Tate walks back to the house, he is a huge man in every respect, a Native American from the shape of his face and long hair and I remember from a long time ago Dad showing me a photograph, saying he was descended from a community of cave dwellers that came to live in the Mojave Desert way before there was ever a Wild West in America. But I have to be honest when I say I wasn’t over pleased to meet him. There was something about him that worried me, made me feel intimidated in his presence. Dad had told me stories about him, some none too pleasant to repeat here and as I recall he had a reputation for being awkward and difficult. Now I know he has a dislike for me, I quickly made up my mind to stay well clear of his unusual mental torture.
As we get back to the house, Tate stands in the doorway and ushers me inside hurriedly. “Come on . . . come on . . . no need to stand in the street, this is a ghost town remember, you never know who you might meet at this time of night?” As I move into the passageway he slams me harshly on the back and I stagger fighting and laughing like a stupid excited pup into the warmth of the rooms beyond. Everything he does seems to jar my senses and I like it less and less, wishing he would just go away or at worst get sucked into another universe by aliens looking for worthy specimens, but I know it’s never going to happen.
Tate leads me into the darkness of the house, the lights are turned low, the electrics powered by a generator I can hear humming somewhere in the distance. There are many rooms in the old ranch house, but I can’t concentrate, can’t remember the route as we trudge down long endless corridors till we come to a closed door that I know will be my new room for the next six weeks at least.
As I go inside, the lights around me flicker briefly and smoky shadows dance across the aged wall paper as though the place is glad to see me as if I’ve been away for decades. I feel the warmth of its soul pushing into my body and I feel happy for the first time in hours, yet I shiver like a wet dog as the thought of something dark and malevolent crosses my path. I can’t fully explain the sensation except to say it’s like butterflies dancing in my stomach, wearing slippers with spikes on their soles. There is the briefest glimpse of something unnatural shifting in the air around me, like some spiritual being checking me out, unsure of my intrusion into its space. My brain struggles to assimilate the image my eyes have been shown and that unsettles me.
I stand in the room and think about all the experiences from the past few hours’ and as they percolate through my head I think about the messages I have been getting and it makes me shiver all over again. Something’s warning me, that’s for sure, telling me I should leave, that I’m not overly welcome here in this strange land. It’s all there as plain as day, the Mexican, Tate’s strange behaviour and now the house, all pushing me away, scaring me half to death, screaming at me to leave?
You see, SHOVEL must have its share of secrets too; after all it is a deserted town, full of mystery, probably brutal and violent at the peak of its popularity? So what happened in this place? Was there a tragedy that nobody ever talked about that lies forgotten and abandoned in the burial ground of everyone’s bad memory? It kinda feels that way, even in the short time I have been here and that worries me, makes me feel all uneasy and awkward, because . . . well, how can I put it in plain and simple English? And I know you’ll laugh and say to yourself, I’ve heard all that stuff before, seen it in films and read it in a million books. But honestly it’s all true, I’ll swear on anything you want just so you know I’m not kidding, that it’s not just my imagination, you know . . . me just trying to be clever and pull the wool over your naive eyes. But I see and feel things I shouldn’t. People mostly, you can guess what I’m talking of . . . ghosts . . . from times long gone by, folks who have a story to tell and not just grownups but kids too. Back in my home town, I’ve seen them all, become mates with them, if that’s at all possible and do you know, not one of them ever terrified me, but here . . . in this town . . . there is something very bad coming. There is a strange electrical charge in the atmosphere; sizzling and cracking, like it’s waiting for a sign or a catalyst before it unleashes its devastation on the world. Strange though, as this is a new town to me and I know nothing about it or the people who lived here, yet I can feel the sinister spirits sheltering among the shadows. It’s a whole new land of dead opportunities, you might say, and on that basis I know the ghosts of yesterday will soon come rattling the handle of my bedroom door.
Tate throws my bag on the bed like it’s just an empty shoe box. “Your Father will see you in the morning,” he says without emotion or expression on his leathery face. “It’s late Jake; I think we all need some sleep?”
Without thinking I curl up on the bed, suddenly feeling weary, finding the cosy softness of the pillows a welcome and hear the door click shut as Tate leaves the room. “Yeh . . . that’s just fine.” I say not realising I’m alone in the room. I drift into sleep in seconds, mumbling the words, without having a clue what I’m saying, I just slowly drift away on a carpet of lovely thoughts . . . dreaming . . . going over the events of the day . . . rethinking it all . . . remembering everything that had happened, the airport, the flight, the . . . the . . . yes . . . I remember . . . wasn’t she gorgeous . . . my personal flight attendant . . . blonde . . . sun kissed . . . stunning.
And through the lingering mist I see her, drifting like a goddess, clothes and hair flowing in the silent breeze, moving in slow motion, reaching out with her alabaster sculptured hands to touch me, hold me . . . then she leads me calmly down the aircraft steps, arm in arm, as if I were a china doll that might break apart should I tumble to the warm tarmac on the runway below. It makes me feel nice, kind of warm all over and special, like I’m an important VIP or a famous celebrity, but that’s just my stupid mind playing glamorous tricks on me. The whole thing is a bit embarrassing for a fifteen year old boy and I guess my face blushes the colour of beetroot; still there is nobody on the plane I know, so I guess I’ll get over it pretty quick and anyway do I really care because this girl is really special. She makes me smile and chats to me like I’m an old friend of hers coming home after a long vacation, yet she doesn’t know me at all, I could be any kid from any street in any town, but it comes across as the most natural thing in the world to her, a gift I suppose, but I know she has done it a million times before making all the kids, like me, feel a bit more unique.
“Hey, welcome to Los Angeles International Airport,” she says quietly, the sun glints off her sunglasses as a heat haze rises from the asphalt. “Looks like we’re in for a hot one today young man, so better stay cool and get a hat for that pretty head of yours eh?” The words drift out in a wilting Texan drawl. I nod and thank her, struggling to find the right things to say without making a complete fool of myself. She is sweet . . . real sweet, but I try to ignore the feelings I have and just walk away, not wanting to look back like some smitten schoolboy, but I do, I just can’t resist the temptation and it’s worth every second of embarrassment. The heat from the sun is like a wall, harsh and cruel, crippling for a kid used to damp wet summers in England. Suddenly I wish I was back inside the plane feeling the cool comfort of its air conditioning, hoping to relive my beautiful air hostess moment.
Hundreds of people shuffle across the airport terminal lounges, crisscrossing the floor looking for connections, peering at watches, seeking out lost partners and hunting for information and lifts from drivers they don’t know. They are like ants, impatient, scurrying around, searching for the unknown. My bag soon appears on the carousel; I grab it and check through customs and head towards the exit, a new stamp on my passport. Still wet, I thrust it into my bag and wait. Dad said someone would be here double quick to pick me up, but time passes and I wait and wait, nobody comes. Boredom sets in, the day has been long, I’m tired and this waiting seems endless. The large digital clock on the lounge wall flips to seventeen thirty, it is the afternoon and I remember there are several hours still to travel after I get picked up. And then I remember the last conversation I had with Dad all those months ago.
‘You’ll have a great time.’ He said enthusiastically, ‘It’ll be brilliant, you see if I’m not right. Spend the summer with me, over here in the States; there’s so much to see and you can help me put up these rides. They’ll be some of the greatest rollercoaster’s in the world. The last thing you’ll be is bored, you wanna see the plans we’ve made. This theme park will be the best, there’s no doubt about that and you can be a part of it Jake.’ I recall those words well, you see SHOVEL is a ghost town and it’s about to be dug up, so what will that do to the spirits in this place? Now that’s ironic to say the least. Some people reckon I have a natural born gift . . . I did mention it earlier? But to expand a little, I kinda pick up on strange phenomena. It doesn’t bother me now, the ghosts, or whatever you want to call them, because over the years I’ve got used to the whole damn circus parade. I never wanted it, didn’t ask to be given it, it just kinda happened all of a sudden.
One early morning, it was summertime and the sun had been up and about for hours before I had courage to pull back the sheets. Eight years old I was, brushing my hair in the full length mirror in my parents’ bedroom not a care in the world, probably wondering what I was gonna do for the rest of the day, when a raggedly dressed girl appeared behind me and said “Hello.” Turning to look, there was nobody, the room was empty, the mirror had cast its first spell and the door to another world was well and truly opened. I didn’t say anything to my mum as I thought little of it at the time, it was only years later when I was a little older that my mates said I was getting a bit weird about it all. They dwindled away, of course, one after the other, friend after friend till there were none left and Mum worried it might affect my head in some strange way, no buddy company to enjoy, (apart from my ghostly visitors, that is) she thought it would turn me into a raving psycho. I told her never to worry, because the advantage of being a loner is that you’re never alone.
Right now though I was beginning to doubt my Dad’s words, the flight had been long and dull; the on board film a terrible romantic comedy. All kissing and cuddling, the grownup actors all getting excited and emotional about each other, not exactly prime time viewing for a fifteen year old. I’d seen more action in a bowl of unwashed pots and pans. Buckets of blood and body parts, not love, that’s what dysfunctional kids like me need, screams and death cries, hideous monsters clawing and slashing their way through shopping malls and car parks, but how can I possibly explain all that to you without you thinking I’m completely mad and screwed up. Think it all came from my Dad’s side of the family; of course Mother hated anything like that. Yeh – Dad and I would sit for hours and watch any film in the good old days, bound together on our old battered sofa longing that it would turn out to be a horror movie. A classic from the old days, hopefully Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s monster or Vincent Price as a mad scientist with a vengeful grudge, or my most favourite . . . any Zombie film from the eighties. I really loved my Dad then; those were the best days ever.
Jonathan Peach - Horror Writer 