Amityville Horrible
Author: Kelley Armstrong
Date: 2012-11-30 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Fantasy; Horror
Description: Jaime Vegas—spiritualist, entertainer and, unbeknownst to her audience, real-life necromancer—swore she’d never do another reality ghost show after the last fiasco. But when she’s railroaded into a charity gig, she finds herself back on the set, this time with a cast of photogenic college kids, an up-and-coming Russian spiritualist, and a tale of missing girls and murder in New England. It’s cheesy, but that’s show business. With her werewolf Alpha lover, Jeremy Danvers, along to keep her nights interesting, it’s not so bad really. Until the bloody ghosts show up. Jaime has never faced spirits
Publisher: Subterranean Press

Two

“I’m going to kill you,” I said when Mike finally answered his phone. “I’m going to murder you, then summon your spirit and stick you in a very small, very dark box. No, wait. I’ll stick you in front of a television, where you are forced to watch reality TV reruns for eternity. Reruns of your own shows.”

“I—”

“I did Death of Innocence as a favor because I know I owed you for my first Keni Bales appearance. So I signed on to help raise the ghost of Marilyn Monroe. And when it all went to hell, was it my fault?”

“No, but—”

“Your first big show was about to be canceled. But then, one of your performers discovered a child’s body in the garden. Who did that?”

“You, but—”

“I found that poor girl, and soon, no one gave a crap about Marilyn, because you had something even juicier. Death of Innocence: Satanism in Brentwood. A smash hit. Who gave you that?”

“Well, it was a joint—”

“Joint effort, my ass. It was me. I even went along with the wildly inaccurate Satanic cult angle for you. I put up with Todd Simon and Bradford Grady, and I salvaged a ratings smash hit from a train wreck. Five years later, the video is still selling enough to send you to Venice every spring. And how do you repay me?”

“By giving you another smash,” he blurted. “Star billing in a brand new special. At double the rate I paid you for Death.”

“I am not—”

“With a cut of video sales.”

I paused. “Net or gross?”

“Net, of course. I can’t—”

I hung up. I counted to three. My phone rang.

“Okay, gross, but it will be a much, much smaller percentage than you’d get for net—”

“A smaller percentage of something is better than a huge cut of nothing. I know how your accounting works. I’ll take gross—if I agree to do it, and we’re a long way from that. Setting me up with that fake reporter tonight—”

“Fake?” he sputtered. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Cut the crap and this will go much smoother. You sent her. She nailed me on camera. That means I have to at least listen to what you have to say or I’m the diva bitch who couldn’t spare a few minutes to raise public awareness of zombie-itus.”

“We’d prefer to call it—”

“Whatever. Yes, Cotard’s is a real condition. Yes, people suffer from it. But that’s not why you’re using it, so let’s stop pretending you care. You know that if I do this, I’ll treat it seriously, even if I’m the only one who does.”

I let him sputter, then cut in with, “So what’s the gig?”

…

“Yes, that Amityville.”

I was lying on a hotel bed with my feet propped against the wall. I’m sure I looked like a sixteen-year-old on the phone with her boyfriend. Which was pretty much accurate. I was on the phone. With my boyfriend. And I might be a long way from sixteen, but there’s something about Jeremy Danvers that makes me feel like a teenager even after five years together.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never quite gotten over that embarrassing school-girl crush I had on him. Or because it still feels a little like teen dating. We talk for at least an hour on the phone every day and get together mostly on weekends.

I’ve had friends look at our long-distance arrangement and question just how committed I am to Jeremy—and he to me. After all, we aren’t kids. We should be living together by now, if not married. Which goes to prove, I guess, that those people aren’t actually friends, or they’d know there’s no question about what I feel for Jeremy.

Yes, we aren’t kids. That’s the point. I have my career, which keeps me on the road. He has his, as werewolf Alpha, which keeps him in New York state. I suppose, to some of them, if I was truly in love I’d give up my job for him. Which, again, proves how little they understand me. I love Jeremy. I love my job. I can have both. He’s already planning to step down as Alpha, and when he does, he’ll join me on the road more often, but neither of us is talking about a permanent move. Maybe someday, when I do retire, we’ll grow old together at Stonehaven. Until then, I’m ecstatically happy with exactly what I have.

“It’s not actually being filmed at the Amityville house,” I said to Jeremy. “Mike couldn’t get that. So he’s renting a similar looking place and renovating it to match the movie set. He won’t claim it’s the Amityville house…but he won’t try to avoid confusion either.”

“I see.”

“Yes, totally cheesy. But the charity angle helps. Also, I’m the only spiritualist, which means no ego clashes like we had in Brentwood. The other pros are parapsychologists. Then there are the extras. They’ll start casting those slots after the press release goes out tomorrow.”

“So the extras will be actors?”

“Mmm, not exactly. They’re supposed to be just regular folks who dare to spend a night in a haunted house. It’s an old routine. I’ll send you links to some YouTube clips. They’re good for a laugh. Basically, a bunch of people running around in the dark, hearing pipes creak and mice skitter, and scaring themselves silly.”

“I see.”

I lowered my feet. “It’s too cheesy, isn’t it.” I swore under my breath. “I should have—”

“You should have done exactly what you wanted to do. Or, in this case, felt compelled to do. I was assimilating, not judging. You know that.”

“I do. Sorry. Just…” I inhaled. “I know it’s not exactly a brilliant career move. It’s not a bad one, but for respectability, it’s two steps down from the Marilyn show, and that wasn’t exactly the highlight of my career.”

“It didn’t damage it. In fact, it raised your profile, didn’t it? Boosted attendance at your shows?”

As he spoke, something flickered to the side. I sat up.

“Jaime?” he said when I went silent.

“Just a sec. I may have a visitor.”

Most people who know I’m a necromancer would keep talking. Asking questions. Is it my spirit guide, Eve? A ghost? Has a ghost been bothering me? Is Eve being a pain in the ass? Jeremy knew that the best response was silence while I puzzled it out.

I looked around. The natural thing would be to call, “Who’s there?” but with ghosts, that’s like rolling out the welcome mat. It’s better to wait and let the ghosts make contact…then send them packing as quickly as possible.

That sounds cruel. It is cruel. It’s also self-preservation. I help when I can, but if I opened myself up to every spirit who asked, I’d be plagued by them every moment of the day. Luckily, I have a very effective watchdog—my ghostly bodyguard, Eve Levine. Dark witch, half-demon and ascended angel. Yes, angel, which might be the scariest of the three. She has only to show up, Sword of Judgment in hand, and most spirits decide they really didn’t want to talk to me after all.

Unfortunately, being an angel means there are times Eve isn’t around. Like now. She’s out of contact, and I’m on my own, relying on her reputation to protect me.

When I looked around now, though, I saw no sign of a ghost. A trick of the light. That happens, even with necromancers.

“False alarm.” I lay down on the bed and propped my feet up again. “You’re right about the show. I’m just…I feel like I was railroaded into this, and now I’m scrambling to convince myself it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“It won’t be as bad as it seemed. Because you’re in it now.”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“When does it film?”

“In two months.”

“Would you like company on set?”

My smile widened. “I would.”

…

The show filmed in May. I would arrive early to do promotion. Jeremy wasn’t joining me until the filming began. Promotion is hell. While one could argue that having him there would make it easier, I’ve learned that it really doesn’t, because I’d much rather be with him, so I tend to arrive at interviews at the last possible moment, and if they cancel, I don’t rebook. I know that’s unprofessional, but like I said, when it comes to Jeremy, I turn into a sixteen-year-old girl, ignoring her assignments and bouncing around shrieking, “He’s here! He’s here!”

So I arrived alone. The first week was spent in New York City—there aren’t many major media outlets in Amityville. I did morning shows. I did talk shows. I summoned spirit after spirit. A few of them were even real.

Then, two days before filming started, it was time to go to Amityville to meet my fellow ghost hunters. And time to meet the house where we’d be ghost hunting.

…

The show had hired a sedan service take me to Amityville. That sounds fancy, until you realize the town is only an hour east of New York City. A taxi probably would have cost more.

The main crew was supposed to meet at the house for a big “getting to know you” party. Then, at the last minute, we were texted directions to a local inn with a curt “change of plans” note.

“Change of plans, my ass,” I muttered on my cell to Jeremy as the car entered Amityville. “They never planned for us to meet at the house.”

“They want to film your first look at it. For part of the special.”

“Exactly. Last time they did that when we arrived, but it was such a mess they cut it. No one wants to see jet-lagged spiritualists stumbling in, muttering about their crappy flight. They want a big reveal this time. And the party isn’t for the real people anyway.”

“Just the fake ones?”

I laughed. “Close. Pros only. They’ll hold off on introducing us to the regular folks who ‘won’ slots. They’ll want to film that. Get my reaction when I realize I’m about to spend the night with people who’ll probably make me look like Mensa material.”

His silence worked better than any verbal rebuke.

“Sorry, sorry,” I said. “I’ve almost stopped doing that.”

“Around me.”

I still mocked myself around others is what he meant. Getting the jokes and insults in before they could. Which he hated.

He changed the subject with, “So it’s just the professionals today. The parapsychologists. Did Mike provide you with a list of names yet?”

“He doesn’t dare. I’m sure he looked back through my career and hired everyone I’ve ever had friction with, for better TV. I’ll handle it. I just…I wish, for once, I could tell myself it’ll all work out fine.”

“It will,” he said. “Eventually. It just takes some work to get there.”

I sighed. “I know..