The Haunting of Westbane

Elijah I watched my uncle’s face expectantly. Patrick Reddick was a producer for the streaming network, The Great Unknown. I was hoping that he would show a little nepotism towards me, his dear nephew. As he watched the episode I had edited as a proposed pilot, he wore the best poker face I’ve ever seen. My friends and I had been running a channel for paranormal investigations on a video platform since high school. What had started as a personal curiosity had morphed into an ongoing series. In truth, it had become my obsession. It helped that the channel had garnered enough followers to pull in a small income, but I was eager to take it to the next level. That’s where Uncle Patrick came in. He sat back as the episode ended, and the credits flickered across the screen of the laptop. I waited anxiously for him to say something, anything, but he just stared at the screen and tapped his fingers on the table. “So?” I couldn’t take the silence anymore. “It's good, right? I mean, the evidence is solid. We’ve captured electronic voice phenomena, full-figure apparitions, and did you see that door that opened by itself?” Patrick crossed his arms over his barrel chest and looked at me through his thick glasses. “I know what an EVP is, Eli. Look, these ghost-hunter shows are a dime a dozen. Every network has them... the Travel Channel, the History Channel... so tell me, what makes your concept any different from all those?” “Because we approach each situation in a completely scientific manner. We’re the only impartial voice out there. When the stories can be debunked, we do it. When there is hard evidence, we capture it. We’ve got top-of-the-line equipment. You know our tech guy, Brendan? He invented and patented a lot of the tools we are using – no one else even has the stuff we have. We’re ahead of the--” “It's boring.” My uncle interrupted me. I gaped at him. “Wh--What? How can you say it's boring?” “It's too dry, too clinical, there is no human interest...” “But...” I floundered with my words. Human interest? They were ghosts. Did they really count as humans anymore? “Your episode needs more drama, more interpersonal interaction. You need a woman on your team, you need some s****l tension. And,” he looked at me over his glasses, his eyebrows raising in emphasis, “you need a good psychic.” I felt my stomach drop. Precisely the hoopla I’d been avoiding since we started. I wanted to capture real phenomena. I wanted to collect evidence that could be presented, tested, and proven. I didn’t want some aging hippy conducting seances. And I sure as hell didn’t need some silly woman on the team distracting us from our work with short skirts and cleavage. My uncle pushed the laptop back across the table towards me. “You look like your favorite puppy just died. It’s not a total loss. Spice it up a little bit, make me another pilot, and I’ll see what I can do.” I slipped my laptop into its case and tried to stuff down my disappointment. “Okay. Thanks a lot for taking a look at it.” He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, “You’ve got potential, Eli. Aside from the solid evidence, the cinematography is excellent. The editing is spot on. Your episodes run very smoothly, and that’s a decided advantage over some of the big-time shows right now. I hate that choppy s.hit. The problem is that, up until now, your target audience has been other paranormal fanatics. Now you need to attract the interest of the general public. A bored housewife, an overworked surgeon, a mechanic, a waitress, a school teacher. How can you rope in the average Joe? They will get bored with the technical jargon, they need a storyline to follow.” “Okay,” I said, blowing out a breath, “I’ll work on it.” “Great,” he gave me a toothy smile and let me out of his office. I took the elevator down to the lobby and walked out to where I had parked my van. I swore as I took the parking ticket off my windshield and stuffed it into my glove box. It took almost an hour to drive back to the suburbs where I lived in the house I had inherited from my parents. My best friend and housemate was waiting for me in the garage, which also doubled as our film studio. “How’d it go man...oh no, I can tell by the look on your face that it didn’t go well.” Jeremy rolled his office chair up to my workstation, the wheels groaning under his extra “big-and-tall” sized body. I set my laptop case on the table and dropped into the plastic lawn chair at my makeshift desk. “He said it was boring,” I grumbled, rubbing my eyes, which felt gritty and tired from the long drive. “Boring!” Jeremy’s normally deep voice squeaked with indignation. “Did he see the door open? That s.hit still gives me goosebumps. How can he say it was boring?” “Patrick says it needs more ‘human interest’. He wants to see a psychic. And a female investigator. More drama, more s*x appeal, more interaction.” “Damn.” Jeremy rubbed his dark shiny head, which he always kept impeccably shaved bald. Then he looked a little awkward. “Well... I know a psychic... kinda.” I scrunched up my nose. I believed in ghosts. I wasn’t sure I believed in psychics. Or mediums. Or anyone who claimed to see dead people. “You… know… a psychic? A real psychic? Or do you just know one of those gypsy wanna-be's that reads tarot cards at the fair?” “No,” he said, looking slightly offended. “I’m pretty sure she’s the real deal. Remember my cousin? Mayah?” “Serious? Mayah?” When we were growing up, sometimes Mayah would tag along while we played. She was a skinny kid with honey-brown skin, wild hair, and big, vacant eyes. I always thought maybe she had some kind of special need or a disability or something. “Yeah, you know...” he looked uncomfortable, “we don’t talk about it a whole lot, it's kind of a family secret. But she does see things, sometimes she knows things. I’m telling you, man, it’s spooky.” “You’re spooky, J.” “Come on, Elijah, cut me some slack here. I’m serious.” “Yeah. Seriously nuts.” I always thought Mayah was just kind of weird. I hadn’t seen her in years, but I still thought it was suspect. Maybe it was her way of getting attention or something. Still, we needed a psychic. “I don’t know...” I sighed. Well, s.hit. If we had to spice things up, we might as well keep it all in the family. “Would your cousin be interested in joining the team... maybe on a trial basis?” Jeremy pulled at his earlobe. “I dunno man. She’s kinda shy. I can’t really imagine her talking to the camera and stuff.” I picked up a pen and tapped it in rhythm to my thoughts on the desktop. “Okay... what if she acted more like a consultant... and we could have someone else kind of be her mouthpiece.” My friend shrugged. “I can ask her, I guess. I’m supposed to go over to my aunt Nona’s tomorrow to help her move her new couch, and I can ask then. Man, my aunt makes the best fried chicken…” He rambled on about the food he was going to get as p*****t for his moving services, but I stopped listening. I didn’t have a good feeling about this at all. I felt like my baby, Other World Investigations - my brand, the channel I’d been cultivating and nurturing for the last five years, was about to turn into a three-ring circus. We were going to stage a developmentally disabled young woman as our psychic expert. Then I said, mostly to myself, “And who will we get to be our female investigator?” Jeremy paused his food fantasies, giving me that look he always gave when he realized that I hadn’t been listening. Then he shrugged and offered, “It should be someone hot...someone photogenic...someone who knows how to act in front of a camera...someone who has at least a vague knowledge of the paranormal...” Jeremy met my eyes and I groaned out loud because I knew we were thinking of the same person. “Harley.” Aka, my ex-girlfriend. We had done some investigations together while we were dating, so she knew the ropes. But damn, that was going to be…delicate. We’d ended things amicably and parted on good terms. She gave me the whole, “let's just be friends” spiel, and I had accepted it. But that didn’t mean I liked it. Or that now I could just go ahead and work with her as though it was all cool. Still, I had to agree...she was hot, she had s*x appeal...and she was good in front of a camera. This time my sigh was more like a shudder. “I can’t call her, man.” “No problem. I’ll call her,” he flashed his big white grin, completely ignoring how obvious it was that it would be difficult for me. I rested my head in my hands. “Let’s meet here on Friday,” I said dully. “With Mayah and Harley if they will agree.” I let my pen fall lifelessly on the scratched wood surface and watched it roll to a stop. “Let's do a couple of test runs, to see if we can make it work.” Oh man, the things I was willing to do just to land a damn spot on a network. Was this what selling your soul felt like?