Now the cameras turned to the heavyset woman who had been standing near Moller. Offscreen, Betts scowled. He had intended, Gannon knew, to confine this unphotogenic person to several voice-overs, but she’d convinced him that the “historian’s” appearance—single, brief appearance—on film would help the documentary’s credibility. And, in a weird way, she was kind of frightful herself, all powdered up like that.
“The Montgomerie House,” Fayette said as she stepped forward, her voice unexpectedly musical, “is considered by historians of the supernatural to be perhaps the most haunted house in all Savannah. This, scholars believe, is due to the extreme horror and brutality of what happened. These two unfortunate souls are essentially trapped in a continuum of the afterlife: a hellish loop in which they mindlessly re-enact the murder, one as perpetrator, the other as victim. Because time as we know it does not exist in the spiritual realm, unsettled spirits can become trapped in an eddy, or whirlpool, that can go on for centuries—”
“And become vampires?” Betts asked. “As in the Savannah Vampire?”
The woman fell silent, thrown off her stride by the interruption. “Well, I don’t know. The Savannah Vampire is an entirely different legend, and—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Betts said. He turned to Gannon. “We can edit that down later.”
Gannon made a mental note to be sure Betts didn’t edit it out completely.
“On me in five.” The host’s features morphed once again into a smile as the cameras swiveled back in his direction. “And now,” he said as they once again started rolling, without bothering to thank Mrs. Fayette, “Dr. Moller will direct the extraordinary power of his equipment on the very place of the killing, at the very time it occurred, to detect and—with any luck—photograph the spiritual disturbance.”
Moller’s oscilloscope was now plugged in, a green sine wave lazily tracing across the screen. He picked up the silver dowsing wand in both hands, its high polish glittering in the lights. Slowly, with the two cameras following his every move, he walked in a circle around the area below the abraded beam. Meanwhile, the grandfather clock at the far end of the hall tolled out midnight.
A hush had fallen. Even Gannon, who was almost positive this was bullshit, felt a shiver creep down her spine. Between takes, the lighting had been progressively lowered and made indirect. It was a technique as old as nitrate film stock, but it was still effective. The setting was equally atmospheric, with ugly old Victorian furniture, cracked mirrors, and worn carpets. Both Grooms and Fayette were standing in the background, looking on. Fayette, obviously displeased at having been cut off so brusquely, had her phone out and appeared to be texting someone.
The twelve strokes of the clock echoed and faded away. Silence returned. Moller paced back and forth in the hallway like a sentry. After ten minutes he stopped, laid down the dowsing rod, and took up the slab of obsidian. He held it up and peered through it, looking this way and that, for what seemed an eternity. He finally put it back down on the velvet sheet.
“What is it?” Betts asked. “What have you found? Are you going to take photos?”
Moller did not respond. Instead, he said, “Take me to the room where the coachman cut his throat.”
“Right this way,” Grooms said. Moller took up the wand and obsidian while the assistants moved the lights. They all followed the proprietor down the hall, cameras still rolling, to a small bedroom at the far end of the attic. Inside, it was spare and close. Moller soon had his equipment set up, and the process resumed. Again he used the silver wand, walking slowly, hovering with special attention over the bed. And then he looked everywhere with the piece of obsidian. He allowed Gannon to take a brief shot through it, which made everything dark, blurry, and rather ghostlike. Moller’s got his shtick down pat, she thought.
Another fifteen minutes passed in silence as the cameras rolled. Gannon was eating up a hell of a lot of gigabytes, and it would be a pain to edit, but she couldn’t risk missing anything.
Finally, Moller stopped. With a long sigh, he turned toward the group.
Betts moved in. “Dr. Moller, we’re fascinated to hear what you found. Can you share it with us?”
Moller looked up. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?”
“This house is not haunted,” said Moller. “I detected absolutely no spiritual turbulence. There is nothing here.”
“How can that be?” cried the proprietor, his voice rising. “We have witnesses, scores of witnesses over the years, who have experienced the haunting!”