more traditional, Roman Catholic background might stir a little drama.
Drama made good television.
Erin and Daniel weren’t the focus, though. They weren’t the real cast, the central characters Ben knew would make their stay in the house something special—something he could edit and mix into a masterpiece: A ghost story with no ghosts but plenty of tension and dread and genuine human emotion, raw material with which to make a name.
Ghosts were still selling well, after all, as was reality programming.
No the “real” cast consisted of his old friends…
Kelsey and Sarah had both revealed what he’d wanted to see when he mentioned the house. They still loathed the place, still held some dark memories. Jared’s death—in all honesty, who could believe he was still alive—had been tragic, but it was history. The present was the thing. In the present, Kelsey and Sarah remembered Jared. Of course, they remembered the dead man, too, Mr. John Doe suicide.
He didn’t believe there were ghosts in the house, but bad memories and a little stress would stir the emotions just enough—maybe enough to see even a cool nut like Johnny crack a bit. Ben had always wanted to see Johnny crack. His cameras would be there to catch it all. Maybe, just maybe, they’d catch everything.
And maybe, just maybe, he could put his dreams to rest, put the nightmares to rest…
“Um, Mr. Wormsley? Hey—don’t you think one of us should find baggage claim?”
Ben snapped to the present and turned to Erin. “Sure. We should all go. I should wait on the crew perhaps. Hard to make a pilot without cameras.”
“Well when they show, I’m down this way.” Erin jerked a finger over her shoulder. When she moved, her blonde hair shimmered. “I’d like to grab my stuff before some red-eyed businessman walks off with—”
“We’ll meet you there.”
Erin’s lips wavered on the edge of a pout, but she spun on her heel and beat toward the arrow indicating “baggage”. Daniel followed without a word.
The drama was already afoot. Ben smiled as three men, the first pale and small, another trim, muscular, and black, and the third older with grizzled beard and white tufts of hair clinging to his temples. His crew. The first man, the pale fellow with a soft, round-edged face blinked hard and pressed his closed fists into his eyes.
“I’ll never get used to flying,” he said. “Anything over two or three hours, and I feel like I’ve been hung out to dry.”
“Welcome to Kansas City, Nick.” Ben held out a hand. “Baggage claim straight ahead.”
The muscular man studied Ben. “Our equipment better be in damn good shape.” When he spoke, his voice rumbled low like a radio announcer trapped inside a cavernous amphitheater. “I want to grab our gear before it takes one too many revolutions around the carousel. This place always this dead?”
“It’s not LAX, Wayne,” Ben replied. “I’ve arranged for a van to meet us on the circle drive, just across from the baggage claim. It’s an extended version with plenty of space in the back for your equipment.”
“Good enough for me.”
The older man rubbed his neck. “How long have we got, now?”
“About two hours by car, Mr. Bloom.” Ben felt the need to call the older man mister based on his age and reputation. Howard Bloom, the sound man, had cut his teeth on nature television in the 1970s. Ben was interested in natural observations of a different type and dropped a few extra zeroes of venture capital to lure the master to his little project.
“Out in the boonies, huh?”
“Worried about tornadoes?”
Howard Bloom scowled. “Don’t assume I’m that senile, Wormsley. I just want to know what we have to work with. Is the electrical updated?”
“I’ve had a generator installed. If we find ourselves without power, the generator will kick in within a minute. The entire backup system is in place and tested. We’ve been waiting on our cast and crew.” Ben
Drama made good television.
Erin and Daniel weren’t the focus, though. They weren’t the real cast, the central characters Ben knew would make their stay in the house something special—something he could edit and mix into a masterpiece: A ghost story with no ghosts but plenty of tension and dread and genuine human emotion, raw material with which to make a name.
Ghosts were still selling well, after all, as was reality programming.
No the “real” cast consisted of his old friends…
Kelsey and Sarah had both revealed what he’d wanted to see when he mentioned the house. They still loathed the place, still held some dark memories. Jared’s death—in all honesty, who could believe he was still alive—had been tragic, but it was history. The present was the thing. In the present, Kelsey and Sarah remembered Jared. Of course, they remembered the dead man, too, Mr. John Doe suicide.
He didn’t believe there were ghosts in the house, but bad memories and a little stress would stir the emotions just enough—maybe enough to see even a cool nut like Johnny crack a bit. Ben had always wanted to see Johnny crack. His cameras would be there to catch it all. Maybe, just maybe, they’d catch everything.
And maybe, just maybe, he could put his dreams to rest, put the nightmares to rest…
“Um, Mr. Wormsley? Hey—don’t you think one of us should find baggage claim?”
Ben snapped to the present and turned to Erin. “Sure. We should all go. I should wait on the crew perhaps. Hard to make a pilot without cameras.”
“Well when they show, I’m down this way.” Erin jerked a finger over her shoulder. When she moved, her blonde hair shimmered. “I’d like to grab my stuff before some red-eyed businessman walks off with—”
“We’ll meet you there.”
Erin’s lips wavered on the edge of a pout, but she spun on her heel and beat toward the arrow indicating “baggage”. Daniel followed without a word.
The drama was already afoot. Ben smiled as three men, the first pale and small, another trim, muscular, and black, and the third older with grizzled beard and white tufts of hair clinging to his temples. His crew. The first man, the pale fellow with a soft, round-edged face blinked hard and pressed his closed fists into his eyes.
“I’ll never get used to flying,” he said. “Anything over two or three hours, and I feel like I’ve been hung out to dry.”
“Welcome to Kansas City, Nick.” Ben held out a hand. “Baggage claim straight ahead.”
The muscular man studied Ben. “Our equipment better be in damn good shape.” When he spoke, his voice rumbled low like a radio announcer trapped inside a cavernous amphitheater. “I want to grab our gear before it takes one too many revolutions around the carousel. This place always this dead?”
“It’s not LAX, Wayne,” Ben replied. “I’ve arranged for a van to meet us on the circle drive, just across from the baggage claim. It’s an extended version with plenty of space in the back for your equipment.”
“Good enough for me.”
The older man rubbed his neck. “How long have we got, now?”
“About two hours by car, Mr. Bloom.” Ben felt the need to call the older man mister based on his age and reputation. Howard Bloom, the sound man, had cut his teeth on nature television in the 1970s. Ben was interested in natural observations of a different type and dropped a few extra zeroes of venture capital to lure the master to his little project.
“Out in the boonies, huh?”
“Worried about tornadoes?”
Howard Bloom scowled. “Don’t assume I’m that senile, Wormsley. I just want to know what we have to work with. Is the electrical updated?”
“I’ve had a generator installed. If we find ourselves without power, the generator will kick in within a minute. The entire backup system is in place and tested. We’ve been waiting on our cast and crew.” Ben
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