“Would you mind putting something on? Mygrandparents had one just like this. I never thought I’d see one again, nevermind hear one.”
I pulled out “Agents of Fortune” by BlueOyster Cult. The opening of “This Ain’t The Summer of Love” sounded like shitcoming out of the horn, tinny and scratchy. But it wasn’t the music I washearing, it was the whispering behind the music. Julian Black had allthe answers. His master’s voice.
Later that night, I sat on the couch andbegan writing in the journal.
GhostMaker
Emma J.Gibbon
Iam a man who creates ghosts for a living. Ghost Catcher is in its fourthseason now and I’ve been there since the beginning as their only cameraman. I’msure you’ve seen it on the Paranormal Channel, at least the commercials. Twofriends dedicated to unveiling the truth about the supernatural after a sharedhigh school experience. In reality, Jamie and Trent are two pretty faces pickedup by the production company to run around in the dark and get excited about“orbs.” They’re household names now. You can even buy t-shirts with theirfake-tan faces on them. I make fun of them, but they’re genuine guys. Theyreally believe in this supernatural stuff. They know about the fake stuff wepull, but all the things they say on the talk shows about the show being like abig happy family—they mean that.
Todaywe’re at an old Cape in Connecticut. The owner is typical of who we get writingin: an overweight housewife with a homely face and too bright lipstick. She hasgood hair, though, and when I look over at Bob, the production manager, hiseyes are big and shiny like a puppy. He has a soft spot for women like her.
“Dave,”he says to me, “show the young lady the new camera,” and I oblige. I can seeBob’s round face going red when she smiles at him. He’s been lonely since hiswife left him last year. He just wants someone to go home to after work. His exgot bored with him and started going to night classes and retreats. Last Iheard she was traveling in Egypt with a women’s group. I should just get him ona dating site. Poor guy is so lonely.
Ithink about my wife and what she’ll be like at that age. In my head I’vealready divorced myself from Jackie’s future. Divorced myself from her but Idon’t have the balls to do it in actuality. I won’t know her when she gets tobe that old. I never saw us in the future. When she used to talk aboutgrowing old together, I let my thoughts drift away to avoid listening to herand think that one day, I would be sure, stay or leave. But I just keepfloating on and am non-committal as ever.
Thehousewife thinks she’s psychic (they all do), but these days the word is‘sensitive.’ “I’ve seen a full-bodied apparition,” she says, eyes wide. “ACivil War soldier who walked from here,” she points to a threadbare sofa, “tohere.” With a flourish, she motions to the door and I move the camera. Nextwe’re going to film the attic section. The golden duo isn’t here yet; they showup for the night filming.
Peoplethink we just film overnight, but what they don’t know is that it takes atleast a week to film enough that is usable, even with all our trickery. Perhapstrickery is too strong a word for it. It doesn’t take much to pause acamera in order to make something appear to move on its own: a chair, abedspread, a Bible if we’re going for the demon thing, or use a piece offishing line to pull the back of someone’s sweater. Doors will close on theirown with a swift kick, and a disembodied voice can easily rise from the ductsystem. This is what I spend my life doing.
I’dlike to say there is some art to it, but really there isn’t. Most of it wedon’t need to fake: an old furnace will produce the bangs, dust makes greatorbs, a creaky floorboard is a godsend, and warm breath in a cold room can makea convincing, eerie mist. I’m sworn to secrecy but everyone knows. As long aswe spook the viewers and get the ratings, no-one cares. I think the viewersknow, too. Most people aren’t that stupid; they just want to be entertained.Occasionally we have the odd thing we can’t explain, but we couldn’t make ashow on it.
Ifollow Bob’s chubby butt up the steps to the attic. Once we’re there, the airis stuffy like any other, and I’ve been in quite a few. Old toys and Christmasdecorations spill out of soggy cardboard boxes. My throat starts to clog withdust and insulation fibers. This place is about as paranormal as Chuck E.Cheese.
“Wesometimes sense a young presence here…” I miss the rest of what the woman issaying. I can see Bob trying his best not to ogle her breasts. They’resubstantial, and heave with emotion as we interview her. Bob has frosting onhis chin from eating doughnuts at breakfast. The lady is still talking, “That’swhy we keep these toys up here. My children have outgrown them now. I couldgive them to Goodwill...” I think of Jackie. There will be no toys in ourattic.
* * *
Itwas a month ago and a Saturday, late at night; I was at home in the denflipping through channels. You’d think I’d get sick of TV through work but Ifind it hard to sleep, too used to staying awake all night filming. Jackie cameand stood in the doorway. She was wearing her fluffy white bath robe and herpale yellow hair was floating with static. Behind her was the warm glow fromthe kitchen light. Her face flickered blue with the screen.
“Weneed to talk,” she said. I felt my stomach plunge with a kind of dread tinged withexcitement, like when you’re a kid and you know you have to have a toothpulled. I looked over at her. Her features were indistinct, mushy.
“What’sthe matter?” I thought she was going to tell me it was over. If she ended itthen I wouldn’t have to.
