Spirited in Spite

Spirited in Spite

a novella

By Christin Haws

Copyright2014 Christin Haws

Smashwords edition

This is a work of fiction.

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Table of Contents

1 2 3 4 5

6 7 8 9 10

11 12 13 14 15

About the Author

Home

One

Gret Brown smiled and shifted in her seat slightly, trying to look comfortable while she melted under the studio lights. She’d taken her sister Heidi’s advice and left her hair down instead of pulling it back in her customary pony tail, and though her brown hair wasn’t much past her shoulders, Gret could feel the sweat collecting on the back of her neck. Her purple buttoned down shirt stuck to her beneath her suit jacket. Man, she hated doing this. The concept of interviews was fine; the practice, for Gret anyway, was always awkward.

The woman set to interview Gret on her latest book perched on the edge of her chair, an intimidating mix of perky and vapid, her blonde hair frozen fashionably into place by ozone depleting magic, her smile frozen by something else just as toxic. The woman was so covered in make-up, Gret was sure she didn’t have a clear pore to sweat through. If she did, her face would turn to mud.

A director gave the signal and they were off.

"Hello, everyone. I’m Marti Sands and I’m talking with Gretchen Brown about her latest book, Before It’s Normal, It’s Paranormal," the newswoman said.

Gret had watched this woman for the past five years on the local news and had been interviewed by her twice before. Her voice never failed to grate and her personality never failed to irritate. Marti Sands turned her attention to Gret and Gret smiled, thinking of Marti’s hair suddenly combusting from the heat of the lights.

Now, Gretchen, you’ve obviously been with us before, but for those who may not know your name or your face, Marti smiled a genuine, vicious smile, why don’t you tell them a little bit about yourself.

Well, Marti, Gret began, her smile starting to hurt, I’m a skeptic. My job is to debunk and develop alternate, logical theories and explanations to possible paranormal phenomena.

And, you’ve already written two books on the subject, Marti prompted.

Yes. My first book was about the reported haunting of an old mill in Springfield. The second was about a haunted theater in Decatur.

Uh huh. And in both you offered up theories about how some of the mysterious goings on in those two places could be explained.

Right. I explored numerous possibilities of what some of the supposed paranormal activity could have been. I went to both locations on several occasions and did a lot of research into not only the history, but also the engineering and design of the buildings and their current uses. I like to have as much information as possible when I’m investigating a specific place.

Marti smiled and nodded as if she understood and cared.

Now, your new book, she said, picking up a copy and showing it off for the camera, is more of a general debunking and skeptic guide, right?

Gret forced a chuckle and hoped it didn’t sound like she was gagging.

Something like that. It’s a collection of commonly reported paranormal activity and the possible logical explanation for it. The book is broad enough to accommodate a wide variety of experiences.

I see, Marti said, attempting to look intelligent and failing in Gret’s opinion. And just how did you go about collecting this sort of information?

I’ve done many informal investigations over the years and kept documentation on all of them, Gret said, shifting to sit up a little straighter. In going over that documentation, I realized there were several similarities in activity reported from supposedly haunted houses.

Could you give us an example?

Sure. For a lot of people living in older homes, plumbing can actually be the culprit for the odd noises they hear, especially at night. At night, the house tends to be quieter and people pick up more on the little noises that they might not hear during the day when people are up and about, talking, listening to the radio or watching television. Older plumbing makes noises that many people aren’t familiar with.

I see. Interesting, Marti said. She glanced down at the book in her hands and pretended to spend a second formulating her next thought. Now, another interesting thing you mentioned in the book is that you don’t discard the idea of the paranormal. You do believe that there could be ghosts.

Gret gave a well-practiced, non-committal shrug.

I think it’d be presumptuous of me to completely discount the idea that there may be paranormal activity in the world. There are things that can’t be explained. I have experienced things that I couldn’t explain and I’ve been frank about that in all three of my books. But, I believe that the normal is far more common than the paranormal. What I do is encourage logic and objectivity over irrational approaches and blind panic.

And you do so very well. Thank you for joining us, Gretchen, Marti said.

Thank you.

Marti turned to the camera. Coming up, the pet of the week. Stay tuned.

The director cleared them. Gret waited patiently while a tech took off her mic and ignored Marti Sands with the same kind of diligence that Marti displayed barking orders at the make-up and hair people flitting about her head. Gret learned after the first interview that there was no use in trying to be friendly to Marti or even talk to her, really. Gret could write a hundred best sellers and she’d still be nothing but a lowly peon to the woman who was famous in her own mind.

Genuinely grateful to be freed from her electric chain, Gret thanked the tech and all but ran for the door.

The parking lot, a typical barren concrete wasteland, was Heaven compared to the inside of the studio and its buzzing of equipment and people. Gret trekked across the lot to the visitor’s parking area, passing rows of new and expensive and unnecessary vehicles. Hummers, SUVs, sport cars. Status symbols for the elite, or people who wanted other people to think they were elite.

Hearing the roar of an engine so suped up that even NASCAR wouldn’t have been an appropriate place for it, Gret ducked between two SUVs, one black and one champagne, as the car came swinging around the corner, some poor man’s version of penis enhancement, tires squealing. The backend slid wide and bounced off of the bumper of some pink, pretty girl car that looked more like a toy than an actual automobile. The bumper disintegrated and the trunk crumpled and the penis car just kept on going.

Hurrying over to the demolished car, Gret tried to memorize every detail of the demolition derby offender so she could pass it on to the victim or police or whoever. She slowed as she approached the wrecked car and read the license plate dangling from its mangled bumper. Gret grinned.

It was Marti Sands’s car.

Gret smirked and kept on walking.

Far be it from me to be the one to ruin her day.

Gret shucked her suit jacket, letting the crisp autumn air dry out the soaked back of her shirt. At the far end of the visitor’s parking lot, well away from any other car, was Gret’s baby, a 1972 El Camino that had been her husband’s, perfectly untouched. The well-waxed chocolate and caramel paint job sparkled in the October sun like an Oasis in self-important Hell. Gret pulled her keys from her pocket, unlocked the door, and collapsed into the driver’s seat, breathing freely for the first time in two hours.

The crap that was involved with ten minutes of promotion almost wasn’t worth it for Gret. In the past ten years, despite limiting her media exposure to outlets no more than a three hour drive from home, she’d gained quite a following and an impressive reputation as one of the most respected paranormal skeptics in the business. People lauded her for her logic, research, and open-mindedness. Her colleagues said she was a natural.

Of course she was a natural. Gret could actually see ghosts. Hauntings were easy to debunk when she could see that there were no ghosts there.

She tossed her jacket to the passenger seat and got her cell phone from the glove compartment. There were three missed calls, all from Heidi. Gret rolled her eyes, tossed the phone aside without listening to any of the voicemails, and started her car, revving the engine a couple of times to vent.

Heidi, her lovely, five years younger, slightly man-obsessed, definitely make-up obsessed sister, acted as