installing light fixtures in one of the upstairs bedrooms. As multiple accidents occurred, many workers refused to return to the site. The project was abandoned, half finished after the business man went bankrupt.
Since then there have been no other residents of the house. The home is currently owned by the First National Bank. Our team spent two weeks in this home, and here are their stories.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Disillusioned Disappointment
“Hello?”
“Miss Lauren Canfield?”
“This is she.”
“Miss Canfield, this is Derrick Weiss from Dr. Martin’s office.”
Just hearing his name made my breathing irratic.
Collect yourself! You don’t want to sound like a complete idiot on the phone!
“Oh hello! Please…call me Lauren.”
I tried to sound professional but endearing.
“Lauren, I’m calling about the research team you applied for.”
My heart began to race. This was it. This was going to be my chance to prove myself. I had studied this mans work for years and now getting the chance to finally work with him…this was the chance of a lifetime.
“Oh good!”
“Lauren, regrettably the doctor has gone with another canditate. He wanted me to thank you for your time, but we won’t be asking you to join the team.”
And just like that my heart sank. I thought things had gone well. The doctor seemed interested in my answers. I thought I had hit it off well with the other interviewers. The tests were easy enough. There must be some mistake.
“Are..are you sure you have the right name? There must be some mistake. Surely you…”
“No Laur..Miss Canfield I am afraid we will not be needing you at this time. But please, apply with us again for the next research project.”
My blood was starting to boil at this point. Who did this idiot think he was? Did he know how qualified I was? For christ’s sake, I did my senior thesis on how paranormal occurences affect the human psyche! There had to be some mistake.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weiss was it?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps I could speak to Dr. Martin himself. I think there has been a mix up. I
think you’ve made a mistake.”
“Are you telling me I don’t know how to do my job?”
“No, no! That’s not what I am saying. Just maybe my name got mixed up in the wrong
pile or something. I am sorry if I offended you. Please…is Dr. Martin there?”
Now I was just putting my foot in my mouth further. I could hear the tension in his voice. This was NOT how I had pictured this call going. I looked in the mirror, disgusted with myself.
“Miss Canfield. Dr. Martin is out of the office.”
“I see.”
Way to blow it Lauren! First, you suck at your interview and now you are offending his assistant! He’s never going to want to talk to you again.
“He asked me to call you specifically to tell you we would not be needing you. He said that it was a pleasure to meet you but unfortunately you didn’t make the cut. Please feel free to apply again for our next research team.”
“Thank you Mr. Weiss. I appreciate the call.”
“Sure. Goodbye.”
And with that, I was further away than I had ever been. I could feel the disappointment welling up inside me. I sat down on the couch, numb. How could this be?
Harlow jumped up beside me, purring and rubbing his face on my hand. I stroked his smooth fur, scratching under his chin softly. He always made me feel better.
“Well Harlow…I blew it. Back to the drawing board I guess.”
I would apply again. But this time, I would be ready.
“Miss Lauren Canfield?”
“This is she.”
“Miss Canfield, this is Derrick Weiss from Dr. Martin’s office.”
Just hearing his name made my breathing irratic.
Collect yourself! You don’t want to sound like a complete idiot on the phone!
“Oh hello! Please…call me Lauren.”
I tried to sound professional but endearing.
“Lauren, I’m calling about the research team you applied for.”
My heart began to race. This was it. This was going to be my chance to prove myself. I had studied this mans work for years and now getting the chance to finally work with him…this was the chance of a lifetime.
“Oh good!”
“Lauren, regrettably the doctor has gone with another canditate. He wanted me to thank you for your time, but we won’t be asking you to join the team.”
And just like that my heart sank. I thought things had gone well. The doctor seemed interested in my answers. I thought I had hit it off well with the other interviewers. The tests were easy enough. There must be some mistake.
“Are..are you sure you have the right name? There must be some mistake. Surely you…”
“No Laur..Miss Canfield I am afraid we will not be needing you at this time. But please, apply with us again for the next research project.”
My blood was starting to boil at this point. Who did this idiot think he was? Did he know how qualified I was? For christ’s sake, I did my senior thesis on how paranormal occurences affect the human psyche! There had to be some mistake.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weiss was it?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps I could speak to Dr. Martin himself. I think there has been a mix up. I
think you’ve made a mistake.”
“Are you telling me I don’t know how to do my job?”
“No, no! That’s not what I am saying. Just maybe my name got mixed up in the wrong
pile or something. I am sorry if I offended you. Please…is Dr. Martin there?”
Now I was just putting my foot in my mouth further. I could hear the tension in his voice. This was NOT how I had pictured this call going. I looked in the mirror, disgusted with myself.
“Miss Canfield. Dr. Martin is out of the office.”
“I see.”
Way to blow it Lauren! First, you suck at your interview and now you are offending his assistant! He’s never going to want to talk to you again.
“He asked me to call you specifically to tell you we would not be needing you. He said that it was a pleasure to meet you but unfortunately you didn’t make the cut. Please feel free to apply again for our next research team.”
“Thank you Mr. Weiss. I appreciate the call.”
“Sure. Goodbye.”
And with that, I was further away than I had ever been. I could feel the disappointment welling up inside me. I sat down on the couch, numb. How could this be?
Harlow jumped up beside me, purring and rubbing his face on my hand. I stroked his smooth fur, scratching under his chin softly. He always made me feel better.
“Well Harlow…I blew it. Back to the drawing board I guess.”
I would apply again. But this time, I would be ready.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The Devil and the Details
I wake up.
I shower and dress.
I set about learning the parameters of the dilapidated old house that I currently call home.
I look at the floorboards. I mark where the boards meet the rugs, where the legs of the furniture rest. I take measurements between objects. I memorize the space.
Now that I've gotten used to the more-or-less silent conditions of the house, I've begun to attune my ear to all of the little noises that happen every few moments. The house is constantly settling in on itself; the floorboards creak, the windows rattle, and the pipes moan. Mice burrow through the walls, digging secret tunnels.
Old houses like this have creeped me out ever since I was a little boy. My great-uncle Sergei had one like this, a little smaller, back in the old country. There was a room that once belonged to his daughter, my aunt. She had rows upon rows of dolls with cracked porcelain faces and hand-made dresses, fringed with yellowed and tattered lace. I dreamed about those dolls for years.
I mark the precise locations of every box, trunk, and piece of furniture in my bedroom. I set about doing the same in every other room of the house.
The others all look at me strangely while I do this. EV strikes up conversation, asking me what I think is going on. She has no idea that our doom could be circling closer and closer, picking up the tiny clues and bits of evidence to determine my location. I have no doubt that anyone with whom I was known to have repeated contact has been interrogated, and if necessary, neutralized.
I think I covered my tracks. I think. Of course, in my business, I know that all you have to do is leave one thing out of place, one tiny fiber, one speck of blood, one phone bill or credit card receipt, one fingerprint, and it will all eventually unravel and they will find you.
EV smiles at me and asks about the work I've done with the police. I give her a pat, charming answer, and she grins, finding the whole process intriguing and mysterious.
I'd hate to see her face reduced to hamburger and splinters with stray teeth.
My mind is reeling, because I can't quite explain what happened in the attic. I've never before been faced with a situation that couldn't be explained through forensic evidence and an understanding of the basest impulses in human nature. Lust, greed, envy. It usually boiled down to one or all of those three things. People died, and I was hired to either find out how, or to cover it up, depending on who was offering what.
I use an ultraviolet marker to document where everything rests. Eventually, EV loses interest in what I'm doing and wanders off on her own.
Marcus glances up when I come near him, but doesn't say anything. He has the look of someone who's never seen anything violent, never had to wonder whether or not a person smiled or cringed when they pulled someone's fingernails off.
Joseph warns me not to touch any of his recording equipment, and I give him a curt, polite nod. I know he would beg and cry and offer all sorts of sexual gratification to a man who had him tied to a chair, hands taped together, toes mashed into unrecognizable mounds of purple flesh. I've seen his type before, and they break the hardest when the hammer comes crashing down.
I wonder if I would beg, or plead, or get angry and spit, or offer to suck a guy's dick to make the pain stop. In my family, we were taught that pride was a sin, but to lose it was an even bigger one.
I don't want them to find me.
I'm hiding in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere, trying to piece together the details, hoping to God that they don't do what I'm doing, that they don't have a bloodhound as good as me on my tracks.
Of course, at least I can explain what they would do. In this house, I'm beginning to wonder if my sanctuary might be more dangerous than what I'm hiding from.
I shower and dress.
I set about learning the parameters of the dilapidated old house that I currently call home.
I look at the floorboards. I mark where the boards meet the rugs, where the legs of the furniture rest. I take measurements between objects. I memorize the space.
Now that I've gotten used to the more-or-less silent conditions of the house, I've begun to attune my ear to all of the little noises that happen every few moments. The house is constantly settling in on itself; the floorboards creak, the windows rattle, and the pipes moan. Mice burrow through the walls, digging secret tunnels.
Old houses like this have creeped me out ever since I was a little boy. My great-uncle Sergei had one like this, a little smaller, back in the old country. There was a room that once belonged to his daughter, my aunt. She had rows upon rows of dolls with cracked porcelain faces and hand-made dresses, fringed with yellowed and tattered lace. I dreamed about those dolls for years.
I mark the precise locations of every box, trunk, and piece of furniture in my bedroom. I set about doing the same in every other room of the house.
The others all look at me strangely while I do this. EV strikes up conversation, asking me what I think is going on. She has no idea that our doom could be circling closer and closer, picking up the tiny clues and bits of evidence to determine my location. I have no doubt that anyone with whom I was known to have repeated contact has been interrogated, and if necessary, neutralized.
I think I covered my tracks. I think. Of course, in my business, I know that all you have to do is leave one thing out of place, one tiny fiber, one speck of blood, one phone bill or credit card receipt, one fingerprint, and it will all eventually unravel and they will find you.
EV smiles at me and asks about the work I've done with the police. I give her a pat, charming answer, and she grins, finding the whole process intriguing and mysterious.
I'd hate to see her face reduced to hamburger and splinters with stray teeth.
My mind is reeling, because I can't quite explain what happened in the attic. I've never before been faced with a situation that couldn't be explained through forensic evidence and an understanding of the basest impulses in human nature. Lust, greed, envy. It usually boiled down to one or all of those three things. People died, and I was hired to either find out how, or to cover it up, depending on who was offering what.
I use an ultraviolet marker to document where everything rests. Eventually, EV loses interest in what I'm doing and wanders off on her own.
Marcus glances up when I come near him, but doesn't say anything. He has the look of someone who's never seen anything violent, never had to wonder whether or not a person smiled or cringed when they pulled someone's fingernails off.
Joseph warns me not to touch any of his recording equipment, and I give him a curt, polite nod. I know he would beg and cry and offer all sorts of sexual gratification to a man who had him tied to a chair, hands taped together, toes mashed into unrecognizable mounds of purple flesh. I've seen his type before, and they break the hardest when the hammer comes crashing down.
I wonder if I would beg, or plead, or get angry and spit, or offer to suck a guy's dick to make the pain stop. In my family, we were taught that pride was a sin, but to lose it was an even bigger one.
I don't want them to find me.
I'm hiding in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere, trying to piece together the details, hoping to God that they don't do what I'm doing, that they don't have a bloodhound as good as me on my tracks.
Of course, at least I can explain what they would do. In this house, I'm beginning to wonder if my sanctuary might be more dangerous than what I'm hiding from.
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