The Supernaturals (5 page)

 
Peterson looked down at the conference table and thumbed the thick pages Kelly had placed before him, and then looked up with a smirk.

“Kennedy won’t see you because he probably made a deal with his missing student to take it on the lam so that Kennedy could get a book deal out of his disappearance.” He again thumbed through her proposal and pulled a sheet of paper from the binding. “In addition, devoting four primetime live hours, and another four live hours into late night, well, that may cost us too much. The advertisers would run for cover. As you said, there’s not much of an ‘evil owner’ angle here. Even I’ve heard about the philanthropic Lindemanns.”

Kelly pulled out her chair and sat down. She had done the interviews herself, everyone from Philadelphia television news reporters who had covered the Kennedy story, to a few of the cancelled ghost hunter shows that couldn’t keep up with hers in the ratings. They all claimed the same thing: the place was so beautiful and charming and so very much
not
haunted. After listening to them all, she even started having her own doubts. Then she’d heard what happened there in 2003. It was something the other shows never touched on because of legalities, or they claimed never to have even heard of the Kennedy incident. Her research had taken her from USC to the Poconos; from Beaumont, Texas—where either USC or the Pennsylvania authorities tried to hide Kennedy from the rest of the world—to this very boardroom, pitching the greatest live event since Orson Wells and his
War of the Worlds
broadcast in the thirties. The one difference that emerged from her research was the one thing the other shows lacked,
her
imagination.

“That’s true, those shoddy shows and news reporters didn’t find anything, but they don’t have our experience. Even if the place is benign, which I know it isn’t, we have the official Kennedy account from the great-grand nephew of F.E. Lindemann himself, sole heir of the great sewing machine magnate, that says something horrible
did
happen there in the summer of 2003, contradicting the official state police report. We tell
that
story along with the others we have related to you in the slide show, and then, if we have to, we’ll
make
our audience believe. And there’s one thing the other shows refused to touch on: whatever is in that house was triggered into action by Kennedy and his team. He awoke something in that house that had lain dormant for over three-quarters of a century. With a cast of ‘experts,’ I can get the house to awaken once more. Only this time, it will be on my cue and on live television.”

“Am I hearing you right?” Peterson asked, staring straight at Kelly. “You want to fake events at that house if it proves not to be haunted? I want to hear you say it, Kelly. I want everyone here to understand it clearly.” He pointed a finger from her to the others around the room. She only wished she could reach out and snap that prissy little manicured finger right in half.

“That’s a rather hard turn of phrase, Lionel. All I mean is that since we don’t have Kennedy, we push the boundaries a little. That’s all.”

“And your above-board hosts, writers, and other producers are good with this?”

“They will be, yes. They’re troopers. They’ve been through thick and thin on this show for five years and they’ll do anything to keep
Hunters of the Paranormal
on top of the ratings. I have a line on two of the students that walked out of that house with Professor Kennedy.”

“What of the other three?” Peterson asked.

“They have never spoken to anyone about Summer Place. Their parents wouldn’t even tell me where they were currently living. It’s like they dropped off the face of the earth.”

Lionel Peterson clearly did not like this. She could see it on his face. As much as he would have liked to see her fail and take her show down with her, his advertising revenues would plummet and never recover, no matter what show they replaced her with. No, his fate was tied to hers. She suspected that prospect gave him far more chills than her ghost hunting show ever could.

“How much?” he asked.

“The largest expense is the house rental itself. That will run one million dollars.”

“For just one night?” Peterson asked, loud enough to startle a few of the more timid people around the table. His eyes bore into Kelly’s and she could tell that this time he wasn’t putting on a front.

“The nephew, Wallace Lindemann, is rich beyond measure, but is also a cutthroat little bastard. He won’t take a penny less than the one million for the two weeks we need the house. That’s one week for signal testing and setup two weeks before, and one week for the actual broadcast on Halloween night.”

“You’re bordering on blowing a quarter of a season’s budget on an eight-hour special? The network brass would go ballistic. No way am I approving this.”

Kelly smiled with as much fabricated embarrassment as she could muster. “I, uh…already broached the subject to Mr. Feuerstein in New York when we attended the Emmys a month ago. He said corporate would be onboard, on one condition.”

Peterson frowned. Kelly was sure he thought her an arrogant bitch for going over his head and making him look like a moron, or at the very least a dupe. However, she watched as he looked around the table at his very own people. Their enthusiasm for the project was obvious. He forced himself to smile and nod his head. He knew the game she was playing very well; after all, he had almost invented it.

“Okay, I’m all jittery inside with expectation and anticipation,” he said sourly. “What’s Mr. Feuerstein’s condition?”

“They want Julie Reilly of the Nightly News to go along, for window dressing and legitimacy.”

Peterson didn’t say a word at first. He stared at her and then lowered his head with a shake.

“You want the best investigative reporter at the network to tag along? And what if she sees through your little scam?” He finally looked up. “Some people in that money-losing division are actually good at their jobs.”

“Lionel, she works for the network. She’ll do as she’s told. Besides, it will never come to that. We can trick the house out days before—and don’t give me that look. It won’t be people dressed in bedsheets being caught on camera, or things moving by a string the audience can see. I think I know a few things, after all these years, about how to scare people. Small stuff, it doesn’t have to be much, just enough to get viewers’ eyebrows to raise and their hearts to race a little. We’ll fine-tune it during the test broadcast two weeks before.”

She could see the gears turn in his head. If corporate wanted their star reporter in on this, it was so that entertainment could help prop up the sagging ratings of the news division. Ultimately, it would help those people he just mentioned—the ones who were good at their jobs.

“You’re taking an awful big risk for a house that, at least historically speaking, is not in the least bit haunted, despite the shady testimonials of people not named in your research,” he said. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but wasn’t it Julie Reilly who made her bones by hanging Professor Kennedy, asserting that he was a publicity-seeking opportunist who wanted nothing more than to sell books. I believe she reported that an unnamed source claimed that the only way he could do that would be to have at least one of his students vanish into thin air. She cost him his career, and now corporate wants her to tag along? Ms. Reilly is another person who climbed to power by not naming her sources. This is quite a cast of characters you’ll be pulling together, Kelly.”

“Look, there have been other deaths at the estate. And if it was a hoax, why hasn’t this student ever turned up? I’m willing to cut Julie Reilly loose and see her investigate
that
, regardless of the outcome—it would make just as good a story if we could prove Kennedy is a nutcase and a murderer, or at the very least, the opportunist you claim he is. The angle here is the missing student and the stories about the house’s past.”

“What other deaths? I thought the only incidents were a disappearance, a horse riding accident and a supposed assault.”

“Several prominent families have died on their way home from weekend stays at the retreat in the twenties and thirties...maybe not right at Summer Place, but on the roads leading from it. You see, it’s not just the earlier stories that will sell the show, it’s everything rolled into one ball. And one very important bit of information you’re overlooking, Lionel, is the small fact that Kennedy has refused to write or discuss a word of that night, even though one publishing house offered him a flat two million dollars in advance money. And that, Lionel,
is
documented and quotable.”

The conference room grew quiet.

“This house sits on land that has some of the most treacherous roads in Pennsylvania. Let me venture further, most of these accidents occurred long before there were paved roads in the area. Am I correct?”

“I really haven’t checked the—”

 
“In addition, the fact is that the longer Professor Kennedy waits, the more money he will get when he finally does write his book. Am I right?”

Kelly Delaphoy raised her eyes from the table and looked into Peterson’s. She knew he was attacking her because of her discussion with corporate. She had a good guess he also knew she was after
his
job, just as he was after the CEO’s.

“Yes on one, but not on the other two points. Kennedy was frightened by something in that house. In order for him to write about it, he would have to relive it. He doesn’t want to do that.” She looked at the faces around the table that were silent, waiting for her last push. “I believe there is something here that goes far beyond the accidents, the opera star, actress, the columnist, and finally the Kennedy incident. This Halloween special will bring viewership to an all-time high. I’ll see to it that all these puzzle pieces fit into one terrifying eight hour show. And here’s something for you to chew on: the reason Professor Kennedy chose this house above all others when he sought his research grant from USC, was the fact that it supposedly scared the holy shit out of one of America’s literary giants, Shirley Jackson.”

“
The
Haunting of Hill House
was required reading in English Lit,” Jason Sanborn offered, lowering his water bottle to the table and then looking up in thought. “What was the famous passage from that book of hers?”

Kelly could have kissed Jason for his quick thinking. She would now let that earlier indiscretion pass. She hurriedly rifled through her notes, letting tension build, and then smiled. She quoted from the page even though she knew the passage by heart:
“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.”

“You have to admit, Lionel, that coupled with these tales, this whole thing is pretty creepy stuff,” Sanborn said. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and placed it in his mouth.

All eyes turned to Peterson, whose jaw muscles were working as he looked at Kelly. She could see the hatred in his eyes at what she had done, but she knew with this latest bit of information out in the open, others would now bring pressure to bear on the entertainment president.

 
“I’ll let you know in twenty-four hours,” Peterson said. “I don’t have to be in New York for five more weeks.”

“But we need to get—”

“Kelly, I said twenty-four hours, and not one minute before. And leave the Kennedy file here with me. I want to look it over.”

Kelly slid the thick file down the long table, passing it from one person to another until it reached Peterson’s girlish hands. She then picked up her laptop computer and bag. She started to say something, then thought better of it. A few executives nodded their supposed support as they left the room. Her eyes went to the four inch-thick file on Professor Kennedy sitting under Peterson’s hand. She bit her lower lip, hesitated, and then turned and left.

Once he was
alone in the conference room, Peterson opened the file to the eight by ten color glossy of the house in question. Kelly hadn’t even had the good sense to issue a black and white photo to give the mansion a more sinister look. His lips curled into a sneer. The picture showed a flattering view of the property. The four-story Summer Place had a pool that would make any hotel in Las Vegas envious. It had the kinds of gardens and walkways you would see on European estates.

Peterson shook his head and wondered what a joint like that would cost to build in today’s dollars. All of this opulence from money provided by the sewing machine—well, that, and ten thousand sweat-factory workers in New York City. He perked up at that thought, and then just as quickly deflated. It had been a well-known fact that the Lindemanns, at least the founding branch, had been the least likely candidates for scandal. They treated their workers like family and were never even remotely scrutinized for any wrongdoing. They had three schools and six parks named after them in Philadelphia and New York. No, no angle there to play. It was Kelly’s slant or nothing. Anyway, since it had already been brought to the attention of the president of the network and the board of directors, he could do little about it.