Page 6 of The Mare Rider of Cornwall Cove
Roxie took my wrist and led me through a maze of shitfaced young adults, past the DJ in the corner, to the library. I gazed around at the books sitting on the floor-to-ceiling shelves, the dark cherry furnishings, and the windows covered in velvet drapery.
“Did we just step back into the McKinley presidency?” I asked as a Lorde song vibrated through the floorboards.
“Right? Talk about pretentious. This house is loaded. Which whatever, right? So here’s the thing. I’ve been thinking about a show for New Year’s Eve.”
“That’s two days away.” She grinned, her braids sliding over her shoulder as she wiggled her butt into a delicate chair by a roaring fire. “I’m not sure we can be ready.”
“Pfft, of course we can. Tray and I are back in Liverswell for a few days for the next game. We need to get something big streaming before we start losing subscribers.” That was true. We did, but did it have to be big? What was wrong with watching me talk to whomever I happened to bump into during a creepy walk through an old cemetery? “I have an idea. I did some research on funky haunted places nearby and struck gold! You ever hear of the Cornwall Cove Lunatic Asylum?” I felt the flush from the nearby fire leave my face. Oh yeah, I’d heard of it. And I had avoided going near the crumbling old hospital ruins on purpose. I nodded dully. “Great! Then we could have a glow party there on New Year’s Eve.”
My brain was having trouble keeping up with her. It was still hung up on the asylum. “Glow party?” I asked as she tucked her feet under her backside and then gave her braids a flip over her shoulder.
“It’ll be so cool! We can set up black lights all around, dress you two up in UV-reactive clothes, and have you carrying glow sticks to investigate the place.”
Oh. Oh shit. Oh that sounded terrible. “There are probably lots of lost souls trapped in places like that.”
“Perfect! We need a good ghosting to get your viewers back.” When I sat there silently, looking as pale as plaster, she tipped her head to the side. “Are you not into this idea?”
“Uhm, well, not especially,” I confessed as I began to nervously rub my now-sweating palms on my slacks. “See, it’s not that it’s not a great idea, it is! Glow stuff. Totally cool. But asylums from the old days are notoriously bad places with clouds of grief and agony clinging to each brick and stone. For me, that’s like walking into…” I struggled to find a suitable comparison. “Like walking into a spiderweb that’s been electrified.”
The excitement that had been on her pretty face slipped away. “Okay, that sounds terrible.” She dropped her feet to the floor and leaned forward to take my clammy hands in hers. “Arch, I’m not in any way suggesting you open yourself up to dark feelings. I know that shoot at the lake was really bad.”
“Well, to be fair, I made it exponentially worse by allowing a spirit to take me over,” I admitted, threading my fingers through hers. She gave me a “well, yeah, duh” look that made me smile with no small amount of embarrassment. “And I do not plan on doing that ever again unless it’s life or death.”
“Good. No one wants you to do that ever again. That freaked me out. Tray was so scared he had to sleep with a light on for weeks. Do not tell him I told you about that.”
“I promise,” I said and meant it.
“So, if we just do a perimeter shoot, maybe? Possibly have you guys make a fast pass through the first floor or something, get the viewers engaged, and then find a nice, calm room where you and Phil can ring in the New Year. Pop the cork on some champagne, curl up in sleeping bags, and then do a fade out as if you’re spending the night. Then after we cut the live feed, you two haul ass, find a motel, and really celebrate.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek. A log popped in the fireplace, sparks rising up the flue as a Fetty Wap song thumped to life below us. Whoever the DJ was, he was playing some good music. I’d gotten used to hearing ’80s tunes from Phil, even older songs from Grandpa and Monique, or oddball waltzes or randy dittiesReggie would hum while doing what ghosts did. Not a one of them listened to Fetty Wap or Charli xcx, which was a true crime.
I glanced at the old portrait of some ancient White guy over the fireplace mantel as I mulled things over. Deep down, I knew that we did need content. The fastest way to die on social media was to grow stagnant. Content was everything. Without it, viewers found other things to watch, subs fell off, and those important backer dollars withered.
“Okay, so I’m still edgy about it, but if we just do a fast pass and then pretend to sleep there, but actually leave, I think that should be okay.” She beamed and flung her arms around me as a fragrant cloud of nectarine blossom and honey enveloped me. I hugged her back for a moment, then we broke apart, her smile wide.
“I promise we will not keep you there for longer than two hours max. We’ll start around ten on New Year’s Eve, run for a couple of hours while you and Phil explore a few rooms. Come midnight, you can kiss and wish everyone a hauntingly happy new year and then fade to black. End of show. We all get some, and your subs and sponsors will be thrilled.”
“Sure, yeah, we can do that,” I said, nodding my head even while deep, deep down a tiny nugget of worry began to fester. It all sounded so simple, but life for a seer was never simple, especially when entering a psychically charged space like an old mental asylum. The horrors that many people had endured on those grounds…I shuddered just thinking about it. “I’ll need to gather some protections, both mental and physical, before we go.”
“Sure, of course, you should be protected big time. Tray and I will get the things you’ll need for the shoot. Sleeping bags, champagne, all the glow stuff.” Someone screamed just on the other side of the door. Both of our heads spun to look. A secondlater, the high-pitched squeal of a young woman followed by drunken giggles and the deeper tones of a guy floated into us. The twosome thumped and stumbled off. “Someone is getting fucked if he can get it up.” We both snickered. “Speaking of getting dicked, I need to find my man. So I’ll text you tomorrow and we can work out the details. Think about what you would like for the shoot but keep it within budget.” Which, for our show, was about ten bucks. She rose and bent down to kiss my cheek. “This will be a huge draw. Bigger than the Halloween show! And think of all those new subscribers and cash coming in. I bet we even get a new sponsor. Tray was working his uncle hard to back the stream, and he has auto body shops in five counties.”
“Wow!” I feigned excitement.
“I hear that sarcasm in your voice. You’ll sing a different tune when you get a dent pulled out of your bumper for free,” she teased before bouncing off to find her boyfriend and an empty closet. I doubted any of the bedrooms were available.
I smiled until she closed the door behind her, then I flopped back into my seat with a huff. My sight moved to the flames in the fire. I stared at them for a long time, just letting my thoughts flow like a river around my head. Grandpa always claimed that kleshas, or mind poisons, were fueled by fear, cravings, or aversions and that we had to learn to reframe our thoughts. Instead of dwelling on problems, we should focus on solutions, and then we can take positive action. Finding equanimity was important to help keep us calm as we sailed into worrisome situations. And I was heading into a major worrisome situation in two days. But should I be allowing a past encounter to keep me locked in a fearful state? No, I shouldn’t. That was an easy answer. Yet I still felt hesitancy about another sojourn out looking for paranormal activity, which sucked for a guy who was starring in a paranormal investigation livestream.
“Evening,” someone said, jolting me from my fireside head exploration. My gaze flew to the door, but it remained closed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I felt your presence.”
I glanced up to where the voice emanated from, an old prune-faced man in the gilt-edged frame. Instead of some sour White man from the ’60s, there was the ghostly visage of a young Black man, large eyes and ears, large afro, staring down at me. “Sorry to interrupt your daydreaming. I used to do that too, right here in this room with old Percival Knightly staring down at me. Might I sit a spell with you? It’s been so long since I had someone to talk with.”
“Please introduce yourself,” I said as the young man eased his shoulders out of the painting. Names held incredible power. Many evil entities would not give you their rightful names, and many would try to trick you into giving yours for nefarious reasons. Not that I felt this young man in the platform shoes, polyester bell bottoms, and beaded leather vest was dangerous, but it was better to be safe than sorry, as they say.
“Sorry, man. My name is Kevin Robinson, class of 1975, or I would have been if my hazing had not gone wrong,” he said and sighed as he floated down to sit in the seat Roxie had sat in. I noticed instantly that his back was severely broken. “I drank too much and fell from the dormer window.”
“Oh, that sucks,” I replied while the fire danced in the hearth, green logs sizzling.
“Man, it was a bummer. I was slated to be one of the first five African Americans to be pledged into this crusty old bastion of whiteness.”
