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Authors: Kelly Link
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teacups at Disney World, so help me, I’m going to ask for all the details. Now. Shall we, Irene?”
All around them, people have been clearing away plates of half-eaten barbecue, assembling in a half circle around the campfire. Any minute now they’ll be singing “Kumbaya.” They sit on their little towels. Irene and Meggie take their place in front of the fire. They clasp hands.
The demon lover moves a little farther away, into darkness. He is not interested in séances or ghosts. Here is the line of the shore. Sharp things underfoot. Someone joins him. Ray. Of course.
It is worse, somehow, to be naked in the dark. The world is so big and he is not. Ray is young and he is not. He is pretty sure that the videographer Pilar will sleep with him; Meggie will not.
“I know you,” the demon lover says to Ray. “I’ve met you before. Well, not you, the previous you. Yous. You never last.
We
never last. She moves on. You disappear.”
Ray says nothing. Looks out at the lake.
“I
was
you,” the demon lover says.
Ray says, “And now? Who are you?”
“You charge by the hour?” the demon lover says. “Why follow me around? I don’t seem to have my wallet on me.”
“Meggie’s busy,” Ray says. “And I’m curious about you. What you think you’re doing here.”
“I came for Meggie,” the demon lover says. “We’re friends. An old friend can come to see an old friend. Some other time I’ll see her again and you won’t be around. I’ll always be around. Butyou, you’re just some guy who got lucky because you look like me.”
Ray says, “I love her.”
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” the demon lover says. He goes back to the fire and the naked people waiting for other naked people. Thinks about the story he is meant to tell.
The séance has not been a success. Irene the medium keeps saying that she senses something. Someone is trying to say something.
The dead are here, but also not here. They’re afraid. That’s why they won’t come. Something is keeping them away. There is something wrong here.
“Do you feel it?” she says to Meggie, to the others.
Meggie says, “I feel something. Something is here.”
The demon lover extends himself outward into the night. Lets himself believe for a moment that life goes on. Is something here? There is a smell, the metallic stink of muck farms. There is an oppressiveness to the air. Is there malice here? An ill wish?
Meggie says, “No one has ever solved the mystery of what happened here. But perhaps whatever happened to them is still present. Irene, could it have some hold on their spirits, whatever is left of them, even in death?”
Irene says, “I don’t know. Something is wrong here. Something is here. I don’t know.”
But
Who’s There?
picks up nothing of interest on their equipment, their air ion counter or their barometer, their EMF detector or EVP detector, their wind chimes or thermal imaging scopes. No one is there.
And so at last it’s time for ghost stories.
There’s one about the men’s room at a trendy Santa Monicarestaurant. The demon lover has been there. Had the fries with truffle-oil mayonnaise. Never encountered the ghost. He’s not somebody who sees ghosts and he’s fine with that. Never really liked truffle-oil mayonnaise, either. The thing in the bungalow with Meggie wasn’t a ghost. It was drugs, the pressure they were under, the unbearable scrutiny; a
folie à deux;
the tax on their happiness.
Someone tells the old story about Basil Rathbone and the dinner guest who brings along his dogs. Upon departure, the man and his dogs are killed in a car crash just outside Rathbone’s house. Rathbone sees. Is paralyzed with shock and grief. As he stands there, his phone rings—when he picks up, an operator says, “Pardon me, Mr. Rathbone, but there is a woman on the line who says she must speak to you.”
The woman, who is a medium, says that she has a message for him. She says she hopes he will understand the
All around them, people have been clearing away plates of half-eaten barbecue, assembling in a half circle around the campfire. Any minute now they’ll be singing “Kumbaya.” They sit on their little towels. Irene and Meggie take their place in front of the fire. They clasp hands.
The demon lover moves a little farther away, into darkness. He is not interested in séances or ghosts. Here is the line of the shore. Sharp things underfoot. Someone joins him. Ray. Of course.
It is worse, somehow, to be naked in the dark. The world is so big and he is not. Ray is young and he is not. He is pretty sure that the videographer Pilar will sleep with him; Meggie will not.
“I know you,” the demon lover says to Ray. “I’ve met you before. Well, not you, the previous you. Yous. You never last.
We
never last. She moves on. You disappear.”
Ray says nothing. Looks out at the lake.
“I
was
you,” the demon lover says.
Ray says, “And now? Who are you?”
“You charge by the hour?” the demon lover says. “Why follow me around? I don’t seem to have my wallet on me.”
“Meggie’s busy,” Ray says. “And I’m curious about you. What you think you’re doing here.”
“I came for Meggie,” the demon lover says. “We’re friends. An old friend can come to see an old friend. Some other time I’ll see her again and you won’t be around. I’ll always be around. Butyou, you’re just some guy who got lucky because you look like me.”
Ray says, “I love her.”
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” the demon lover says. He goes back to the fire and the naked people waiting for other naked people. Thinks about the story he is meant to tell.
The séance has not been a success. Irene the medium keeps saying that she senses something. Someone is trying to say something.
The dead are here, but also not here. They’re afraid. That’s why they won’t come. Something is keeping them away. There is something wrong here.
“Do you feel it?” she says to Meggie, to the others.
Meggie says, “I feel something. Something is here.”
The demon lover extends himself outward into the night. Lets himself believe for a moment that life goes on. Is something here? There is a smell, the metallic stink of muck farms. There is an oppressiveness to the air. Is there malice here? An ill wish?
Meggie says, “No one has ever solved the mystery of what happened here. But perhaps whatever happened to them is still present. Irene, could it have some hold on their spirits, whatever is left of them, even in death?”
Irene says, “I don’t know. Something is wrong here. Something is here. I don’t know.”
But
Who’s There?
picks up nothing of interest on their equipment, their air ion counter or their barometer, their EMF detector or EVP detector, their wind chimes or thermal imaging scopes. No one is there.
And so at last it’s time for ghost stories.
There’s one about the men’s room at a trendy Santa Monicarestaurant. The demon lover has been there. Had the fries with truffle-oil mayonnaise. Never encountered the ghost. He’s not somebody who sees ghosts and he’s fine with that. Never really liked truffle-oil mayonnaise, either. The thing in the bungalow with Meggie wasn’t a ghost. It was drugs, the pressure they were under, the unbearable scrutiny; a
folie à deux;
the tax on their happiness.
Someone tells the old story about Basil Rathbone and the dinner guest who brings along his dogs. Upon departure, the man and his dogs are killed in a car crash just outside Rathbone’s house. Rathbone sees. Is paralyzed with shock and grief. As he stands there, his phone rings—when he picks up, an operator says, “Pardon me, Mr. Rathbone, but there is a woman on the line who says she must speak to you.”
The woman, who is a medium, says that she has a message for him. She says she hopes he will understand the
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