Sometimes, when it’s quiet, I can remember what my life was like before moving to Cedar Springs. My journal helps when I can think clearly, enabling me to record the good memories. But, too often of late, I emerge from a fugue, and my happiness quickly fades. In those times, I remember only that house and the terror I experienced one horrible night.
When I first heard about the Hawthorne place, I thought it was going to be just another job. Move in, set up the equipment, take a few readings, then rationally explain the science behind bad wiring, mysterious drafts, and magnetic resonance.
I was so very wrong…
* * *
Holding a pen between two fingers, I rapidly thumped one end into a notepad while the phone buzzed in my ear.
“Hello?” a man picked up, voice cracking.
“Yes, this is Dr. James. I’m calling about the message you left with my assistant.”
“Who?”
“Dr. John James.” Ever since I picked up my first comic book, I’ve been proud of the double J. “I’m calling from the P.R.I.”
“The what?”
“Para-science Research Institute.” As if two rented rooms in a rundown office building could be called an institute. “Someone gave this number and requested a call-back.”
“Oh, must have been a hoax.”
And I’m Mary Poppins. “Sir, I understand that these situations are often uncomfortable. I’d like to make an appointment for later this week.”
Breathing.
“Thursday, at six? I’ll need to stay at least one night to gather accurate data. Can that be arranged?”
More breathing, then finally a response. “Yes, fine.”
“Excellent. Thank you for contacting me, Mr. —”
Click. I pulled the phone away, the connection broken.
* * *
Although I am a man of science, even I have to admit I parked my van in front of the creepiest house I had ever seen. In my line of work, I expect a bit of atmosphere to accompany a location, but this was overkill. Three stories of vine-encrusted red-brick facade loomed over the lot. Flanked by sycamore trees and surrounded with a wrought-iron fence, the place exuded menace like an old, massive dog teased one too many times.
I loaded my dolly with equipment, opened the gate, and negotiated the cracked, weed-choked sidewalk to the front entrance. Flinching at each loud bang, I pulled the dolly up three warped, rotted wooden steps before pressing the doorbell. The door opened a few moments later, and I caught my first glimpse of the man behind the mysterious voice, the reality trouncing my expectations like a schoolyard bully.
“Good evening,” I said, as he waved me inside. “I hope I’m not too early, Mister…”
“Hawthorne. But call me Charles,” he said, shaking my hand. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble. I think I’m running on empty.”
“Coffee then.”
“Charles, where can I set up?” I motioned to the stack of equipment.
“In the living room?” he said, voice rising.
As if I would know. “Uh, yeah, there should be plenty of room.”
A few minutes later, while I was unloading the dolly, Charles entered the room holding two steaming mugs. “I hope instant is all right.”
“Perfect.” I ran my hands across my rumpled green shirt before I claimed a mug, blew and cautiously sipped a mouthful of exultation.
During my preparations, we talked a bit of common things, and I began to revise my first impressions. Charles was soft-spoken, his gestures carefully moderated, and looked younger than his admitted early sixties. Although he had acquired a few wrinkles, I could easily see there wasn’t enough of him for gravity to work much mischief. His gray suit hung from his rail-thin frame as if on a hanger, with no discernible slope or fold from the body underneath, until he moved.
I hadn’t really noticed in the foyer, but once in the living room I could see that both house and owner shared a common theme. The shade of gray confronted me at every turn, crawling in through my eyes and rooting around in my brain for a comfortable spot. Gray dominated, from the ancient wallpaper to the once-beige carpet and furniture, to the faded picture frames. Slight intrusions of color crept in —worn end tables, age-yellowed lampshades and a threadbare rug before the barren hearth — but they remained muted as if viewed through a black-and-white television. Only one spot of color maintained the front against the advance of hopelessness and seemed even brighter for such obvious care shown in the face of rampant neglect.
About Steven J. Bitz
