The Supernaturals
David L. Golemon
Seven Realms Publishing
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Supernaturals, Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by David Golemon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 2011 by Christian Guldager
Cover design by J. Kent Holloway
Interior formatting by Stan Tremblay
Published by Seven Realms Publishing, LLC
4420 Carter Road #6
Saint Augustine, Florida 32086
www.sevenrealmspublishing.com
For, Shaune, Brandon, Karie Anne, Tram, Kiera, Gary, and JoAnne—what can be scarier than real life?
Author’s Note—
Over four years ago I ran a story on my blog at EventGroupFiles.com asking my readership to send me examples of a real haunted house that I could possibly use in a story. Needless to say, the response was overwhelming. I received so many letters that I decided not to print any of them, as it would have taken most of my time to do so. I thanked everyone, then placed the project on hold, trying to put my thoughts about ghosts into perspective.
However, there was one particular letter that that caught my attention and became a thorn in my side. It was from a family in upstate New York who wished to remain anonymous. They told me of the beauty of a house nestled quietly in the mountains. Confused as to the subject matter of this note and suspecting that the author of the letter had misread my blog, I read on nonetheless. They explained that this house, although beautiful, had something wrong with it. It was the summer home to a very wealthy and famous family with a sordid history of sorts. The family had not lived in the summer retreat since the fall of 1940. They described the house as a three-story gothic structure that sat alone in a valley of immense beauty, built in the years leading up to World War I, yet again they reiterated that there was something wrong with this gorgeous estate. Curious beyond belief, I pestered the writer until I received via “Snail Mail” the address of this estate in the mountains, on the lone condition that I not use their name or the actual house in my story, if indeed I did write one. I agreed.
A month later I went to see this house and the hundred-acre estate surrounding it. It turned into a very tiring five-hour drive from my home on Long Island. When I arrived, expecting nothing more than a rundown shanty of a house, I was amazed to see a three-storied, yellow and white painted gabled mansion that looked as if it could have been built the week before. After seeing a “for sale” sign on the main gate, I called the real estate broker and asked if I could see the interior . My request was granted and the agent met me later that afternoon.
Upon entering the house from underneath a large welcoming portico worthy of a fine hotel, I was amazed to see the pristine condition of this twenty-four room, one hundred and twelve year old house. Although the agent unlocked the front door for me, she informed me that she would wait for me on the porch. Thinking this odd, I entered the house on my own.
I spent a grand total of two minutes inside the most beautiful foyer I have ever seen, before I turned on my heel and left the summer mansion. I am not a believer in things that go bump in the night—I write about them, talk about them, and in the end I laugh about them. I am a man not afraid of most things, other than maniacs running around and blowing up, or crashing aircraft into buildings, or being afraid for your kids on their first day of school. But in those two minutes, standing in that foyer and looking up at the immense staircase that seemed to travel up to the sky, I realized through my feelings alone that there was indeed something wrong with the house. I got a chill as I looked around, at the way everything in the living room looked freshly dusted, and the way the Persian rug looked as if it had just been carpet swept, and the wood of the wall paneling looked just oiled.
Standing there I felt, and this may sound ridiculous, that the house was aware; aware I was intruding. That was coupled with that indescribable feeling of being watched by menacing eyes. With a final chill, I turned and left that house in the mountains and never returned. Now, I must remind you that I don’t believe in ghosts, or any other agent of the night that you cannot see, cannot study, and cannot feel with your hands. Even with this experience, if that is what you could call it, I am still an agnostic when it comes to ghosts and spirits. But I do believe one thing: that house in the mountains wants to be left alone. I am convinced of that.
So, here we are. I made several enquiries about this house, and yes, it was once and still is owned by a very famous and wealthy family. Although the summer home has not been lived in since the forties, its upkeep is maintained through a private contractor and the estate is kept immaculate. That brings us to this story. I have written this tale with the elements of the supernatural as just a figment of my rather tormented imagination, but there is one thing I must stress. I attempted to bring the feeling alive from my memory of walking into that house four years ago—to pass along the feeling of dread in such a supposedly inanimate object. As I said, most elements that make up this fictional story are from the author’s imagination, but the house almost described to a “T” in the story is real. I have been there, and I will never go back after my two minute stay. The reader, that is you, can travel to this small valley in the mountains if you’re good enough to find it, because I will keep my word to the people who guided me there and never reveal it. Then you can judge for yourself just what makes you want to run from that beautiful home and its property and never look back.
So, just this one warning: the account you are about to read is, as I said, fiction, made up, maybe overblown possibly, but there is one immutable fact that you can take to bed with you. The house depicted as Summer Place in this story—is real.
DLG
October 3, 2010
“Oh, very gloomy is the house of woe, where tears are falling while the bell is knelling, with all the dark solemnities that show that death is in the dwelling!”
—Thomas Hood
Jessica and Warren stood like sentinels—or at the very least, like guard dogs—next to the master’s third-floor chambers, only feet from the master bedroom suite and the sewing room. It had been three hours since the professor had ordered lights out and allowed the experiment to truly begin. Warren placed the digital recording device in the center of the Persian rug. It ran the length of the blind-cornered hallway, close to a hundred feet. The 25-year-old grad student slapped Jessica’s hand away again. She kept grabbing for him every time the old house creaked or settled in some far off place. At the rate they were going they would never place all the sensitive equipment in time. The young girl wasn’t exactly ghost hunting material, and he felt sure that Professor Kennedy would end up regretting having chosen Jessica for the team to investigate the old, rambling house.
“Look, you’re going to have to quit pulling on me every time you hear a noise or feel a draft,” Warren said. He straightened after making sure the digital recorder was working, and raised the beam of his small penlight from the recorder to shine it onto Jessica’s face. The girl was terrified. He knew asking a psychology major to join the experiment had been a mistake, but the professor wanted objective opinions; not just from the “extreme nature point of view,” but also from the human mind also—thus Jessica. “Listen.” He tried to speak calmly to the girl. “The house is a hundred years old. Boards have loosened up. Windows don’t meet their frames like they used to. The house will shake, rattle and roll. It’s not ghosts and it’s not supernatural at all…it’s just house noises.”
“We’ve been to a lot of places with Professor Kennedy on this study, but this house is not just a house. This has nothing to do with settings inducing hysteria. If there is one place in the world that’s haunted, it’s this house, these grounds. I can feel it. You can feel it. Everyone who has ever stepped foot into this house has felt it.”
Warren was amazed that the psych major had worked herself up into such a fear-induced frame of mind—something she of all people should have recognized.
He shook his head. She was now an uncontrolled part of the experiment, and he knew he was going to have to report her status to the professor. Jessica could no longer conduct herself as an observer of the house. Instead of lambasting her—or teasing her at the very least, as he normally would have done—Warren nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder. The girl was shaking. He patted her shoulder and then smiled.
“Look, I just have to place the last thermal imager down by the sewing room, and then we’re done. Why don’t you go wait on the third floor landing? That way you can still see me down the hallway, but you’ll be closer to an escape route.”
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.”
Jason added, “For more of a description of the house and grounds, Kelly and I have commissioned the former news anchor John Wesley to narrate and take us through the rest of presentation.” Kelly walked to the back of the room so she could view the men and women around the table. Or, more specifically, the man at its head.
Everyone seemed impressed that Jason and Kelly had coerced one of the most important men in the history of the network to narrate the story. His deep and booming grandfatherly voice would lend much power to the tale, and their ability to bring him out of his retirement suggested powerful backing for the project. This point wasn’t lost on the most important man in the room. His eyes finally moved to the screen as the voice of the retired anchorman began.
“To view the fifteen carved wooden gables lining the edge of the steep roof to the house itself, you believe that Summer Place could be a scene borrowed from a wondrous fairytale of gingerbread houses, bright forests, and glowing, sunny meadows. The grounds, immaculate in their pristine condition, are a welcoming suggestion of what must assuredly lie beyond the façade of Summer Place. The barns and stables were designed for aesthetics as well as functionality and give the property that down-home Kentucky feel. The Olympic sized swimming pool gleams in the summer sun, and once welcomed visitors to the estate with promises of cool and refreshing summer days, drinking casually by the poolside while the twenty-five foot long barbeque pit was ignited for the evening meal.”
All eyes were on the screen and the pictures of Summer Place in all its glory. The voice of the former anchorman was comforting, as it had comforted all of America when he’d told the world each night, “we are still here, so here’s the news.”
“The sewing machine magnate, F.E. Lindemann, built Summer Place in 1892 as a family getaway deep in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania—a relatively short commute from New York City even in those days of washboard roads and dirt drives. New York was home to Lindemann’s industrial empire. His was the first family not only of the modern sewing machine, but of New York’s garment industry, as well.”
The view on the screen switched to a large family portrait.
“Ten family members, including Lindemann’s eight children, dominated the grounds in the summer months, and the children and parents were not alone. The house came complete with two butlers, three ladies of the house—as they preferred to call them while visiting the countryside and not, heaven forbid, maids—two stablemen, six landscapers, and a full-time summer chef with three assistants. F.E. Lindemann stumbled upon the land Summer Place now rests upon while hunting in 1885. After years of hunting vacations in the area, Lindemann cut loose with $90,000 for the property’s 832 acres. The house was actually built over the old hunting camp, and is reputed to have set Lindemann back one million in 1892 dollars.”
There was a small whistle from the darkness and Kelly smiled for the first time since the meeting began.
“F.E. Lindemann loved the location so much,” the anchorman’s voice continued, “that he erected Summer Place for his wife and soon-to-be large family. Elena Lindemann was a beautiful woman, and part of the extended royal family of Czar Nicholas II of Russia. Although very little is known of Elena in the years leading up to her marriage, it was her elegant, sensible taste that flourished in the easygoing decor of the main house. Instead of being ostentatious in the European way, she was refined in the new and subtle ways of the working class of her adopted country. It is only a theory that what happened to her cousin Nicholas in 1918 in Russia assisted her in reaching this point of view. Most who knew Elena would say that she had so much class she did not feel the need to push it on anyone else, as had her cousin the Czar. Very little is known about her. However, it is known that she dearly loved each of her eight children. She insisted on giving birth at Summer Place, even in the dead of winter. She would dote on those children until they were all, one by one, consumed by tragedy or illness.”
The view on the screen switched to show close-ups of each of the eight children.
“Still, she worshipped them with every ounce of her soul until the day she died in 1951. Every one of her children were brought back to Summer Place for burial after their deaths. As she put it, to be brought back to the place they were born and lived the happiest years of their lives.”
Again the picture changed, showing another side of the giant mansion and grounds.
“Summer Place and its surrounding grounds, all eight hundred acres, were benign for the first few years the family visited for their extended summer getaways. Not one of the hundreds of movie stars and financial giants who enjoyed the hospitality of Summer Place ever had a complaint. A week spent with the Lindemanns was the height of relaxation and luxury. It was as if the mansion spent those first few years gearing up for its first headline-grabbing act, which occurred thirty-three years after it was built.”
The slide changed to a painting of a beautiful woman who smiled at the artist as if she knew she would be viewed for hundreds of years.
“The tranquility and demeanor of Summer Place changed in the summer of 1925. Gwyneth Gerhardt, a German opera star and acquaintance of the Austrian-born Lindemann, visited Summer Place as a prized guest. Miss Gerhardt came up missing on the evening of her own official grand reception. Amongst the guests that week were silent film stars from Hollywood and the royalty of Broadway Theater. Although no guests were ever directly quoted, it was whispered inside closed circles that Miss Gerhardt had been troubled by noises, voices emanating from the walls in her suite, in the days leading up to her reception. She would claim sleepless nights, saying she could hear the fading heartbeat of the house from far below where the dark, rich dirt met Summer Place’s wooden foundation. These rumors gave voice to talk that the German opera star may have been a little eccentric—even by European standards.”
The next slide showed the grainy official photograph of guests mingling in the ballroom inside Summer Place.
“The night of her official introduction to American high society and theatre circles, Miss Gerhardt never came down from her room. First, Frederic Ernst Lindemann himself searched every one of the twenty-five bedrooms and suites of Summer Place.” The scene on the screen changed to the brightness of the barn and the immediate property surrounding the house. “The search expanded to other areas of the extensive property, such as the stables, the pool, and even the barn, but no trace of the diva was ever found.”
There were curious nods and a few comments not fully heard from the table.
“A local girl, Leanne Cummings, a shy seventeen-year-old from the nearby village of Bright Waters, along the Bright River, trained by the Lindemanns for serving at social functions, claimed she had left Miss Gerhardt in her suite after laying out a beautiful sequined gown upon her bed. That was the last anyone ever saw of the famous German opera star Gwyneth Gerhardt.”
Kelly allowed her eyes to fall on the entertainment president. He was watching the presentation, but every now and then would write something on the notepad before him.
“A three-day search of the property was joined by the sheriff and local constabulary, but turned up no trace of Gerhardt. Lindemann even hired the famous Pinkerton Detective Agency, but to no avail. The official report states that the German socialite left the estate unbeknownst to her host, and that her present whereabouts were unknown. The police report from 1925 cites possible death by misadventure.”
The slide changed from a photo of the police report of the time to a gay scene of Christmastime at Summer Place.
“There were other strange instances at the house, to be sure. The Christmas party of 1927 is one of these. The Lindemanns very rarely spent Christmas outside of New York City unless Mrs. Lindemann was there for the birth of one of her children.”
Another slide. This one was of a woman most in the room recognized, but most failed to come up with her name.
“The incident in the winter of 1927 involved Vidora Samuels, a silent film star of some renown. She retired from acting at the height of her popularity, after claiming she had been attacked at Summer Place during Lindemann’s Christmas gathering. Although there has been evidence put forth from Hollywood circles that Vidora was more frightened by the microphones used in motion picture “talkies” than by any occurrence at Summer Place, most respected her for her talent and did not challenge her claim of an attack. She had a prowess for making anyone who heard her relate the story, a believer.”
A paragraph from a magazine filled the screen.
“When questioned about the incident several years later by Variety Magazine, Vidora denied ever claiming to have been attacked. Follow-up with the immediate family after her death in 1998 revealed that Ms. Samuels actually lived in terror from that night in 1927, and went to her grave never revealing the name of the person who assaulted her. Her personal maid and assistant of sixty years, and later her only companion, admitted to one person that once during a lucid moment in her last year of life, Ms. Samuels finally admitted that indeed, she had been assaulted that Christmas Eve seventy-one years before. She confessed that she had been brutally beaten and raped, but claimed that there had not been another living soul in her room at the time—she had been quite alone, with the lights turned on. A trained psychologist once offered that she may have actually blocked out the horrific event, which may have prevented her from seeing the attacker in her memory, but that hypothesis still remains just a theory.”
The slide changed to a gorgeous view of the mansion in summer.
“The most famous incident occurred in the very next turn of the seasons. In the summer of 1928, gossip columnist Henrietta Batiste, eminent in her literary slashing of the world’s most popular authors, was invited to visit for a short weekend getaway. Miss Batiste, an accomplished rider and renowned horse lover, was out riding alone one sunny Saturday morning before breakfast. As she trotted out the $120,000 thoroughbred from the richly appointed stable, her demeanor was one of a woman who had died and gone to heaven—according to the account that stablehand James McCeevy gave to the local constabulary that evening. Usually harsh and ill-tempered toward any of the hired help, the columnist seemed almost human on that fateful morning long ago.”
The slide switched to a scene from the Bright Waters Sunday Chronicle, the local newspaper. It showed a large group of searchers on the grounds surrounding Summer Place.
“The next anyone saw of the columnist was at five-thirty that evening. Lindemann had just returned with an unsuccessful search party to find the woman sprawled on the Persian rug in the entryway. She was bleeding from her mouth, and one arm was almost completely ripped free of her body. The same police report states that the thirty-six year old was in a state of shock from loss of blood—but I must note here that there was more than one quote from the house staff after their dismissal a few years later, stating that it wasn’t only loss of blood that precipitated the shock, but sheer fright.”
There was more than one gasp from the men and women around the table.
“A local physician removed the torn remnants of her left arm and stayed through the night to keep an eye on his famous patient. When she awakened, still in a state of shock, she was able to relate her experience to the good doctor. In the woods at the back of the estate, her horse had stumbled upon what looked like an unearthed human skull. There had been other remains—an old tattered gray dress, a woman’s shoe—but before she could discern more, she had been pulled from her horse by the sharp tug that had injured her arm. She was thrown to the ground, where someone—or something— pulled her hair, ripping free her riding hat, then showered open-handed slaps to her face. She had felt horrid fingernails rip down her cheeks and exposed neck. Miss Batiste claimed that if it weren’t for the horse, she would have been beaten to death. But the horse went wild, attacking her attacker with flying, flailing hooves. When the doctor and Lindemann attempted to question the woman further, her screaming fit started. She said it was a man, and then screamed it was a woman. The story switched back and forth until the only course of action was to discount her memory of the event altogether.”
Kelly looked around the meeting. The slide show and its powerful narration, the results of months of research and planning, were doing their job.
“As for her claim that her horse had unearthed the skeletal remains of a woman long dead, searchers returned to the scene and found no trace. Our producers attempted to gather more information, but sources in the small town refused to talk to us. It may seem ridiculous to us now, but thoroughly understandable when you see the faces of the locals. They are still haunted by the mention of Summer Place.”
Again, the gorgeous view of the giant house dominated the screen.
“The property has many familiar sides to it, as described by the author Shirley Jackson in her famous story. Ms. Jackson claimed never to have laid eyes upon the house, and extensive research by our producers has shown no evidence that she was ever on the property.”
The slide changed to the winding roads and forested slopes of the Pocono Mountains.
“Several weary travelers have reported eerie happenings on the roads surrounding the estate. Blood-curdling screams in the night, deer and other animals lying dead along a roadway that no one travels. There are even rumors of missing cross-country skiers who may have happened upon Summer Place in the season that sees the grounds shrouded in a white veil of snow. Ski tracks lead up to the property, but no tracks ever leave.”
The portrait of the sewing machine magnate again flashed upon the screen.
“With the death of F.E. Lindemann in 1940, Summer Place closed its doors. The only other time it received guests, save for the Lindemann children’s burials, was during the lease in 2003 to the now famous—or, infamous—Professor Gabriel Kennedy. The true details are hard to come by. All that is known about the event comes directly from official state police reports. The state of Pennsylvania reports in triplicate that the professor walked into Summer Place one spring night with six students. A day later, he and only five others walked out alive.”
Kelly finally looked directly at the head of entertainment. His brow was furrowed, and she knew that he had just figured out what the meeting was about.
“Since 2003 and the Professor Kennedy incident, the house has truly remained empty except for the Johanssons—a local family hired as caretakers in 1940 and paid handsomely by the Lindemann estate. The house continues to sit in the peaceful valley, and anyone traveling the lonely roads in the Poconos may still happen upon Summer Place. Its gabled roof still stands tall against the blue summer sky, and if you happen by in winter, smoke still billows from her main chimney like a talisman against the freezing onslaught of the season. Eunice Johansson still changes the bed linens in the twenty-five bedrooms and suites religiously every other week. She polishes the wood floors every month. The felt on the billiard table is brushed, and the table itself is leveled. The pool is drained every fall and refilled promptly the second week of spring. Though there are no horses at Summer Place these days, the straw inside the stables is still tossed bi-monthly. Fresh water is still changed out daily for animals that will never drink it.”
Kelly started to gather a few items from her case, unnoticed. The presentation continued under the deep, soothing voice of the narrator.
“Summer Place stands and waits, still looking like a home from a fairytale. It pays no mind to the ghostly rumors that permeate the valley, spoken in hushed whispers in the nearby small towns. The rumors sometimes attract the curious, as rumors of a house that is supposedly haunted will, but those wishing to test the myths find Summer Place as well guarded as the castles of olden days. From the road, the upright lines and warm glowing windows of Summer Place and its benign atmosphere lend no credence to the ghost stories. It is a beautiful estate, with a foundation strong and sound, the walls and doors upright and tight, and always sensibly shut, just like Ms. Jackson’s story says they should be. And when you look at Summer Place, always from a distance, a line from The Haunting of Hill House may come to mind: “Whatever walked in Hill House, walked alone.” This was the heart of her terrifying story, and it may also be true of Summer Place—the resemblance is just too strong to ignore.
“Whatever walked there, walked alone.”
Jason Sanborn raised the lights and paused to survey the faces around the table. They looked confused, but also interested. He moved to his seat as Kelly passed sheaves of paper around the conference table, saving the last for the silent man at its head.
“The following transcript is the last journal entry of Professor Gabriel Kennedy, Head of Behavioral Sciences at the University of Southern California. It was found on June 19, 2003 by the Pennsylvania State Police, and entered as evidence in the official state report.”
Each person studied the paper before them.
NOTE: The enclosed memo is for Entertainment Network Management only.
June 19, 2003—03:35 AM
The search for Jessica and Warren was halted fifteen minutes ago on my orders. Sarah Newman and John Kowalski were the only two students to return from the third floor. Pete Halliburton and Francis Dial are here with me in the ballroom. At this point, I must note that Pete is angry and close to becoming violent since I ordered everyone out of the house. He only calmed down when Jessica arrived at the bottom floor, terrified but very much alive.
Three witnesses reported that Warren was pulled into the third floor wall, but as a rational man, I cannot accept this version of events. I checked the plaster underneath the wallpaper and found it to be sound. I admit to chills when I found his glasses and class ring at the wooden baseboard, at the very spot where this event is said to have occurred. And there was something else that I shoved in my coat pocket before any of my students could see it. At first, the small pieces of metal confounded me. But when I examined them outside later, they looked like fillings, quite possibly from Warren’s teeth. Could this be clinical mass hysteria? Regardless of what I think, this house—or my students’ perception of it—has become dangerous to the point that we must leave. We will return with qualified people to search for my student. I will make an entry once we have left Summer Place.
As I write this, I have learned that until further evidence is recovered, I am to be held for questioning in Philadelphia. Members of the constabulary are not buying my students’ story and they look at me as if I was a roach that crawled out of their kitchen cabinets. I feel horrified. The longer they look at me in that way, the longer it will take to find out what really happened to Warren. I will leave my notebook on the table in the ballroom so that my students may find it. If the worst happens, I trust them to take it back to the university.
“The second page of the memo is of most importance,” Kelly said. She found she couldn’t even face the people around the room now. Instead she focused on the large window.
The man at the head of the table watched Kelly’s back for a moment, and then looked at his people around the table. His left brow rose. They were interested in the strange tale Kelly had related to them. He watched them as they read the addendum to the memo.
Addendum to memo for network eyes only—
Note: Pennsylvania State Police Sergeant Andrew Monahan recovered the notebook inside the ballroom that had been left by Kennedy the night before. After the last entry by Professor Kennedy, and scribbled on the lower half of the same page, was a cryptic note that has since proven not to be in Kennedy’s handwriting. The same message was written on the wall where the student vanished. The message had not been there when the police conducted their search, but was discovered after the house had been vacated and taped off for the night. In effect, someone had written the passage and the wall graffiti while the police were still present but posted outside the house. It is worthy of note that Kennedy was under observation by two state troopers at that time. Two days later, the Pennsylvania State Crime Lab examined the substance used to write both entries and declared it “an unknown material.”
A facsimile of the entry depicted in Kennedy’s journal was obtained by a network contact inside the Pennsylvania judicial system. (name withheld for security purposes)
The message written in the journal and on the wall was:
THEY ARE MINE
PART ONE
THE PITCH
Burbank, California
Kelly Delaphoy waited for her presentation, and the accompanying memo, to set in like rainwater soaking into dry, barren earth. It was exactly what she thought of their minds: barren. She continued watching their faces. Maybe her words, along with those of the former anchorman, would sink in slowly, or maybe the tale would just run off like rainwater against hardpan soil. She hoped it would spark thought and planning, but knew their unimaginative minds only saw dollar signs in everything they considered—which, she noted with reluctance, was why they were all in the positions they were in.
“As you can see in the folders before you, I was sent a copy of the investigation by a network contact at the Pennsylvania State Police. It was verified by a court clerk who filed several injunctions after rulings in the Kennedy case.”
The men and women sat around the large conference table and eyed the beautiful young woman with suspicion as she stood smiling an arrogant smile. Only her producer, Jason Sanborn, pretended to read the package she had painstakingly pieced together and placed before them, although he knew the contents almost as well as Kelly did.
“I assume you know that possessing this report is a criminal offense, since the case hasn’t been closed yet.”
Kelly looked straight into the eyes of Lionel Peterson, who sat motionless at the head of the table. She refused to rise to the challenge of a remark laid out like bait to a starving fish. Peterson thought she feared him, or was at the very least intimidated, as he intimidated so many others in this room. However, she had the hottest show on the network and was personally responsible for bringing in countless millions of advertising dollars. The smug president of the UBC entertainment division was helpless to do anything about her small legal transgressions unless she was caught by the authorities, and that would never happen. She eyed Peterson, which she knew irritated him to no end. The thought that the former stock analyst, with his slicked back black hair and his Armani suit, could make her cower in fear was almost laughable to her. He had the reputation of being a shark, and everyone at the network from Los Angeles to corporate in New York knew he was after only one thing: the position of network president. There was only one thing standing in Lionel’s way, and that was the seventy-two-year-old chairman and CEO.
“It’s nothing I haven’t done fifty times for this show, as far back as when we were a mere half-hour throwaway on basic cable in Cincinnati. I never use these types of items in our case studies, so no one is ever the wiser. And you have never once questioned my research, as long as the advertising money comes in.” She continued to challenge Peterson, staring directly at him. “Should I have also not accepted the notebook and police entries?”
“Okay, let’s put the legalities aside for the moment.” Jason stood and moved to the small refrigerator, removed a bottle of sparkling water and then returned to the conference table. “Did you get a chance to talk with this Harvard educated—” he leaned over and looked at his notes for show as he opened the bottle, “Professor Kennedy?”
For the first time in a production meeting of this nature, Kelly lowered her head, looking defeated just minutes into the expected confrontation. She would corner Jason later about embarrassing her with his question.
“He won’t see me. He wants nothing to do with us,” Kelly finally said.
“You mean you’ve finally come across someone with a little dignity?” Peterson smirked.
“We don’t need him.” Kelly smiled broadly, and then looked around the room for effect while biting her lower lip. It was the best little girl being attacked face she could muster. “I have the sole owner of the estate, the great-grand nephew, Wallace Lindemann.”
That created the buzz she was hoping for. People started talking all at once. Her show, Hunters of the Paranormal, would indeed air live in two months on Halloween night from the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania; she knew it by the excitement in the room. They had already forgotten about her not being able to obtain the reclusive psychiatrist, Gabriel Kennedy.
As she looked from person to person, her eyes finally fell on Lionel Peterson. He was looking at her with his left eyebrow raised once more, in that maybe you have us hooked, and maybe you don’t way of his. Peterson had been overruled two years before by the man who had previously sat in the entertainment president’s chair, and so a small cable series that had shown promise in the ratings had become a network franchise that was now a juggernaut according to the television God, Nielsen. The man just would not, could not, let go of his failure and embarrassment at the way Kelly had outmaneuvered him years ago.
Peterson slapped the table twice. His entertainment people quieted, returning to some semblance of a professional group.
“I can’t help but think we’ll look like Johnny-come-latelys on this, Kelly. I mean, so many ghost hunter shows have investigated the Lindemann summer house and found absolutely nothing since this Kennedy fiasco—they couldn’t even air the footage they had in the can.”
Kelly was actually stunned that Peterson knew of the summer house and its television history. She tried not to show her surprise.
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.”