The Supernaturals (2 page)

Jessica shook off his hand and glared at his bearded features. “Just because I’m hearing things that are definitely not house settling noises, doesn’t mean I’m too scared to do what Professor Kennedy has asked of me. Go ahead and get on with what you have to do, so we can meet the others in the ballroom. We’re running behind schedule.”

Warren smiled again, then pushed his wire rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, that’s the stuff. Shall we place the last imager?”

She finally smiled in return and then gestured for Warren to proceed. As he turned away, Jessica heard the creak of a door. She stopped and once more reached out for Warren. “Listen! I just heard a door open up here.” She tried desperately to peer into the darkness of the hallway.

“Enough is enough. You know as well as I that all of these doors are locked. The owner of the property saw to that. We don’t have access to the rooms on the third floor.”

“Okay, they’re locked.” She grabbed his hand and directed his penlight down the hallway. Its weak beam settled on the two sets of large doors at the end. One set on the right side was the master suite; the door on the left was the sewing room. That door was standing wide open. “So why isn’t that door shut, like it was just a second ago?”

The door was not only open, it was pinned back against the wall, as if someone was holding it there as wide as they could get it.

“That door was triple locked, with two deadbolts and a knob-lock. And the damn thing
was
closed, just a moment ago.”

“That’s what I just said, smartass. I suppose that’s the sewing room settling because it’s so old?”

Warren shook his head. “Knock it off.” He reached for his radio with his free hand.

“Professor, this is Warren up on three,” he said into the small radio.

They heard a crackle and hiss, and then silence.

“Professor, are you reading me?”

Jessica and Warren watched the open doorway of the sewing room. They jumped when they heard the pounding. It echoed out of the sewing room as if some giant had started walking toward them. Jessica’s fingernails dug into Warren’s arm and her grip was iron. They both felt the pounding through their feet. Then as quickly as it started, the pounding footsteps stopped.

“What the hell was that?” Warren asked, not really caring if Jessica answered him at all.

“They had to have heard that downstairs—right?” she asked. Warren shined the light around the hallway.

A door creaked, but it wasn’t a sound one would associate with a door opening. It was more like someone was placing a stupendous amount of pressure against the wood. They could hear the cracking of the grain. Warren moved the penlight to his right, where the door to one of the larger bedrooms only feet away was bent outward. It seemed the wood of the thick door couldn’t withstand the pressure being placed on it. Then it rebounded, as if whoever was on the other side relinquished their assault.

“We have to leave,” Jessica said as she tried to pull Warren away.

He shook her off and raised the radio to his lips. “We have to get the professor up here,” he said and pushed the transmit button.

“Pretty boy.”

The voice that came from the radio made Warren freeze. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat the best he could, but the strange statement hung in the dark, cold air of the hallway.

“Get on there and tell whoever is screwing around to knock it off,” Jessica said angrily.

“Pretty girl,”
said the feminine voice over the radio.

Warren looked down at the radio. The bedroom door next to them rattled in its frame, and then something on the other side hit it hard enough to shake the cut crystal doorknob. Once more, the door bulged, and this time the impact was so fierce that Warren and Jessica backed away, half expecting the wood to explode outward. Then once more, the door relaxed and went back to its normal shape, only this time with something akin to a deep breath, as if the exertion of bending the door outward had taken too much energy. A voice, different from the one they had just heard, came over the radio.

“
Run,
” came the whispered order. “Run, NOW!”

Warren started to turn, but his eyes fell on the sewing room at the far end of the hallway. A large area to the left side of the door bulged outward, sending plaster and wallpaper snapping off in small chips to fall to the Persian rug down the center of the hallway. The bulge moved a foot, stopped. It looked like a chest, inhaling and exhaling as it moved. It came on again, this time surging three feet before it stopped.

Warren backed away, pushing Jessica as he went.

“Get out of here,” he said as loudly as he dared. All thoughts of contacting Professor Kennedy in the ballroom had vanished.

“
Go!”
came the whispered voice from the closest bedroom.

“
Pretty boy, pretty girl, babies, babies, please come home
,” this time the voice wasn’t coming from the radio, but the large pulsing bulge in the wall. It was only ten feet away now.
“You’re mine!”

That was all Warren could take. He turned and pushed Jessica down the hallway just as the plaster on the wall bulged once more and came on like a shark cutting through water. Just as Warren neared the third floor landing, something grabbed him. It was as if an iron giant had grabbed his shoulder. His arms flailed and the penlight and radio went flying. The light spun crazily in the air and then hit the carpeted runner. Jessica stopped. The light had aligned perfectly with Warren’s legs. She screamed when she saw a large, dark, smoke-encased hand reach out from the bulging wall, shearing the wallpaper away as it grabbed hold of Warren.

“Help,” he screamed.

Jessica couldn’t move, she looked to the right, toward the bedroom door. It was still and silent, as if its warning earlier had never been. She looked at Warren and his fear filled eyes, and knew that she couldn’t stay. She had to run.

Warren was yanked hard into the wall. Half of his body was embedded in the plaster and wood. Then he was yanked again. This time his body went rigid and then he almost vanished completely. His eyes were pleading for Jessica to help him. His arms reached for her. She slowly reached out and her fingertips touched Warren’s, but with another sharp jerk Warren was pulled completely into the wall, his glasses flying free. Jessica heard the crunch of bone and the shattering of his arms. She collapsed to the floor, unable to move.

She didn’t know how long she remained on the floor. She was aware of the smell of plaster and mildew, even the dust as it formed and then scattered in the dark around her. She finally reached for the penlight on the Persian runner and then slowly raised it to the spot where Warren had been. The papered wall was intact. Not one mark showed; not one bit of evidence that Warren had ever been there. Jessica started shaking.

The sewing room door swung closed. Slowly, with the same penetrating squeak she had heard a few minutes before the house had turned on them. Jessica knew she was starting to lose consciousness, but through her daze she heard the softer, far gentler voice come once more through the bedroom door. This time it seemed as if the voice was tired, exhausted, but persistent nonetheless.

“Get out, NOW!”

Whatever walks there, walks alone

The men and women sitting around the large conference table watched as she slowly placed her files and large case on the table before her. The movements seemed deliberately slow, and everyone knew the man sitting at the head of the conference table was the object of those deliberate actions. The man himself sat stoically with his manicured nails of his right hand propped neatly against his chin and cheek, and didn’t mutter a word. His eyes never left Kelly Delaphoy—everyone in the company knew the young woman was after his job. That in and of itself wasn’t too surprising. After all, when you swim with sharks, there’s bound to be at least one in the water with designs on biting your ass. As everyone summoned to this meeting knew, there were no waters more shark-infested in the world than Hollywood.

There were sixteen people in the room, all of them with a hand in television programming, and only one of those had anything to do directly with the beautiful young producer. Kelly Delaphoy had notified everyone a week in advance of the meeting, and they all knew she had to have some backing. She had not only lured them, but had the power to summon the president of the entertainment division to an afternoon production conference. That was unheard of. The power of the number one show in all of television gave Kelly that right. It also meant that she had backing that went far beyond the entertainment division.

Kelly finally went to the wall switches and they all heard the whine of the small motor that closed the conference room drapes. She then cleared her throat and settled in at the far end of the table as the first blank slide illuminated the screen. Kelly punched a button on her laptop and waited. As for the president of entertainment, his eyes never strayed to the screen at the head of the room, but stayed glued to the young blonde. They all could feel his gaze on her, and they also knew Kelly could feel the man’s eyes burn into her. He didn’t show the slightest interest in her presentation—his mind was on how much he despised the young woman from Cincinnati.

“First off, I would like to thank each and every one of you for attending. If I didn’t think what I had to show you was important,” Kelly said, “I surely wouldn’t have interrupted the schedules of so important a group.” She knew she had indeed interrupted the schedule of every person inside the conference room, and she wasn’t the least bit sorry for it. “What I have to show you is this.”

The first slide was replaced by what could have been an advertisement in a realtor’s book. The house was beautiful and sat on manicured grounds. With one look toward the head of the conference table, the young producer started the meeting in earnest by nodding toward her executive producer—the only man who knew what this particular meeting was about.

Jason Sanborn stood and walked toward the screen. With his empty pipe, he tapped the gorgeous house and grounds.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the vacation retreat Summer Place.” He turned to face the others around the table. As he spoke, the grounds in the picture played across Jason’s face, making them blend together with his beard and soft features. “As you will come to know through Ms. Delaphoy’s presentation, this is a house that needs attention. Attention from us, and the rest of the world.” He cleared his throat. “At least, the television-viewing world.” He moved his pipe away from the large screen and pointed at Kelly. “Kelly, I believe we have their attention.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Kelly Delaphoy watched the man she was about to go to war with over her project.

“The famous American author Shirley Jackson,” Kelly began, “was reputed to have vacationed at Summer Place a very long time ago. At least, that is the rumor. Like the strange stories surrounding the vacation retreat itself, it is hard to confirm. Ghost stories always seem to be that way: everyone knows, but they don’t remember who told them, or how the stories originated.”

Kelly walked a circuit around the conference table as she spoke, delivering every word as clearly and precisely as possible. The only area she avoided was the head of the table. As long as she felt the president’s eyes boring in on her, she knew she at least had his attention.

“After I came upon the tale—or rumor, if you will—of Ms. Jackson’s stay, I since learned that no one has been an official guest in the house since 1940. Ms. Jackson didn’t achieve her fame until 1959, so one would have to eliminate the author as a possible invitee to Summer Place—at least, by the owner’s invitation.”

Jason Sanborn cleared his throat. He removed his cold pipe once more from his mouth and looked around the table.

“The original rumor of Ms. Jackson’s stay began circulating in 1957, just two summers before she published her famous novel,
The Haunting of Hill House.
Nineteen years after the closing of the summer house, that book became a critical, literary, and financial success. Still, the anonymous gossips and storytellers persist that Ms. Jackson’s famous tale was based on her visit to Summer Place. After years of research on the house, we could not get a direct quote from anyone confirming whether the author did
actually
stay at the summer retreat. It is just one of those things publishers and editors discuss at cocktail parties when they’ve had a few too many martinis and the subject of ghosts and insane authors rears its ugly head.”

There were more than a few chuckles around the table, but not from the man watching with interest from behind a studiously bored demeanor. His eyes only moved to Kelly as she stopped at Jason’s chair and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Unlike Ms. Jackson’s description of the stone monstrosity called
Hill House
, Summer Place—at least outwardly—has a feeling of peace and tranquility when you look down upon it from one of the many surrounding hills and privately maintained roads.” The picture changed on the screen to show the surrounding countryside. “These hills sit like sentinels guarding the house, and give way to the high peaks of the Pocono Mountains, which in turn surround and protect their smaller brethren. From this high vantage point, the distant view of the house and manicured grounds give one the feeling of welcoming and wellbeing, like coming home from a long journey.”