“A galvanometer. It registers unexplained energy flow.”
Of course. Of course that’s what it is. You knew that, Bret.
I was now hunched over and about to lose it again as the van was gliding around the corner of Bedford and onto Elsinore.
The house sat innocently in daylight, but even in daylight the house seemed menacing.
I was scowling with fear because I couldn’t help studying it as the van pulled into the driveway.
“Here goes,” one of the guys said. They both eagerly exited the van. They had been filled in on the various particulars of “the situation” and they were ready to party. They moved to the doors at the back of the van and started unloading equipment with frat-boy expectancy.
I wasn’t aware I had left the van and was floating toward the house until I was standing so close to it that I could have touched the thing.
The front of the house was now the same color as the side of the house.
The writer forced me to notice this since I was blind.
Look, the writer said. Touch it.
The wood had turned to stucco.
Because of this, I couldn’t go back into the house.
I walked away.
Miller followed me out into the field behind the house, and then I was pacing, and then I was standing still again. I couldn’t control my breathing. My mouth was dry and chalky from chewing the Klonopin tablets.
“You’ll be protected,” Miller promised.
“This was not a case of possession,” he assured me.
“You need to be in the house” was his gentle order.
“Why?” I pleaded. “Why?”
“Because you are its focus. Because we need to find out what the source of the haunting is.”
They needed to invoke the spirits.
And you’re being used as bait. Do you get it now, Bret?
I didn’t even crave a drink at this point—I would have thrown up if I swallowed alcohol.
Pass that sage advice along: Want to stay sober? Move into a haunted place.
Miller impatiently redirected me to the house, because there was nowhere I would be safe if this was not dealt with.
(The writer prodded me along with a reminder of the ashy handprint on the pillow.)
My response: “If there’s anything inside the house, I don’t think I can take it.”
I hesitated then shuffled quickly toward the front door.
I slipped the key into the lock.
I opened the front door.
I stepped into the foyer.
The house was silent.
Miller stood beside me.
“Where have the main occurrences taken place?” I was asked.
The three men were waiting for me to guide them to the hallway of flickering lights, the master bedroom that had been invaded, the living room that was now the living room of Valley Vista—just a brief intake of breath as I glimpsed the dark green shag that was still growing, and then I had to turn away.
Miller was studying the office door, unhinged, gnawed on.
“Yeah,” I said. “It happened.”
While Dale and Sam began setting up equipment throughout the house, I showed Miller the video attachment I had received.
I couldn’t look at it so I wandered. Upstairs I peered into Robby’s and Sarah’s rooms and then (delicately—I did not go in) the master bedroom.
The unmade beds in all three rooms relieved me.
There was no sign of the Terby anywhere, but that didn’t mean anything.
Back in my office the video was ending.
My father was staring out at us.
“Robby . . . Robby . . .”
Miller turned to me wordlessly, unimpressed.
“All electrical appliances need to be unplugged” was all he said.
“Why don’t we just turn off the fuse box?” I asked.
“We’ll do that as well.”
The equipment would be plugged into the generator that had been dragged into the foyer and was sitting at the bottom of the staircase.
While we began the process of unplugging anything connected to a power outlet, everyone began feeling it.
(I pretended not to.)
There was a new pressure in the house.
It was weighing down on us.
I tried to ignore the moment our ears started popping.
But when Sam and Dale laughed I had to accept it.
Once everything was disconnected, Sam and Dale began plugging various cords into the generator.
The infrared video cameras and sound-activated microcassettes were mounted on tripods.
Sam would oversee the one placed in the upstairs hallway.
Dale would oversee the one placed in the master bedroom.
And Miller would oversee the one placed in the living room with the widest field of vision, including the foyer and the staircase.
Each of them held an electromagnetic field meter—an EMF.
All the curtains and blinds in the house were drawn shut—I did not ask why—and the interior of the house darkened considerably, but with enough light still scratching through from outside.
Once Sam and Dale were in position upstairs, Miller asked me to turn off the fuse box.
It was located in the hallway that led to the garage.
I opened it.
I breathed in as I shut off the power.
Walking quickly back to Miller’s side, I realized that this was the quietest the house had ever been.
During this thought all three EMF meters started beeping—instantly, in unison.
According to the flashing red digital numbers I saw a reading jump from 0 to 100 in what seemed like less than a second.
Immediately the cameras sensed something and started whirring, moving in a continuous circular motion atop the tripods.
“We have liftoff,” I heard one of the guys whoop from upstairs.
The beeping suddenly became more insistent.
The cameras kept flashing as they turned.
The locks on the French windows in the living room made a cracking sound.
Another cracking sound and the windows swung outward, causing the green curtains to start billowing even though it was a cold, still November afternoon.
But then they stopped billowing.
The curtains weren’t there last night, the writer said. Don’t you recognize them? the writer asked. Think back.
Air gusted over us, and the faint sound of something being pounded echoed throughout the house.
The pounding continued.
It was moving through the walls and then into the ceiling above us.
The pounding was competing with the sounds from the EMFs but the pounding soon overtook it.
I shut my eyes, but the writer told me that the pounding culminated when a huge puncture appeared in the wall above the couch in the living room.
(Later, the writer told me that I had screamed while standing perfectly still.)
And then: silence.
The EMF monitors stopped beeping.
“Hoo-ah!” This from one of the guys upstairs.
The other whooped gleefully again.
They had been on this ride before.
Miller and I were breathing hard.
I didn’t care if I appeared afraid.
“I’m sensing a male presence,” I heard Miller murmur, scanning the room.
“The lights are flickering, Bob,” Sam called down from the upstairs hallway.
From where Miller and I stood we looked up and could see the flickering lights of the sconces reflected in the massive window near the top of the stairs.
It seemed as if something knew we had noticed this and the flickering stopped abruptly.
Miller was now standing in front of the freshly punctured wall.
He stared at it, humbly.
“An angry man . . . someone very lost and angry . . .”
I was so afraid I could not feel myself. I was just a voice asking: “What does that mean? What’s going on? What does it want? Why is it stopping?”