“Perry?” I hear Dex call out from the hallway. I scurry over to the door, careful not to trip over anything in my way, and feel for the doorknob. I yank at it to open, but nothing happens. It appears to be locked from the inside and the outside.
“Are you OK?” he asks and I can hear the worry in his voice. He likes to surprise me by acting human from time to time.
“I’m fine,” I say, rubbing my hip where the desk went into me. “But I can’t open this fucking thing.”
“Are you getting any reception on your phone?”
I tuck the infrared under my arm and bring my iPhone out of my jacket pocket, while reaching down for the flashlight in my boot. It works but the bars are gone. No service.
“No, are you?”
“No,” he answers with a sigh. “Look, I’ve been trying the key she gave me and it won’t open any of the doors here. I can’t call her either. There are some stairs at the end beside the elevator. I’m just going to run up to the lobby and grab Pam.”
“Dex, don’t you dare leave me!” I yell and pound on the door for impact.
“Well what the hell do you suppose we do then? Hang out like this until a maid shows up? What if they are done for the night? Do you really want to spend a night locked in there?”
No. I don’t. But I don’t want him taking off and leaving me alone in this scary, dark room either.
“Look,” he continues, “I’ll be right back. And I mean, right back. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
That’s kind of hard to do when you aren’t here, I think but I know I have no choice. Either he goes or I’m locked in here all night. That thought is too terrifying to fathom.
“OK,” I say hesitantly.
He taps the door lightly. “I’ll be right back.”
I hear his feet scurry off and a door at the end of the hall open. And then silence again.
I put my back against the door and face the darkness of the foreign room. I flick the flashlight on and slowly graze it across the black.
In a creepy, fleeting light it illuminates a few laundry bins, laundry machines, a makeshift office consisting of a whiteboard, a file cabinet and the desk I ran into.
And a dead man hanging from the ceiling.
I scream bloody murder, dropping the flashlight and camera in the process.
They fall to my feat in an outburst as loud as my wail, and as I quickly fumble for them, the light in the room goes on.
I raise my hand to my eyes to shield them from the light and try to get a glimpse of what’s going on. The image of that dead, bloated man hanging by his neck is seared into my brain.
The laundry hampers, machines and office are all still here.
The hanging man is gone.
There is an African-American woman who stands to my far left, her hand on a light fixture, giving me a quizzical stare. She’s young and thin with large eyes and is wearing a plain grey dress with a white ruffled apron across it. A very classic—looking maid.
“Good heavens, child,” she exclaims in a thick Southern accent. “What on earth are you doing in here?”
I blink hard, trying to make sense of the situation. The maid looks at my hands and what I’m holding.
“Are you filming me? Who are you? What is this?” she demands, her voice growing higher with each question.
“I…I’m Perry Palomino,” I stammer, my voice squeaking.
“Am I supposed to know who you are?” she asks and puts her hands on her hips.
“Uh, no,” I say and give her an awkward smile. “I’m here with my partner Dex. Dex Foray. We are, uh, we doing a project here. We have permission of the night manager. Pam…something. She said we could come down here and film.”
“Just what are you filming. Charlie Chaplin?”
Hmmmm. How to explain the next part without seeming batshit crazy.
“Well…” I begin.
She cocks her brow at me and folds her arms. She’s in no hurry.
I let out a burst of air through my nose and say, “We’re ghost hunters.”
She smiles, her teeth blindingly white. She doesn’t sound as amused as she looks. “You’re pulling my chain.”
“No, no sadly I’m not. We have a show, Experiment in Terror. It’s on the Internet.”
“The Internet?”
“I know, it sounds lame but we’ve been doing quite well. I mean, we have advertisers and people actually tune into watch us. Well, watch me. Since I’m the host. Just not a very good one. Actually I think people tune into laugh at me, but whatever gets me a pay check.” I’m rambling now.
“This is a radio show?” she asks.
“No, just on the web.”
She frowns and walks toward me, eying my hands. “What kind of camera is that?”
Though there is nothing menacing at all in her voice, I flinch a little and back up into the door. She pauses and gives me another disbelieving look.
“You never seen a black woman before?”
“Huh?”
“I know we aren’t too common out West here but you best be getting used to us.”
Now it’s my turn to frown. I study her more closely. She’s at least in her early thirties, her pretty face is unlined but she has this authoritative air about her. Everything sounds like an accusation but one that’s filled with a hint of doubt. Though she’s trying hard to hide it, I can see she’s as afraid of me as I am afraid of her.
I raise the infrared to her, slowly, as if she is a skittish cat, and show her the screen, flicking it on.
She looks at it and shakes her head, not getting it.
“It’s infrared,” I explain. “It picks up heat energy.”