Page 5 of Haunted By the Mountain Man
“It wouldn’t be easier for him. Would it have been easier for your grandmother?”
“No,” she admitted quietly. “But she was family. You didn’t know Walt.”
“He’s family now, and that’s what counts.”
“Does your brother and his wife help you?”
“No. None of my brothers know about Walt.”
“Why?” she said. “I was a caregiver. It takes a lot out of you. Especially, if you have a full time job. Wouldn’t they help?”
“Of course they would. All of them would. But they’d insist on putting Walt in a facility. And I can’t fight the three of them when they set their mind to something. Add in their wives and ...” I shuddered. Walt would be in a hospital within the hour of them finding out about him.
She nodded. “It makes the best sense.”
I shook my head. “You don’t understand. This is his home. I can’t take him away from the only home he can remember.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what it’s like. I’m a foster kid.”
“Oh.”
I turned to face her, not liking the sympathy in her voice. "I don't need your pity."
"Good, because you're not getting it." She stood, and I was struck again by how small she was. Five-four at most, but she filled the space with attitude that belonged to someone twice her size. "I'm just trying to understand the situation I've walked into."
"The situation is temporary. One week, then you vanish."
"Right. About that." She pulled out a notebook covered in stickers and sketches, and just like that our heart to heart was over, much to my great relief. "I need to film enough content for a forty-minute Halloween special. I'll need access to multiple areas."
"Not the east wing."
"That's where the fire happened. It's the most anticipated area, the reason why people would come here."
"I said no." My voice dropped to a register that usually made people step back. "It's dangerously unstable. Floors could giveway, take you straight down three stories. But also I don't want Walt following you there. He thinks renovations are happening up there. Seeing it destroyed would break what's left of his mind."
"Okay. Then I'll need other compelling areas. The spookier the better."
"Fine. But only when I'm here to supervise."
"You don't trust me."
"I don't know you." I moved closer, noting how she held her ground even when I used my size advantage. "For all I know, you're planning to exploit Walt for views."
"I don't exploit people." Real anger flashed in her eyes. "I tell the stories of forgotten places. I preserve memories."
The passion in her voice caught me off guard. There was pain there, old and deep.
"Everyone says that until it benefits them and then integrity becomes negotiable."
"Speaking from experience?"
I didn't answer, but she must have seen something in my expression.
"Look," she said, taking out her laptop. "Let me show you what I actually do."
She opened a folder of edited videos. The production quality was exceptional, but it was the content that surprised me. She didn't sensationalize. She researched history, interviewed locals when possible, treated each location with respect. One video about an abandoned orphanage included a segment on childhood trauma and resources for survivors.
