Poltergeist (6 page)

Even so, there were things she didn’t accept. She didn’t believe in reincarnation, for instance—for reincarnation necessarily postulated the migration of the soul, and Dr. Lesh didn’t believe in such a thing as a soul. She believed in science.

But she also believed in people, and that softened her core. She viewed her research as investigation into human resources as much as inquiry, into the nature of the universe. “The scientist with the heart of gold,” Marty called her.

Marty Lewandowski was the chief lab technician, busily tinkering with the electroencephalograph behind Dr. Lesh now. Marty was twenty-three, thought of himself as a cool dude, and didn’t believe in much of anything but his bi-monthly paycheck. Not that he disbelieved in Lesh’s experiments—he just didn’t really care all that much. It was a nice place to work, though—he was into all the electronics, the people were pretty mellow, the hours were fairly flexible, there were always lots of cute grad students floating around. And Martha was a real human being to work for.

“Out of ink in Lead Eight, Doc,” he called to her back. “How should we interpret that?”

“Just fill it—that’s in your job description, isn’t it?” She smiled without looking up from her papers. They enjoyed teasing each other

“You going over the Tangina transcripts?” he asked.

“Mm hmm. I think a real pattern is emerging, too—whenever she scores high on the psi tests, her EEG demonstrates a statistically significant preponderance of . . .”

“Alpha waves, right?”

“Yes, alpha, but we’ve known that more or less all along. What I see here—and much more so, now that I’m looking for it—is PGO activity. The ponto-geniculo-occipital spikes.”

“Same as you see during REM sleep?”

“Exactly—that’s what makes this finding even more exciting—it seems to suggest that psi phenomena may be related to the dreaming state—which is, of course, anecdotally, what people have always said.”

Ryan walked in and sat down. “You’re not talkin’ about voodoo again, I hope,” he laughed, dumping his books on the table. Ryan Mitchell was one of Dr. Lesh’s grad students. He was bright, energetic, and opinionated. Like Lesh, he’d seen telepathy demonstrated in the lab; unlike her, he generally scoffed at all the rest—for its lack of hard evidence, for the fools and charlatans that glutted the field.

But Ryan was no cynic, merely a skeptic. He maintained rigorous standards of proof, and all things that failed to meet these standards were highly suspect; were, in fact, unworthy, if not totally worthless. A
priori
, of all things he was skeptical. However, once a phenomenon
did
pass his discriminating evaluations, did
not
wither under his scrutiny, held
strong
under the eye of the impartial observer—then Ryan Mitchell believed, and would stand behind that belief against all onslaught.

Unfortunately, most “proofs” of paranormal phenomena failed to meet his strict criteria.

Ryan was convinced, for example, that Tangina was faking.

“Marty was talking about ink,” said Dr. Lesh. “I was talking about Tangina’s EEG.”

“I think we ought to cut her loose,” Ryan went on. “Really, Martha, she’s just jerkin’ our chain.”

“I don’t think so, Ryan. For two reasons. One—I was just telling Marty—is that I’m starting to see a real pattern in her EEG. Here, look at these PGO spikes—they fire each time the transcript was positive for a behaviorally paranormal experience.” Ryan examined the tracings. Lesh continued. “The other reason I don’t think she’s faking is that she’s so upset. She hardly believes in some of these experiences herself—she’d certainly like to be rid of them, and furthermore, would never even have come to us if her sister hadn’t insisted she get ‘cured.’ No, I think Tangina’s the real thing.”

“She’s the real thing, all right,” Ryan said sarcastically.

“What’s up for tonight?” asked Marty.

“Tonight we put it all together,” Lesh said, taking off her glasses, rubbing her eyes. “EEG monitoring, evoked potentials, electromagnetic field analysis, and visuals—first under hypnosis, then during sleep.”

“Well—I think we’re wasting our time. But what the hell—it’s only my education.”

“It’s only my life, Mr. Mitchell,” said Tangina from the doorway.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the three scientists wondered how long she’d been standing there listening. This happened to Tangina not uncommonly, though—these uncomfortable silences. She was a dwarf.

“Ryan meant no insult, Tangina,” Dr. Lesh intervened. “He was a born skeptic. It’s only his way of being . . . scientific.”

“Frankly, doctors, I’m not interested in whether you believe in my powers or not—as long as you find a way to stop my dreams.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Dr. Lesh said gently. “That’s all I can promise you.”

Cumulus clouds were matting the sky once more as Steve drove home Monday evening. He hoped it wouldn’t be another screamer, as Sunday’s had been. They could all use a good night’s sleep tonight.

He groaned as he swung the Country Squire around the last corner and pulled up to his driveway: three garbage cans blocked the entrance.

“Kids,” he muttered, as he stopped the car, got out, and began to move the obstacles. Diane came running out the front door before he d cleared them off.

“Hey, sugar,” he called out. “Guess who just bought P-4 237 . . .”

“C’mere. Hurry,” she panted, grabbing his wrist.

“Whoa, wait a sec, I’m parked in the street.” He’d never seen her like this. She looked pale and flushed at the same time.

“Leave it. Come quick, before it stops again.”

She pulled him at a trot into the house, down the hall, into the kitchen. Sweat covered her forehead; there was a sense of concentrated hysteria about her that Steve had never witnessed: she was right on the edge.

“Babe, what is it, you look . . .”

“Okay, okay . . . look. Okay. Now listen. Robbie and Dana are eating at the Sandersons—I’ve kept them out of it, but Carol Anne’s been in on it from the beginning, but Dana would just start to blab or get embarrassed and Robbie’d be up for the next three weeks sleeping on your side of the bed, and . . .”

“Diane, put the brakes on, will you? Just sit down here a sec, and tell me . . .”

“No, goddammit, you sit down!” She shouted much louder than either of them expected, and it startled them both. She lowered her voice, and went on. “I mean . . . just stand right there. And just . . . just have an open mind.”

Carol Anne walked in, looking cranky. In her hand she carried a San Diego Charger football helmet; on her face she carried a frown. “I’m hungry,” she whined. “Mommy didn’t made dinner.”

“We’ll go to Pizza Hut, all right?” Diane shouted. She caught herself again, made herself calm down.

For the first time, Steve noticed the chalk marks on the floor. Arrows, squares, numbers, like alien hieroglyphics. He had the sudden, sinking fear that Diane was losing her mind.

“Diane—what is going
on
with you!?”

Diane’s lip trembled, her breathing quickened, but she held up her hands as if to say, “I’m fine.” Then, with a sense of purpose that would not be undermined by the unreality of the situation, she grabbed a kitchen chair and placed it in the center of the floor, each leg within a circle of chalk.

“Okay,” she whispered loudly, as if she possessed a huge, psychotic secret. “Okay, now, watch! Watch! Ready? Watch!”

She let go of the chair, and stepped aside. Her eyes remained fixed on the piece of furniture. Steve’s eyes oscillated between the chair and Diane. He started to walk toward her, but she held her hands up and almost shouted: “Stop! Look!”

He watched in disbelief as the chair began to tremble. More and more it vibrated, until it started moving forward—slowly at first, then picking up speed until it shot completely across the floor and stopped in front of Steve.

Diane’s eyes widened in a grin of hysterical victory. Carol Anne yawned and rubbed her eyes.

Steve kneeled by the chair, felt for wires, checked for magnets. Nothing. He looked up at Diane, his eyebrows furrowed in question.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she grinned feverishly, ready to share her secret now. “Look. Carol Anne, show Daddy.”

“I’m hungry,” the child grumped.

“Don’t argue!” Diane snapped.

Carol Anne saw discussion was futile. She put on the football helmet and sat down inside a large chalk circle near the sink. Steve walked toward the girl, but Diane held him back. All at once, Carol Anne began to tremble.

Just like the chair, she vibrated for a few seconds, and then shot across the floor into Diane’s waiting arms.

“Oww, that burned,” Carol Anne complained, rubbing her butt. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Well?” Diane rasped at Steve triumphantly

“What the fuck is this?”

“You try!” Diane looked almost possessed.

“What?”

“You won’t
believe
what it feels like.”

“Okay, so what’s the gag? Where’s the magnet?” He looked behind the kitchen door. He looked under the sink. He looked at Diane and yelled with helpless belligerence: “I hate Pizza Hut! I hate surprises! And I don’t understand what the hell’s going on around here!”

Diane almost wept to find out she wasn’t imagining it all, to find out Steve was just as mystified as she was. “I knew I couldn’t possibly explain it to you—you’d have thought I was nuts. So I showed you instead. But don’t ask me how, or what, or how—just help me figure out what to do.”

It began to dawn on Steve. “You mean . . . there’s no gimmick?” he whispered.

“Not from in here. Maybe someone’s getting cute with some big new generator out there or something . . .”

“What are you talking about, generator—what kind of generator could . . .”

“How should I know? I’m no electrician.”

“I wonder if what happened last night could have anything to do with this.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah, some kind of disturbance in . . .”

“Daddy, Daddy!” Carol Anne called out—she’d inadvertently walked across one of the chalk arrows, and was now sailing full-tilt across the kitchen floor.

Steve opened his arms just in time to catch her, whereupon she giggled furiously, as if he’d thrown her into the air himself.

“Now can we get pizza?” she asked.

“Evening, Ben.”

“Freeling. Ms. Freeling.”

The three of them stood on Tuthill’s back porch. The two men kept their hands in their pockets; Diane kept her arms folded.

“TV’s off in here. If your set’s acting up again . . .”

“No, no, uh uh. Nothing like that. We were wondering . . . although this is going to sound strange coming from me . . .”

“I doubt it,” muttered Tuthill.

A moment of awkward silence. The Freelings stared at their feet, getting more embarrassed by the second.

“You been noticing anything . . . funny, lately?” Steve broached the subject uncomfortably. What he didn’t want most of all was for his jerk neighbor to think he was going around the bend.

“Funny like what? Funny ha-ha or funny strange?”

“Like . . . disturbances,” Diane tried to explain.

“You mean like . . . vandalism?” Tuthill looked perplexed. Moreover, he began to look suspicious: he’d moved to Cuesta Verde to get away from all the nuts and yo-yos in the city—why did he seem to find them wherever he went?

Steve was sorry he’d ever come. Diane tried to sound supremely casual. “Oh, like dishes of furniture moving around by themselves?”

“I don’t care, we’ve just got to keep this thing in the family,” Steve said quietly but firmly. “Did you see the look on Tuthills face? We’re lucky he didn’t call the wagon then and there.”

He sat in bed beside Diane later that night, feeling foolish and confused. She looked at him dubiously. He pursed his lips. “All right, then. In the morning I’ll call someone in.”

“Call someone in?” she whispered. “Who, for instance? I’ve already checked the Yellow Pages. Furniture movers we got already. Maybe if we looked under weird happenings . . .”

“Okay, okay.” Steve held up his hands. “I have a plan. I have a plan. Something’s occurring here that we can’t explain. I just feel ridiculous . . .”

“There’s nothing to feel ridiculous about . . .”

“Well, how the hell did
you
feel with Tuthill staring at us like we’d lost our marbles? What do you think Teague would say if Tuthill mentioned something?”

Thunder rolled in from the west, momentarily flickering the image on the television screen. Diane smiled. “He’d probably say you’d lost your marbles.”

“So what do you want to do? Call an exorcist? The police? A seismologist? What?”

“Don’t be stupid, Steven. Besides, you just said we should keep it in the family.”

“Right. Okay. Let’s wake the kids. No big deal. Let’s wake them, spend the night at the Travel Lodge, and not come home until it’s safe.”

“Now you’re scaring me. Don’t try to scare me, Steven.”

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to unscare me. Look, it’s probably just the weather. It’s this weird electrical activity. Maybe everything’s magnetized.”

“The weather, huh? Magnets, huh?” Madness in her eye. “What’s this, then?” She stood up in bed and pointed to the strange stain high on the wall. It was bigger now.