CHAPTER
2
The Phenomenon
When A.J. Van Epps first called to relate what had happened—or allegedly happened—to crusty old Clyde Morris, I fidgeted, perused lecture notes, indulged him. Why would a learned academic and researcher like Van Epps trouble himself—and now me—with a campfire tale too easily debunked to warrant the effort? The largely one-sided conversation took a feeble turn toward interesting only when I discerned in Van Epps’ voice a tone of dread so unlike him, and it was after that hook was set that he sprang his proposal: Would I come and assist in the investigation? Would I help him regain his objectivity? Would I lend my knowledge and experience?
Oh yes, exactly what my frayed nerves needed. Being in a near plane crash and hauled into a misadventure in a so-called “Institute for Advanced Psychic Studies,” not to mention having my personal and deepest fears vivisected by one and the same, was a sleepy, monotonous ordeal. I needed the change.
We were old friends and associates. I would be lecturing at Evergreen State College in the Puget Sound area in the next few days. Of course I could afford a side trip to help him look into the matter. I agreed to come—and kicked myself the moment I ended the call.
McKinney here. Dr. James McKinney, sixty, professor of philosophy and comparative religions, emeritus, at large, published, and so on and so forth. Generally, a scholar of religious claims and systems, but specifically, a skeptic, and it is to that last title I devote the most attention. This, I trust, lends explanation for why I and Andrea Goldstein, my young assistant, drove our rental car through the meandering and sloping village of Port Avalon and located the quaint Victorian residence of Dr. A.J. Van Epps.
Van Epps, thinner and grayer than I remembered, took our coats, then expended no more than a minute or two on greetings and how-are-yous before he led us to his kitchen table and brought up a photograph on his computer: A two-story Victorian home, dull purple, richly detailed, turreted, with a covered porch and sleepy front windows.
“My interest, of course, is to ascertain how it works, what empowers it, what measure or means of controlled stimuli will produce predictable results.”
Andi and I studied the photo. I saw a house; it was Andi’s way to see more, always more, which was one reason I took her along.
“Seven panels in the door,” she said. “Each window has seven panes. There are seven front steps.”
Not that I appreciated her timing. “Save it for later,” I advised, then asked Van Epps, “So this is a house here in town?”
Van Epps inserted an artful pause before answering, “Sometimes.”
This whole affair was ludicrous enough. “A.J., I’m not known for my patience.”
“Check out the landmarks: This tree with the large knot; this fire hydrant; this seam in the street.” He arrow-keyed to a second photograph, what one would call a vacant lot: some brush, some trees, nothing else . . . save for the same knotted tree, fire hydrant, and seam in the street in front. “I took this soon after the first. The house was there, and then it wasn’t.”
I didn’t stifle an irritated sigh. “If I may—just to cover the obvious—these photos are digital.”
He sighed back. “I didn’t alter them. No Photoshop.”
“And you’ve presented them in the order you took them?”
“Yes.”
“So I’m to take you seriously?”
He leaned back and held my gaze with his own. “I’ve found something, James, something atypical. As you’ll observe, Port Avalon is one of those . . . alternative kinds of town that attracts all brands of superstition, so the locals have their legends about the House, how it’s a harbinger of death, how it knows you, follows you . . .” With an unbecoming cryptic note, he added, “Takes you.”
I rubbed my eyes, mostly to buy time. I was at a loss.
“I came to Port Avalon with the specific objective of encountering this House in order to study it, know it. I saw it for myself a month ago, even before the incident with Clyde Morris, and yes, there is something about it that would trigger such legends, so I have to ask, what is it really? And can we control it—maybe harness whatever powers it?”
“Harness? What are you talking about?”
He fidgeted, composing an answer. “Some friends and I are interested in occult power—not as occult power, you understand, but as . . . power. Power that could be useful.”
“Investors, shall we say.”
I knew he wouldn’t go any further into it. Maybe another time. “A.J., if you want me to bring balance to this—”
“Absolutely! I can see the handwriting on the wall, this is no plaything.”
“Then I’ll be skeptical. Digital photographs? Legends? To waste my time is to insult me. Show me evidence beyond this.”
“There’s Nadine, Clyde Morris’s widow. You should hear her account. She was there, in the House, when it took him.”
I rose deliberately. “Then we’ll go there now.” I turned to get my coat.
The closet door was locked.
“Other door,” Van Epps said.
I found the closet, grabbed and put on my coat. Andi threw hers on.
“There’s more,” said Van Epps, clicking on another file.
It was my role to get him on track and I persisted. I recognized his favorite jacket in the front closet: fine leather, and a distinctive smell. I grabbed it and held it out to him.
With his eyes turned away from his computer, he swiveled it to show us another photo, that of a ghostly old man with glassy eyes and hunched shoulders glaring at the camera. The lighting was rather dim, the photo taken outdoors at dusk or later. “Clyde Morris.”
I would have none of the chill I felt and shook it off. Andi showed the same chill plainly. “He could have been dead already.” I was being sarcastic.
“He was,” said Van Epps. “He died a week before I took this.”