John Manning - The Killing Room

“Hello, Kip,” Carolyn said.

They embraced. Douglas was surprised by how young Kip Hobart was. He’d expected an expert in the supernatural would be an old man with a white beard. But Kip couldn’t have been more than forty, and was quite handsome, with a broad smile and a strong jaw. His sandy hair was fading to white at the temples, and there was a weather-beaten feel to his skin, but his eyes were very young. Watching the affectionate greeting Kip gave Carolyn, Douglas found himself a little jealous. The suddenness of the feeling surprised him.

“Kip,” Carolyn was saying, “this is Douglas Young.”

The man’s eyes filled with compassion as he extended his hand. “Your father was a good man. A brave man. Not a day passes that I don’t think of him.”

Douglas shook his hand. He couldn’t speak. He just nodded.

Inside the cottage, the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books, many of them old and dusty. Douglas had expected to see skulls and crystal balls in the home of a guy who made his living chasing the supernatural, but the most unusual thing in the place was a framed movie poster of Freaks, complete with pinheads. Other than that it was a simple place, with an old sofa covered with a striped afghan, wicker baskets on the walls, and a big conch shell sitting on top of the old television set.

A woman that Kip introduced as Georgeanne served them all hot cups of coffee. “The days are getting cooler out here,” Kip said, and they all nodded. Georgeanne was maybe thirty, a beautiful dark-skinned woman with short hair. Her accent sounded Caribbean. From their intimacy, the way they smiled at each other and gently touched each other’s arms, Douglas assumed that Kip and Georgeanne were either married or in a relationship. It chased away any lingering thoughts of jealousy.

They sat on the back deck overlooking the marsh. Another heron had joined the first, and a dozen or so ducks paddled along the perimeter. Carolyn held her coffee mug in both hands to warm them. She couldn’t shake the chill.

Douglas just sat there, staring at Kip, at this man who knew more about his family’s secrets than he did.

“I wish I could have saved your father,” Kip said, speaking the words they were all thinking.

“I’m sure you did what you could,” Douglas replied. And sitting there now across from the man, looking into his compassionate eyes, he felt certain that Kip had done everything in his power. He couldn’t blame him for his father’s death.

“I’ve reviewed all your notes and the log you kept,” Carolyn said. “But I still have some questions… That’s why I felt a meeting would be helpful.”

“Of course,” Kip said.

Douglas leaned forward. “I haven’t read anything, so maybe you can just tell me a couple things first, okay?”

Kip nodded.

“When did my uncle approach you? How long did you investigate the room? What made you think you had ended the curse? And why do you think you weren’t successful?”

“Why don’t I begin from the beginning, and I’ll tell you as much as I can?” He settled back in his chair, and Georgeanne moved down to sit on the arm, seemingly as a gesture of support. “Mr. Young found me through an article I’d written about psychic phenomena. I had investigated a strange case of a woman who was apparently the reincarnation of an earlier self, and was compelled to do things that the earlier self wanted. I wrote about how we can distinguish between true psychic phenomena and mental illness, and I suggested ways in which we can corral the psychic energy, contain it, and if necessary, eliminate it.”

“I see why Uncle Howie might have thought you could help.”

“Unfortunately, I only had about a year before the lottery was to take place…”

Carolyn made a small, bitter laugh. “Try dividing that time in twelve, and you’ll see how much time I have.”

Kip gave her a sympathetic face. “Your dilemma is far more difficult, Carolyn, as I told you on the phone. Especially because it seems every route has been tried before. If not by me, then by others over the years. There have been a dozen exorcisms conducted in that house, by Roman Catholic priests and Hindu Brahmins and Wiccan practitioners. None of them ended the power of that room.”

“So there’s no hope,” Douglas said, giving in to despair. “No way to end the curse.”

Kip sighed. “There is always hope, Douglas.” He rubbed his forehead as he struggled for words. “I’m not even sure you can call it a curse, though certainly it feels that way. If it was a curse, we might have been able to end it-because there are ways of removing curses.” He looked over at the woman sitting beside him. “Georgeanne is perhaps the best curse remover on the planet.”

“He flatters me,” she said, a small smile on her lips. “This case was actually how we met. Kip had heard of my work and asked me to accompany him to the house in Maine.” She shook her head. “I have never felt such energy in one place before. The hold that woman has over that family is extraordinary.”

“Okay, hold up,” Douglas said. “What woman? Are you talking about Beatrice? Is she the one who makes the horrible things happen in the room? Because I figured her to be a victim. I figured the bad guy in all this was the creep that people have seen holding the pitchfork. Did he kill Beatrice? Was he the one that did it? Who was he? And why do you say it’s Beatrice who has the hold-”

Kip held up his hands as if to calm him. “Perhaps it’s best that I continue on with my narrative,” he said softly. “Carolyn has read my account. She knows the conclusions that I have drawn. Whether she accepts them or not, time will tell. But for your sake, Douglas, I will continue to share what I experienced and what I believe I discovered.”

Carolyn took another sip of the coffee. It felt good going down, warming her. But its effects were temporary. Within moments she was cold again. She began to think it wasn’t just the raw air coming in off the marsh that chilled her. It was fear.

“I conducted a series of communications in that room,” Kip said. “I did so by rather traditional means, at least in terms of psychic research. I held several séances and brought in two different channelers. I also communicated through untraditional means.” He stood and walked back into the cottage for a moment. They watched as he removed a small device that sat on the shelf of the bookcase. The device looked like an old-fashioned walkie-talkie.

“This was invented by a colleague,” Kip explained as he came back outside. “It transmits frequencies that are beyond the range of the human ear. It also allows our voices to penetrate that frequency. And as a handy-dandy tool, it also records the communication.”

He set the device on a wicker table. Douglas stared at it as Kip pushed a small button. The tape inside the device whirred. Then a piercing sound suddenly filled their ears. It was some kind of a whistle, extremely high-pitched. They all winced.

“What is it?” Douglas asked, covering his ears.

“Listen,” Kip told him.

The whistle continued on for nearly a minute, making Douglas want to bolt from his seat. Then it stopped abruptly and was replaced by a voice.

A woman’s voice.

“Love,” she said.

Even Carolyn looked perplexed.

“Love,” the voice said again. “It is love. Love. It is love.” The voice sounded sad, terribly sad, as if it might break at any time.

“Are you saying love?”

This was Kip’s voice, crackly and higher than the way he spoke normally, but clearly him. The device had recorded him trying to speak to whatever force was in the room.

“Love,” the woman’s voice repeated. “It is love.”

“Love,” Kip echoed. “Love. L-O-V-E.”