Life in a Haunted House Read online

  #

  “You overloaded the circuit,” Melissa says. “Shouldn’t have touched anything.”

  She sounds nervous, so I don’t respond to the accusation. Better to focus on practical concerns. “Is there a fuse box down here? Maybe try one of the other overhead lights, see if it comes on.”

  The shadowed outline of her head moves, but I can’t tell if she’s nodding yes or no. “My mother’s not gonna be happy. We might have blown power to the whole house.”

  “The stairs,” I tell her. “Look toward the stairs.”

  In the distance, dim wall lamps along the Stone Stairway help identify the path back to the house proper, to the upstairs corridor where we’d entered the studio.

  But I don’t want to leave yet.

  “If those lights work, the house is fine. Listen, I’m kind of handy. I’ve lived in a lot of different apartments with my mom, so I’ve learned a few tricks about quirky electrical circuits.”

  “Let’s fix it and get out.” Melissa sounds comforted that her house still has power, but she’s firm about wanting to go. “I’ll lead the way.”

  Easier said than done. The staircase lamps mostly dwindle before they reach us. I’m more aware of Melissa than I’m able to see her.

  I follow the idea of her, where I think she should be.

  Despite the urgency not to trip or collide into furniture or a partition wall, I can’t fully concentrate on the journey. I’m thinking also about the movie sets around me, briefly glimpsed when I thought I’d have more time to explore. I need to remember them now, before the image fades.

  I recall a game in Psychology class, where the teacher projects an intricate drawing on the screen: I’m giving you one minute to take in every detail, then I’ll turn off the slide and ask you questions about it.

  We pass the office set, and I’m pretty sure the next area is big enough to be the castle dining room. For all I can see, Count Verlock stands by the mantle, welcoming his wary visitor. The characters are as real to me now as Melissa—images my mind projects into the dark, more solid than ghosts.

  “This way.”

  I follow her voice, and step past a dark Victorian alley. A prostitute attempts to catch my attention, but a stranger’s hand covers her mouth and a knife blade traces red across her throat. He drags her deeper into the alley, and I keep walking.

  Towards the faint lights along the stone stairway.

  The podium for the arc lights stands near the bottom step. A guide-light makes it easy to see the switches, but the labels taped beneath each one are smudged and impossible to read.

  One of the toggles points in a different direction. “This the one you pulled?” Before Melissa answers, I jiggle it up, down, up then back again.

  Nothing.

  There’s a fuse box attached to the side of the podium, and I open the metal front. Again, no clear labels, and the circuit probably wouldn’t pass an electrician’s inspection, but it seems easy enough to figure out. I find the odd switch and flip it.

  “Anything?”

  “No.” Then: “Wait. Over there.”

  The spotlight had exploded, so that wouldn’t come back on. But at the other side of the studio, multi-colored lights flickered across the distant spaceship set.

  I’m ready to try some of the other arc lights, to visit more set locations.

  “Turn it off,” Melissa says.

  It hits me like the championship ballgame has been rained out. More like: I go to the museum, look at one or two paintings, then get kicked out.

  “Okay,” I concede. “I’ll help fix it next time.”

  “I’m not sure we should come back down here.”

  “We have to. I could bring flashlights to use, instead of the big lamps.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “Maybe.”

  I don’t love the way she dangles the possibility in front of me. But “Maybe” is better than “No.” It’s something I can work with.

  Melissa’s upset now, after the scare when the lamp exploded, after our confused walk in the dark. On calmer reflection, she’ll relent.

  Especially since she knows how much this place means to me.

  “I wish my dad could see this.” I feel ready to cry, but try to hold back. “He loved watching these movies with me.”

  From the quaver in my voice, Melissa probably guesses that my father, like hers, has passed away.

  Maybe the secrets of this house could bring him back.

  #

  No. Not through a séance.

  My father’s not dead. He’s in Cleveland.

  #

  The Interesting Son

  Today I am an interesting son.

  With my mom’s current job, she works late on Thursdays. That’s the reason she fixes a large dinner on Wednesday, to spend time with me the night before and to leave me a pot of leftovers for the next day. I appreciate the effort she puts into fixing dinner, the attention she tries to give me. But she always seems worn out during the Wednesday meal. She’ll lob a conversation starter, about school subjects or TV programs, and although I try my best to give a lively answer, it never quite wakes her up. My fault as much as hers, really—especially now, since I have a new friend and an amazing discovery about that friend’s house, and I’ve decided not to share.

  My mom wouldn’t grasp what was so magical about the Preston home. She’s never understood the appeal of those strangely atmospheric movies from Budget Studios.

  I saved that secret for my weekly phone call with Dad.

  We talk on Thursday nights now—because there’s awkwardness with him, too, and better we speak when my mom’s not around to overhear in case things get heated.

  - Why can’t you come visit?

  - I’m working. Alabama’s a long ways from here.

  - We could watch movies, like we used to…

  - You’ll have your driver’s license soon. You can drive up to see me then.

  - That’s two years away, at least. And Mom wouldn’t let me borrow the car.

  - I’ll try to work something out, but I can’t make any promises.

  - No you can’t. You never can.

  Then I’ll slam down the kitchen phone, because it’s clear he doesn’t want to see me. That our time together always meant more to me than it ever did to him.

  I wouldn’t want my mom to hear that kind of outburst. To rush from the other room to ask me what’s wrong, what did my dad do this time?

  Then there’d be the calls when I didn’t get angry. When we’d talk about the past, repeat all our in-jokes, reminisce about things we did together, and I’d feel that wonderful connection with my dad again. But the call has to end. Then, instead of an angry outburst, I might start crying because things went well.

  And right when I’d finally start to calm down, I’d wonder if things actually did go well. Had we actually discussed anything meaningful? I’d realize that I never ask him any details about his job. I don’t know if he’s seeing someone else now, instead of my mom. We don’t talk about these things…I guess because I don’t want to imagine he’s happy without us.

  By the same logic, I assume he’s not really interested in my day-to-day life. I live somewhere else, and he’s not responsible for me anymore. My school life isn’t exciting. There’s nothing special about the latest apartment we’re living in. My life is as dull and inconsequential as a weather report for a distant city. I usually say everything’s fine, offering no details. I never have anything interesting to tell him.

  Now, I finally do.

  #

  “You’re early.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m glad you were home.”

  I hear the rustle of a jacket, some papers being moved aside. “Brought some work with me so I could prep for a meeting tomorrow.”

  He mentions a presentation to Division Heads, and I respond on auto-pilot. “That sounds important.”

  “We need to change priorities. We focus so much on production, but marketing is just as important, r
ight?”

  “Sure.” I know what products his company makes, but need to stop him before he practices a sales pitch. “Listen. I have some news.”

  “Your teachers are good? You’re doing your homework?”

  “Sure. But not about that. This girl in my class—”

  “Oh.” The “oh” is two syllables, an octave apart. I can’t always picture my dad’s face as we talk on the phone, but I can see his smirk now. “What’s her name?”

  “Not that, Dad. She’s not the important part. Her last name is Preston.”

  He doesn’t react.

  “As in Bud Preston.”

  Still, it doesn’t sink in, so I have to prompt him further. “Budget Studios. The movies we like.”

  “Oh.” Only one syllable this time. “That’s why you like this girl? It’s a common last name. You shouldn’t read too much into the coincidence.”

  “It’s not a coincidence.” He should think about what I’m saying, instead of getting sidetracked by the possibility I might have a girlfriend. “She’s his daughter.”

  “His daughter, eh? Well, did I remember to tell you that I’m dating Raquel Welch’s sister?”

  The comment surprises me, since it’s the first time he’s mentioned himself dating—even in the context of a joke. “I’m serious, Dad.”

  “You are, huh?”

  I want to say, Why would I lie?, but I caught the sympathy in his voice. He’s thinking about how unhappy I often seem when we talk. He’s heard me repeat “Nothing” whenever he asks what’s new or exciting in my life. So now his pathetic son has invented a girlfriend, to make him seem interesting to his dad. But that’s not enough: she has to be the daughter of the movie director we both admire. My son’s got quite an imagination, he’s thinking. When you tell a story, you go all out. You’ve always had trouble facing reality, Brendan. Remember how you acted when your mom and I split up?

  I don’t give him time to say such things. Instead I explain how I met Melissa, how she showed me the eyeball prop from The Lake Monster. I speak quickly, offering specific details that reinforce the truth of my story. I talk about visiting her home, the mansion archway over their front porch, the props she showed me of the spider and the alien pistol. There’s so much more, I tell him. Yesterday, after school, she showed me the rest of her house. It’s larger than it looks from the outside. The whole back of it is a movie studio as big as a warehouse. They made all our favorite movies there, in my friend Melissa Preston’s house. You should come see it, Dad. It’s really cool.

  He doesn’t interrupt. When I finish, he’s silent for a moment, and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected.

  “Dad? You still there?”

  A sigh. “Brendan, I told you I can’t visit right now. They can’t spare me at work. That’s a cute idea, though. Maybe you should turn it into a short story.”

  In retrospect, it seems obvious he wouldn’t believe me. The idea’s so ridiculous—crazier than the most outlandish movie plot. Of course my dad would think I invented the story to convince him to visit. Easier to believe in a pathetic, delusional son, than to accept the fanciful coincidence I’d described.

  But I took the risk because he was my dad. If I insisted that I spoke the truth, he’d have to believe.

  It really happened, Dad. I’m not making this up. Repeat this mantra, and eventually it sinks in. That’s what I thought would happen.

  “I’ve got to work on tomorrow’s presentation,” Dad says. “Talk to you again next week.”

  Then he hangs up.

  In my mind, the call continues:

  Yes, next week. When you might be more sensible. Otherwise, I’ll have to talk with your mother. Consider sending you to someone. A school counselor, probably, since we can’t afford a psychiatrist. Maybe I made a mistake letting you watch those films, Brendan. They’ve obviously done something to your mind. Something horrible.

  All that unspoken doubt. So frustrating, I didn’t know whether to kick the wall, or start sobbing.

  Parents shouldn’t be like this. It’s awful when someone you love doesn’t believe you.

  I needed to find a way to convince him.

  #

  The Crooked Frame

  A bell rings as a customer enters the dimly lit store. He stumbles like a drunk as he navigates an aisle, but viewers blame his unsteady walk on the scattered merchandise: wooden chests and ceramic figurines crowding the dusty shelves; small pieces of furniture positioned like an obstacle course along the floor.

  The man bumps against an end table, and a vase nearly falls off. He steadies the vase, then lifts it for a closer look. Next he rubs his coat sleeve against part of the vase, stares at the revealed design for a moment, then turns the item upside down. “No price tag,” he says, replacing it carefully on the end table. “Must mean I can’t afford it.”

  “You have to inquire.” Without warning, the owner of the shop has appeared behind him. The shopkeeper’s rough voice seems unlikely to encourage a purchase. “We must decide what an item is worth to you.”

  “Nothing’s worth more than I can afford.” The customer prepares a good natured smile, then turns to greet the shopkeeper—

  —and the smile freezes on his face, because:

  The shopkeeper wears a mask over his head. A normal face has been painted on plaster, and the flesh tones approximate those of a department-store mannequin. But the shape of the mask is wrong: small painted eyes and eyebrows, a tiny-bump nose and protruding ears, but the entire plaster head is too large and asymmetrical. It weighs heavy on one side and the head tilts so that it almost sits on the shopkeeper’s left shoulder.

  “Most people have a similar reaction.” His hand touches the side of the mask with an absent-minded pat, similar to how someone might smooth their hair after removing a hat. “I assure you, this covering is for your benefit. Were I to remove it, you’d find my appearance even more disturbing.”

  A hole beneath the nose forms an opening for his mouth, and a small attached flap of cloth has been draped over it. A lopsided image of a mouth has been painted onto the cloth, and these lips ripple from the man’s breath as he speaks.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” the customer says. “I don’t mean to be impolite.” Despite himself, he stares at the mask, perhaps attempting to locate the eye holes, or wondering about the shape of the actual head beneath the plaster.

  “What would you like to see?”

  “I need a camera. I’m a reporter, and my regular guy’s not available.” He slips into a nervous ramble. “Thought I’d try my hand at it, you know. How hard can it be? I mean: point and shoot, right? Like this.”

  The director chooses an odd angle for this last phrase. We see through the eye slits of the mask, from the shopkeeper’s point of view. The slits are uneven: both tilted, and one higher than the other. As the customer says Like this, he mimes holding a camera and clicking his fingers, as if taking the shopkeeper’s picture.

  Even though the character never removes the mask, I know who he is. The shopkeeper represents an uncredited cameo appearance by Thomas Hendricks, the deformed star of The Twisted Face.

  “I have something that will suit your needs.” He raises his arm to point out a back corner of the store, then bows slightly. The weight of his head threatens to make him topple over. “Follow me.”

  The customer nearly knocks a lamp to the floor, but eventually manages to reach the indicated shelf. A box camera sits on the top row. Unrelated items surround it: a stack of leather-bound books, a teapot depicting a pastoral scene, a plastic model of a human heart.

  If you look closely, there’s an embossed pentagram design in the spine of one of the books. On the teapot, several of the painted shepherds run as if they’re being chased by a wild animal. The plastic heart, however, does not beat.

  “May I?” The customer lifts the camera from the shelf and brings it to his level. He examines the flash attachment, squints at the front lens; opens the film compartment then snaps it cl
osed. “It works okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was hoping for something more recent.”

  “That’s why you’ve come to an…antique shop.”

  “You’ve got me there.” The customer offers a weak laugh. “Honestly I wasn’t planning on buying anything tonight. I was walking by, noticed your store, and simply felt compelled to step inside.”

  He tests the weight of the camera in his hand, then shrugs and returns it to the shelf.

  “How much is it worth to you?” the shopkeeper enquires.

  “Well, maybe I need a camera, but not necessarily this one. Like I said, a newer model might suit me better.”

  “Perhaps. But I have no other camera for sale.”

  “Yeah. Tell you what.” The customer pats his pockets. “Wasn’t planning on shopping tonight, so don’t have much cash.”

  An extended close-up of the oversized mask fills the pause in dialogue. The shopkeeper’s fixed expression is unreadable, of course, but viewers sense this exchange is some kind of test, and that the customer is failing. The mask has recovered slightly from its odd leeward tilt, and although the shopkeeper doesn’t speak, his mouth-flap flutters as if from heavy agitated breaths.

  “I’ve got a few bucks. Two.”

  No response. The close-up of the mask continues.

  “How about three? To take that old camera off your hands?”

  Silence.

  “We’re bartering here,” the customer says. “You’re supposed to come back with your own price.”

  “Whatever you think it’s worth.”

  “Really? ’Cause I’d go back to the two bucks I opened with.”

  A repeat of the point-of-view shot, through the eye slits of the mask. The customer takes out his wallet, fumbles with it as if attempting to hide its contents, and eventually produces two dollar bills. “You said it works. Guaranteed, right? ’Cause if it doesn’t work, it ain’t worth nothing. I’ll return it.” He pays the money, then retrieves the camera from the top shelf.

  “You won’t return it,” the shopkeeper says.