tones to the audience at home.
“There you have it, people. You heard those screams right along with us. I have no idea who screamed, or why, but, given everything we’ve learned here tonight, everything we’ve experienced together, I’m willing to make a guess. I think what we just heard—those dreadful, soul-shattering screams—are the same screams that Elizabeth and Susan Cook reported hearing one terrifying night as they huddled together in this bedroom, the same screams that others have heard on dark nights when they ventured too near this house. I think they are the screams of a terrified girl being slashed to death in the living room directly below us. I think they are Tara Mitchell’s screams. . . .”
Sixty-eight seconds left. That left her with a little more time to fill than she would have liked, Nicky calculated even as she spoke, but not enough so that it would be obvious that she was trying to stretch her sign-off to fill it. After those screams, anything else would be an anticlimax. They were the perfect endnote to a program that had, in the teeth of her earlier fears, finally turned out to be, if not everything she’d been hoping for, close enough. And if she did say so herself, it was definitely damned good TV.
Nicky turned to her mother. Leonora was standing perfectly still, hands clasped, lowered lids veiling her eyes, lips compressed. Since glancing down as they all had in automatic response to the screams, she didn’t appear to have moved so much as a muscle. Leonora was undoubtedly still a little shaken, Nicky realized, just as she was herself. Whatever their origin—and now that the last chilling echo had died away and her brain was once again able to function properly, Nicky suspected that she might not want to inquire too closely into exactly where they’d come from—the screams had been as terrifying as they had been unexpected. Nevertheless, the oldest rule in the entertainment business still applied: The show must go on.
“Leonora, thank you for being our guide tonight as we crossed the threshold between life and death. You’ve taken us with you on a journey that few have made. It was fascinating. Enlightening. Chilling. I’m sure everyone watching with us at home was as absolutely blown away by the experience as I was.”
When Nicky had started talking, Leonora had looked up. Her expression had been cloudy, vague, her eyes unfocused. Nicky had gotten the definite impression that her mother was still off in ghostland somewhere. Now, though, as Nicky wrapped up, Leonora’s eyes sharpened, narrowed, and locked on her daughter.
Nicky knew that look, and felt her stomach tighten in response. Leonora was not pleased. It didn’t require genius to deduce that Leonora suspected, just as Nicky was beginning to, that the screams weren’t necessarily supernatural in origin. They had been so loud, so shattering, so human. So eerily appropriate. And the timing—the timing couldn’t have been better. Nicky couldn’t be sure, of course, but she suspected that astral beings had little interest in TV ratings, and thus couldn’t be expected to scream precisely on cue. Had someone—God forbid it was one of her crew—decided to give the program the finale it deserved? It was possible, she had to admit. Nicky only hoped that, discombobulated as her mother generally was after an encounter with the spirit world, she would remember that they were on live TV and behave accordingly.
She wasn’t prepared to count on it, however.
“One more time, thank you, Leonora James,” Nicky said quickly, taking her mother’s hand in both of hers. It was flaccid, icy. Leonora’s eyes, on the other hand, were anything but icy: They were beginning to burn.
No doubt about it: Her mother was in a snit.
“I’m glad I was able to help,” Leonora replied, her tone slightly stiff. Then her fist clenched in Nicky’s hands, and she pulled her hand away.
Uh-oh.
Still smiling, Nicky walked away from her
“There you have it, people. You heard those screams right along with us. I have no idea who screamed, or why, but, given everything we’ve learned here tonight, everything we’ve experienced together, I’m willing to make a guess. I think what we just heard—those dreadful, soul-shattering screams—are the same screams that Elizabeth and Susan Cook reported hearing one terrifying night as they huddled together in this bedroom, the same screams that others have heard on dark nights when they ventured too near this house. I think they are the screams of a terrified girl being slashed to death in the living room directly below us. I think they are Tara Mitchell’s screams. . . .”
Sixty-eight seconds left. That left her with a little more time to fill than she would have liked, Nicky calculated even as she spoke, but not enough so that it would be obvious that she was trying to stretch her sign-off to fill it. After those screams, anything else would be an anticlimax. They were the perfect endnote to a program that had, in the teeth of her earlier fears, finally turned out to be, if not everything she’d been hoping for, close enough. And if she did say so herself, it was definitely damned good TV.
Nicky turned to her mother. Leonora was standing perfectly still, hands clasped, lowered lids veiling her eyes, lips compressed. Since glancing down as they all had in automatic response to the screams, she didn’t appear to have moved so much as a muscle. Leonora was undoubtedly still a little shaken, Nicky realized, just as she was herself. Whatever their origin—and now that the last chilling echo had died away and her brain was once again able to function properly, Nicky suspected that she might not want to inquire too closely into exactly where they’d come from—the screams had been as terrifying as they had been unexpected. Nevertheless, the oldest rule in the entertainment business still applied: The show must go on.
“Leonora, thank you for being our guide tonight as we crossed the threshold between life and death. You’ve taken us with you on a journey that few have made. It was fascinating. Enlightening. Chilling. I’m sure everyone watching with us at home was as absolutely blown away by the experience as I was.”
When Nicky had started talking, Leonora had looked up. Her expression had been cloudy, vague, her eyes unfocused. Nicky had gotten the definite impression that her mother was still off in ghostland somewhere. Now, though, as Nicky wrapped up, Leonora’s eyes sharpened, narrowed, and locked on her daughter.
Nicky knew that look, and felt her stomach tighten in response. Leonora was not pleased. It didn’t require genius to deduce that Leonora suspected, just as Nicky was beginning to, that the screams weren’t necessarily supernatural in origin. They had been so loud, so shattering, so human. So eerily appropriate. And the timing—the timing couldn’t have been better. Nicky couldn’t be sure, of course, but she suspected that astral beings had little interest in TV ratings, and thus couldn’t be expected to scream precisely on cue. Had someone—God forbid it was one of her crew—decided to give the program the finale it deserved? It was possible, she had to admit. Nicky only hoped that, discombobulated as her mother generally was after an encounter with the spirit world, she would remember that they were on live TV and behave accordingly.
She wasn’t prepared to count on it, however.
“One more time, thank you, Leonora James,” Nicky said quickly, taking her mother’s hand in both of hers. It was flaccid, icy. Leonora’s eyes, on the other hand, were anything but icy: They were beginning to burn.
No doubt about it: Her mother was in a snit.
“I’m glad I was able to help,” Leonora replied, her tone slightly stiff. Then her fist clenched in Nicky’s hands, and she pulled her hand away.
Uh-oh.
Still smiling, Nicky walked away from her
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