Hush

HUSH

EVA KONSTANTOPOULOS

Copyright

AuthorHouse™

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No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 6/5/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0291-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0292-3 (e)

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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Original Cover Design: Matthew Blom

Original Photo: Andrea Konstantopoulos

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Contents

Contents

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10

About The Author

It is wonderful that five thousand years have now elapsed since the creation of the world, and still it is undecided whether or not there has ever been an instance of the spirit of any person appearing after death. All argument is against it; but all belief is for it.

Samuel Johnson, quoted by James Boswell

1

1

The dream is always the same. It’s just a trickle at first, dark hallways, empty rooms, but then I see a face. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, a little girl’s mouth covered with tape. The room is damp and cold and simple, a chair in the middle of it all. That’s where the girl sits in a yellow dress, hands bound and feet dangling off the floor.

I want to tell the girl to run, to fight back, to scream, but I can’t move my lips. I can only watch as a hand strips off the tape over the girl’s mouth and picks up a pair of pliers, the hand tilting the girl’s head back and prying her mouth open. The pliers reach down, pulling on the girl’s tongue, stretching it longer and longer, the walls closing in and the girl’s eyes pleading…

“Freak!”

I sit up in the back seat and look out the window. Our client’s not here yet. Thank God. We’re parked on a quaint residential street a few miles from campus. Although this is the third house we’ve done and we’re getting into a routine, I still feel guilty about our little business.

Jackson, my big brother, grins at me from the driver’s seat. “You really got to stop talking in your sleep.”

“I wasn’t,” I say, feeling saliva running down my cheek. Crap. I look over to Elliot, who fiddles with an EMF meter next to me. He smiles politely and I wipe the drool from my face. Classy, Angela. Really classy.

“That same dream again?” Elliot asks.

I nod. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

“Bullshit,” Jackson quickly chimes in. “You’re just not sleeping. It’s those pills. You need to get off them.”

“She’s had the same dream for months,” Elliot says.

Jackson’s girlfriend, Beth, turns around in the front seat. Her blonde, silky hair cascades around her face. She could be a model if she wasn’t so obsessed with my brother. “Maybe you should go see someone?” she says.

“Yeah, because she’s loaded.” Jackson rolls his eyes. My brother, like my father, would rather die by firing squad than go to any kind of shrink. It’s partly my mother’s fault. She was such a believer in things that go bump in the night, my father spent most of our childhood trying to prove her wrong. “Remember what we talked about, Ange,” Jackson says. “It’s all in your head. Best thing for you would be to quit. Cold turkey.”

A low ache wraps around my rib cage. When my mother was alive she used to call my recurring dreams premonitions. She’d always tell me to keep a dream journal to watch out for patterns, but I never could get myself to write in one. I wanted my dreams to stay in my head. Committing them to paper made the images more real.

“You have to admit,” Jackson says. “Lately, you’ve been nervous. More than usual.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure how to react, because he’s right. Jackson glances at me in the rear view mirror. “We need to stop hiding,” he says.

“So, you too?” I say. Jackson may not be on meds, but I know he has a secret stash of all kinds of fun stuff back home: oxy, booze, grass, snuff…

“Sure, Ange.” Jackson grips the steering wheel. “I guess. But you’re my main concern. Have you slept this week?”

I haven’t, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.

“After this gig then, we should try it. I’m just saying.”

“Maybe.”

“Those pills have never been good for you. Maybe they helped a little growing up, with all that was going on, with Mom’s condition and going broke. It’s time. To move forward.”

Beth places a hand on his thigh. He smiles at her.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, and I mean it. I really will. The truth is I’m terrified about going off them, but I’d never tell Jackson that. He thinks fear is for the weak.

A blue volkswagon pulls up in the driveway and a sixty-something man wearing a plaid shirt gets out of the driver’s seat. Jackson flashes his trademark smile, all charisma and white teeth. “Mr. Hampton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Mr. Hampton returns Jackson’s smile with a timid upturn of his lips. “You the ghost catching people?” he asks.

“That’s right. As you requested,” Jackson replies.

“Well, you better come in then.”

Mr. Hampton opens the door to his house. He walks slowly up the stairs, deep rings of sweat under his armpits. “I knew I never should have stayed here after she died,” he says. “Millie was never satisfied. Should have known death wouldn’t be any different.”

“Millie…?”

“Oh, my wife,” he says, wiping a thick handkerchief across his forehead. “She was always stomping her feet, thumping her cane on the wall, and now she keeps doing it, pacing back and forth, rocking in her chair. Haven’t been able to sleep.”

“Can we look around?” Elliot says. He leans forward, listening intently. To be honest, I’m surprised Elliot and Jackson are even friends, let alone best friends. Elliot’s the sensitive one. The one who always shows up when he says he will, who doesn’t say much, but when he does, you can tell he’s chosen his words carefully.

Mr. Hampton seems to stall at Elliot’s request. Jackson takes over. “It would help if you show us where you’ve come in contact with Millie,” he says.

“Of course.” Mr. Hampton takes us around the living room, pointing out where he heard the knock, by the fireplace. There, and then again. I take notes. Sometimes I make diagrams. Draw pictures. Anything to keep my hands busy so I don’t have to look Mr. Hampton in the eyes.

He leads us into the kitchen. “Here, in this little door, I heard some scraping, then banging. Knew it was Millie just by the thwacks. She always liked knocking that cane around. Letting me know what was what.”

Elliot bends down and glances through the cupboard. There’s a small hole in the back. He hangs back with me as Mr. Hampton and the others go ahead. “Probably some animal in the walls. Running around. Starving for food,” he says, his voice low.

“Nothing we can’t handle,” I reply, trying not to show how nervous I am. Mr. Hampton looks back at us.

“This is a nice old house, mister,” Elliot says to Mr. Hampton. He runs his hands along the wall. “Good bones.”

Mr. Hampton smiles. “Lived here all my life. Don’t know anything else.”

He takes us up the ladder to the attic. A couple of rats scurry against the wall. Other than that though, there’s just cobwebs, cardboard boxes, lots of dust. We balance on the wooden beams. Elliot helps me down the ladder, wrapping his arms around my waist and lowering me gently to the floor.

After surveying the whole house and detailing all the places Millie has made contact, Mr. Hampton stands by the sink, washing his hands and drying them with a damp washcloth. “So, how are you going to do it?” he asks.

Although this is our third gig and we’ve rehearsed this moment, I find myself frozen, smiling dumbly at our customer. Thankfully, Jackson jumps in. “Mr. Hampton, do you have family you can stay with?” he asks. “It’s best if we investigate the house overnight. Ghosts are more receptive in the nocturnal hours. They can be rather shy during the day.”

“I can go to my daughter’s, I suppose,” he says, a bit hesitant.

“It’s just better for the occupant to lay low and let us do our thing. We will, of course, provide video footage of any contact we have with Millie. In case she wants to say her farewells,” Jackson says.

“It’s also safer,” Beth says. “For you. Less emotional this way.”

“You’re the experts,” Mr. Hampton says. “She’s probably tired of having me around anyway.”

He stands oafishly by the door.

This is wrong, wrong, wrong, I think. I look to Elliot to make sure he agrees with me. He shifts from foot to foot, but doesn’t say anything.

Mr. Hampton hands over the keys. Jackson takes them with a little bow. As the old man leaves, he rests a hand on the wooden doorframe. “Take care, my love,” he says. “Sleep tight.”

When Mr. Hampton shuts the door, we don’t do anything at first. Everyone stands still, studying the old man’s living room. I plop down on the couch. “Can’t believe it worked again,” I say.

“I know,” Elliot replies.

“Of course it works. We’re pros,” Jackson says.

“Next time this might be more efficient if we have them stay,” Beth says, hooking up the computer equipment.

“You think?” Jackson asks.

“Definitely. Get in, get out. Then we spend less time with the wackos.”

Jackson kisses Beth. “Revise. Rinse. Repeat.” He claps his hands together. “Alright then. Let’s get to work.”

I lift the window curtain and peer out into the driveway. Mr. Hampton sits in his car, staring off into space. Elliot sidles up next to me. We watch him start the car and slowly reverse, backing out onto the street.

“Let’s go, Ange,” Jackson says. “Vamanos.”

Elliot takes out the cameras one by one. I pick up the EMF meter. Jackson studies my face. “Beth, let’s get some more make-up on my sis. Cover up the bags under her eyes.”

“I can do it,” I say.

“You want to borrow some stuff?” Beth asks. She pulls out her arsenal of eye shadows, creams and glosses.

“No. I got it.”

I use the window to apply some concealer. Then I set up candles and place a pendant around my neck. Jackson says it’s important to properly accessorize when on camera. The pendant is my mother’s, though she hardly wore it. She liked to be free of jewelry, that way the spirits wouldn’t have anything to latch onto, but little bells and whistles like pendants tend to put our customers at ease.

Jackson turns out the lights. I watch the candle flames cast long shadows along the walls.

“Don’t just stand there,” Jackson says. I resume position, sitting Indian-style on the floor. Jackson turns to Elliot. “Get it rolling, man. Do your thing.”

“My…thing?”

“Loser. You’re the ghost.”

“Right.” Elliot collects his duffel bag of goodies and walks to the back of the house.

“Spirits, if you’re here, show yourselves,” I say, palms facing up. There’s shuffling, and then banging from above us.

“You hear that?” Jackson asks off screen.

There are two more thumps from above. I nod gravely, making sure my walkie is close enough for Elliot to hear what I’m saying. “Millie!” I call. “We wish you no harm. We only ask that you let your husband go about his day in peace. You’re scaring him, Millie. If you can hear me, please. Show me you’re with us.”

We wait a moment. Two bumps come from the attic. A soft reply.

“Millie? Is that you?” I ask. More thumps from upstairs. I hear Elliot climb swiftly down the attic stairs. Beth keeps the camera off him, giving him time in the next room.

The lights flicker. I walk into the next room with our Infrared Camera. On the wall are dozens of handprints.

“That’s impossible,” I say, hamming it up. “Millie, you need to rest now. Let Mr. Hampton rest.” I’m not sure how Elliot did it, but there are six or seven handprints on the ceiling, too.

Jackson nods to me from behind the camera, giving two thumbs up. Beth turns the camera off. “That was good,” Jackson says.

“Where’s Elliot?” I ask.

We find him dangling from an air vent.

“That’s it?” he says. He holds a loose wooden board connected to a wire. “Found what was causing the banging,” he says. “There are tons of loose boards up there. I secured a few. Probably should go up for all of them though.”

“Good thinking,” Jackson says. He tests a floorboard with his shoe. “We need to secure these, too,” he says.

“You made a great ghost.” I smile. Elliot gives me a small hug.

“Come on people,” Jackson says. “Let’s do this.”

We go to work fixing the floorboards and make sure there are no loose beams. Then we replace rusty nails, tighten leaky faucets, wash the comforter on the bed, fluff the pillows, and even manage to lure two chipmunks out of the hole in the cupboard (with excessive amounts of cheese and whatever else we can find in Mr. Hampton’s mostly empty fridge). By sunrise, the house is practically brand new, and if not that, at least it’s tidier. Cleaner.

Still, I’m convinced Mr. Hampton isn’t going to buy any of this. After all, we pretty much winged it, and none of us can really see ghosts. I keep practicing my poker face like Jackson taught me, expecting the worst, but when Mr. Hampton appears a little after dawn he takes in the house with fresh eyes.

“Did it work?” he says. “Is she resting? Our home…it looks different.”

Jackson nods. “Of course. A successful ‘cleansing’ if I do say so myself. Here’s the footage. We can watch it if you want. If you’d like to say goodbye.”

If Mr. Hampton had any sense, he’d report us. I hold my breath as he reviews the images, thinking that there’s no way in hell he’ll fall for our low-rent scam. After the footage ends though, Mr. Hampton stares at the screen. It’s a shoddy production. I know this, and Mr. Hampton should know this too, but when he doesn’t say anything, Jackson smiles. “Why don’t you rest up tonight? See if Millie comes back,” he says.

Mr. Hampton nods absent-mindedly, and we show ourselves out.

Elliot shakes his head as we walk to the car. “That was weird,” he says.

“It’s like he forgot why we came,” Beth replies.

“That’s what we get when our clientele’s pushing seventy,” I say.

Jackson turns, surveying the house. “He’ll come around.”

The next morning though, Mr. Hampton doesn’t come around, or call. He doesn’t contact us that afternoon either. Jackson’s sullen and quiet all day, waiting for the phone to ring. I can’t help but be secretly glad, but I don’t say anything. It’s only later that night when I’m at the kitchen table watching Jackson cooking ramen noodles that I finally blurt out what I’m really thinking. “We gave it our best shot,” I say. “Maybe we weren’t meant to follow in Mom’s footsteps.”

Jackson eyes me over the steaming water. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he says.

“I’m serious, Jackson. I mean, hey, it’s probably for the best. That old man had no idea what we were doing. If anyone watched that footage they’d know we were liars.”

“We’ll get better,” Jackson replies. “We’ll adapt.”

“Mr. Hampton’s probably reporting us right now.”

Jackson stirs his noodles. “Would you relax?” he says, but he’s pensive, looking at the clock. At around six that night, Jackson says to hell with waiting and gives the old man a call. The gang looks on as the phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Then four. On the fifth ring Mr. Hampton picks up the phone.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Mr. Hampton says. “I’ve never slept this good in years.”

“Tell all your friends,” Jackson replies, high-fiving Elliot and then making arrangements to pick up the check.

After he hangs up the phone, Jackson slaps me on the back. “You’ve done good,” he says. “Really good. Now we just need to deal with this.” He taps my head and winks.

I reassure myself that Mr. Hampton is our last client, and that surely no one will ever be foolish enough to call us again, but it doesn’t happen like that. Word spreads fast. We refine our process. Jackson takes the lead even more than before, and the money starts flowing. We don’t think much of it. We just keep going.

I get off the pills, like Jackson suggests. I’m not too happy about it, but Jackson insists there’s no other way. “We need to work as a team,” he says. “And those pills dull your senses.” We’re in the bathroom and he has my pill bottle poised over the toilet. With one nod, that’s all it takes, he tips the plastic bottle and all those beautiful colored pills plop in the water. Flush. Even though I know there are ways to cheat Jackson, I want to make him proud too. Maybe there isn’t anything to be scared of. Maybe the nightmares are all in my head.

More and more clients call. Our business grows. We even appear on the local news and get our photo snapped for the paper, though our smiling faces in the photo are unnaturally pale, making us appear ghoulish and out of place. The reporter asks us questions: “And what sort of training did you receive? Did your mother teach you everything you know?”

Jackson coaches everyone to sound vague, but motivational, so we don’t really answer any questions at all, and surprisingly enough, his plan works. For some reason unforeseen to me, everyone just nods and smiles, accepting what we do, even calling it a whimsical part of the community. Townsfolk shake our hands. “Good job,” they say, making our scheme seem almost okay, even harmless.

At night, I begin to dream about the faces of our clients, their hopeful, tortured eyes just wanting peace. It makes me toss and turn, thinking about how happy they are when the noises stop, and all it takes is a new nail in a floorboard, the removal of a dead raccoon in the wall, the organization of a basement’s clutter, changing an old light bulb or straightening a step so it doesn’t creak.

These ghosts, these stupid, stupid ghosts, are easily disposed of by merely cutting back the branches on a tree or providing a little landscaping in the backyard. Most of our clients just need someone to look after them, to make sure there are no loose ends.

Afterwards, without fail, we walk around the house with our clients like good old friends, clasping hands, sometimes exchanging hugs. None of them ever ask for a refund, though they do wonder where the ghosts go after we’re done. Nowhere and everywhere, I want to say, because all the ghosts vanish once we leave the perimeters, disappearing into the ether. Like magic. Voilà.

2

2

I don’t want to go to the house on Maple Drive, but Jackson says if I bail, everyone will know we’re a sham. So, I go. I get in the car and we drive up into this polished neighborhood with perfect cars and perfect families. Except everything isn’t perfect. That’s the thing about death. It touches everyone. Even people with perfect lawns.

Elliot is checking all of the equipment beside me, while Jackson hums to the song on the radio, tapping his hands on the wheel. Even Beth is singing along. All I want to do is to crawl back into bed and not think about what we’re doing, but Jackson will never go for that. Especially since I’m the main attraction.

The car chugs up the hill, stopping at a red light. Then the engine coughs. The starter catches, rolls, and then completely dies.

Jackson curses and cranks the ignition. Next to us, there’s this polished lady in a SUV. She glances over at our dented Chevy Tahoe and brushes back her hair with perfectly manicured nails.

“Should’ve taken it in,” I say.

“Shut up, Ange,” Jackson replies. He cranks it again. The engine whirs pathetically.

“You’re gonna flood it,” Elliot says. For just a second I entertain the possibility that he’s standing up for me too.

“We’d already be there if someone wasn’t late…” Jackson glances back at Elliot.

“I told you. Need to build my creds at the firm. Besides, I can’t exactly put this on my resume.”

“Why the hell not?” Jackson counters.

“I don’t know. Some of us actually want to finish college?” Elliot replies.

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