"Look, I went over there and..." The voice on the phone sounded scared. Maybe not genuinely scared, but human, at least. "Come on, I'm a reporter. I'm trained to be skeptical. But it's just...It scared me."
Mark Zucken drummed his fingers on his desk and wondered why he had bothered coming to work today. The voice was only almost human, he thought, but not quite. Maybe snake. Possibly vulture. Could a snake and a vulture breed and create a viable offspring? Of course, how do you think Times reporter are born? Throw in a background of wolf too, the way these reporters loved to pander garbage science to a sheep-like public.
"Professor Zucken, are you there?"
"Sorry, I was wool gathering.” Ha, good one. Sheep. Wool-gathering. “What was your name again, Miss?"
"Constance Black. Anyway, Professor, I'm at the house right now, and there's just something about this place...I wish you come and, well, expose the fraud. That's why I called you. You're famous for debunking paranormal manifestations, and if could debunk this...well," she laughed a little. "If you could debunk this, I'd be relieved."
Hmm, famous. She called me famous. That was a bald attempt to get his help by stroking his ego. As a doctor of psychology, he could see through that ploy. As a post-pubescent high school graduate, he could see through it.
Of course, he was famous. Famous among crack-pots, that is. Crackpots who actually threatened, threatened, him, who would actually send him hateful, misspelled emails because they were offended by his attempts - mere attempts, mind you - to breath some sense into an idiotic public so bereft of meaning and logic that they just rush to believe any silly ghost story that happens along. It was just depressing. People got stupider and more gullible every year...he didn’t think it could get any worse until that one guy, that stalker, five years ago – Oh, God, what that stalker had taken from him? He was a different person before. But now he was a man who did not involve himself in any way with with paranormal anything.
Zucken tucked the phone against his ear with his shoulder and patted down his jacket pockets, looking for cigarettes. Constance was still talking, sounding more and more scared. What an act. She sure had a pretty, sexy snake-vulture-wolf voice, though. Ah, more inducements. Her apparent fear: an appeal to his male instinct to be a hero. And the sexy, young voice? Obviously an appeal to other male instincts. Did they teach this stuff in journalism school, or did she have a minor in marketing as well?
He searched his desk drawers. Two dead spiders and a dusty Baby Ruth bar wouldn't dare eat without first carbon dating, but no cigarettes. He snapped the desk drawer shut. He quit smoking last month.
Black was still talking. Wind her up and watch her go. Actually, it was pretty decent of her not to bring up what happened five years ago. Goodness knows, it had been in the papers enough; she must be aware of his history. Everyone was. Decent? No, wait. She’s just clever enough to know that bringing up that horror would completely alienate him. So she makes up some silly story and tries a different angle to get his help Yeah, yeah, she's at the house and she's scared. Well, if she were really scared, she wouldn't be at the house anymore, now would she? I ought to change my phone extension to a 976 number. If people had to pay to talk garbage to me, the world's sum total of garbage would be reduced.
He suddenly felt a bitter, black hatred stab at him. How dare this damn reporter? Of course, she wanted to interview him. She’d interview him as an expert on her the “paranormal” aspects of these murders, then she’ll sprinkle in the details of the murder five years ago. He almost could see straight for a second. So his private loss and torment was meant to provide entertainment to this lady’s readers? He put his head in his hands for a moment. His hands came away wet. Stupid allergies making his eyes water.
Black was still talking. No wonder bitterness was called “bitter”ness. He could taste bile on the back of his tongue.He cut Black off. “I know this can’t mean much to you, but six people are dead. Do you think it's decent to sell newspapers by puffing up some silly psychic angle?”
“Mr. Zucken, that’s now what I’m trying to do. Please help me—“
Since Constance Black wasn’t there, he had to make due with giving the phone his tradement contemptuous glance. Okay, he was back to himself again. Nicely acerbic, and all wounds healed.
Mr. Zucken, indeed.
“That would be Doctor Zucken, if you don’t mind, thank you. I simply don’t understand wy an educated woman like yourself would pander to a superstitious public. It's one thing when some old mom and pop hotel tries to drum up business by saying they've got a Civil War era..."
He paused a moment. Was there something wrong with her cell phone, or was she actually shrieking like a horror movie vixen? Oh, please. As his students would say, puh--leese.
"As I was saying," What was he saying? Oh, yes, "Saying you've got the ghost of a Civil War soldier, or even the ghost of a pregnant Flapper Girl who threw herself down a well, well, that's one thing, but these deaths, these horrible deaths ..."
Hmm. Actually, did he have a point? So it's okay to market some dusty tourist trap using old deaths, but it's not okay to sell newspapers using deaths that happened last week? Black would probably call him on that bit of fuzzy thinking. If she worked for The Times she wasn't stupid. She didn't sound stupid. Hysterical, but not stupid. Well, maybe a little. Moot point now. Her screaming had reached a crescendo during his peroration and now the phone was dead.
Screams and hangs up. Ooh, I'm so worried and anxious I just better rush over there and save her. What a hack. I'm going home.
--------------
Zucken headed out to the faculty parking lot and got in his red Miata. Sure, it was a midlife crisis car, he thought. He always that that when he saw his shiny car, but he loved it just the same. And why shouldn’t he have a mid-life crises? He was 44 years old. Let’s see, if this is mid-life, then I’m assuming I’m going to live to be 88 years old. How uncharacteristically optimistic. Zucken figured he was probably over due for his midlife crises.
He turned the key and the engine roared to life like it had waiting for him all day and was excited that someone was going to get to be driven. Zucken shifted gears smoothly; he was proud of his skills, although the drive home was so habitual he hardly needed to think about it. It was only just getting dark, still early evening. He’d head home to his home, cook dinner with Dina, help the kids with their homework and then head to the gym and work out. No, no. That was five years ago. Yeah, five years ago. He pressed his lips together and drove on automatically. He used to hate helping the kids with their math homework; it made him feel so inadequate. What he wouldn’t give to be doing some algebra tonight. Or, heck, they’d probably be doing Calculus by now.
Zucken turned on the car radio, loud. Time to stop thinking. It made his allergies act up.
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