David Golemon: The Supernaturals

She could see the gears turn in his head. If corporate wanted their star reporter in on this, it was so that entertainment could help prop up the sagging ratings of the news division. Ultimately, it would help those people he just mentioned — the ones who were good at their jobs.

“You’re taking an awful big risk for a house that, at least historically speaking, is not in the least bit haunted, despite the shady testimonials of people not named in your research,” he said. “Correct me if I’m wrong here, but wasn’t it Julie Reilly who made her bones by hanging Professor Kennedy, asserting that he was a publicity-seeking opportunist who wanted nothing more than to sell books. I believe she reported that an unnamed source claimed that the only way he could do that would be to have at least one of his students vanish into thin air. She cost him his career, and now corporate wants her to tag along? Ms. Reilly is another person who climbed to power by not naming her sources. This is quite a cast of characters you’ll be pulling together, Kelly.”

“Look, there have been other deaths at the estate. And if it was a hoax, why hasn’t this student ever turned up? I’m willing to cut Julie Reilly loose and see her investigate that , regardless of the outcome — it would make just as good a story if we could prove Kennedy is a nutcase and a murderer, or at the very least, the opportunist you claim he is. The angle here is the missing student and the stories about the house’s past.”

“What other deaths? I thought the only incidents were a disappearance, a horse riding accident and a supposed assault.”

“Several prominent families have died on their way home from weekend stays at the retreat in the twenties and thirties…maybe not right at Summer Place, but on the roads leading from it. You see, it’s not just the earlier stories that will sell the show, it’s everything rolled into one ball. And one very important bit of information you’re overlooking, Lionel, is the small fact that Kennedy has refused to write or discuss a word of that night, even though one publishing house offered him a flat two million dollars in advance money. And that, Lionel, is documented and quotable.”

The conference room grew quiet.

“This house sits on land that has some of the most treacherous roads in Pennsylvania. Let me venture further, most of these accidents occurred long before there were paved roads in the area. Am I correct?”

“I really haven’t checked the—”

“In addition, the fact is that the longer Professor Kennedy waits, the more money he will get when he finally does write his book. Am I right?”

Kelly Delaphoy raised her eyes from the table and looked into Peterson’s. She knew he was attacking her because of her discussion with corporate. She had a good guess he also knew she was after his job, just as he was after the CEO’s.

“Yes on one, but not on the other two points. Kennedy was frightened by something in that house. In order for him to write about it, he would have to relive it. He doesn’t want to do that.” She looked at the faces around the table that were silent, waiting for her last push. “I believe there is something here that goes far beyond the accidents, the opera star, actress, the columnist, and finally the Kennedy incident. This Halloween special will bring viewership to an all-time high. I’ll see to it that all these puzzle pieces fit into one terrifying eight hour show. And here’s something for you to chew on: the reason Professor Kennedy chose this house above all others when he sought his research grant from USC, was the fact that it supposedly scared the holy shit out of one of America’s literary giants, Shirley Jackson.”

“ The Haunting of Hill House was required reading in English Lit,” Jason Sanborn offered, lowering his water bottle to the table and then looking up in thought. “What was the famous passage from that book of hers?”

Kelly could have kissed Jason for his quick thinking. She would now let that earlier indiscretion pass. She hurriedly rifled through her notes, letting tension build, and then smiled. She quoted from the page even though she knew the passage by heart: “No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.”

“You have to admit, Lionel, that coupled with these tales, this whole thing is pretty creepy stuff,” Sanborn said. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and placed it in his mouth.

All eyes turned to Peterson, whose jaw muscles were working as he looked at Kelly. She could see the hatred in his eyes at what she had done, but she knew with this latest bit of information out in the open, others would now bring pressure to bear on the entertainment president.

“I’ll let you know in twenty-four hours,” Peterson said. “I don’t have to be in New York for five more weeks.”

“But we need to get—”

“Kelly, I said twenty-four hours, and not one minute before. And leave the Kennedy file here with me. I want to look it over.”

Kelly slid the thick file down the long table, passing it from one person to another until it reached Peterson’s girlish hands. She then picked up her laptop computer and bag. She started to say something, then thought better of it. A few executives nodded their supposed support as they left the room. Her eyes went to the four inch-thick file on Professor Kennedy sitting under Peterson’s hand. She bit her lower lip, hesitated, and then turned and left.

Once he was alone in the conference room, Peterson opened the file to the eight by ten color glossy of the house in question. Kelly hadn’t even had the good sense to issue a black and white photo to give the mansion a more sinister look. His lips curled into a sneer. The picture showed a flattering view of the property. The four-story Summer Place had a pool that would make any hotel in Las Vegas envious. It had the kinds of gardens and walkways you would see on European estates.

Peterson shook his head and wondered what a joint like that would cost to build in today’s dollars. All of this opulence from money provided by the sewing machine — well, that, and ten thousand sweat-factory workers in New York City. He perked up at that thought, and then just as quickly deflated. It had been a well-known fact that the Lindemanns, at least the founding branch, had been the least likely candidates for scandal. They treated their workers like family and were never even remotely scrutinized for any wrongdoing. They had three schools and six parks named after them in Philadelphia and New York. No, no angle there to play. It was Kelly’s slant or nothing. Anyway, since it had already been brought to the attention of the president of the network and the board of directors, he could do little about it.

As he looked at the picture of Summer Place, his eyes wandered over to the black and white photo of Professor Gabriel Kennedy that was stapled to the opposite side of the folder.

What happened to you and your supposedly lost student, Professor? Peterson asked himself. Knowing that just may give me a leg up on our little spook girl.

The picture of Kennedy, of course, did not answer. It only stared back at Peterson with the eyes of a haunted man. He had screamed for three solid months about the house in the Poconos — the house that everyone said could never be haunted. The house that was indeed not just haunted, but a killing place.