You’re (A)Live

Scroll down to read Part 1.

Part 2: Well Preserved

(You chose: Call the Historical Society and ask about the estate’s history.)

By nine-thirty the next morning, you have learned two things.

First, Arman was right.

The station received twenty-three calls about yesterday’s segment.

Second, apparently no one gives a shit about historic preservation.

Every single one was about the concrete.

Like a hot tip line, messages poured in from folks claiming they knew exactly what it was.

From the Mongolian Death Worm to the town’s old mayor somehow rising from the dead.

You dial the number for the Historical Society and lean back in your chair.

It rings four times.

“Historical Society.”

The woman who answers sounds older.

“Hi. My name is Missy Holloway. I’m a reporter with WNEB 8. I was hoping someone could help me with some information about the Barnaby Estate.”

“What sort of information?”

“Mostly background. History of the property, previous owners, what it was used for. I’d also like to know a little more about the restoration project and the donor who funded it. Although I’m not sure if you’d have that kind of information.”

Silence.

You glance at the phone.

“Hello?”

“I’m here.”

“Okay.”

You smile despite yourself.

“I covered the restoration yesterday. We’re doing a follow-up.”

“Yes.”

“You saw it?”

“No.”

Something about the way she says it makes you sit a little straighter.

Tough cookie.

“Well, apparently we caused a little excitement. One of the construction workers told us they poured concrete on Friday and came back Monday to find something had dug its way out.”

Nothing.

Not even a polite laugh.

“Ma’am?”

“Who did you say you were again?”

“Missy Holloway. WNEB 8.”

“And you're the reporter who was at Barnaby yesterday?”

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Then:

“I think you should come here.”

You pull the phone away from your ear for a second.

“I’m sorry?”

“My lunch is at noon.”

“Okay…”

“I expect you here by twelve-fifteen.”

You glance at the clock.

“Can I ask why?”

“No.”

The line goes dead.

You stare at the phone.

“What the hell just happened?”

The Historical Society occupies the basement of a municipal building that looks like it has been accumulating dust since the 80s.

There is even a bulletin board with events from 1999 and 2003.

Warnings of Y2K.

You pass the town clerk upstairs, follow a handwritten sign down a narrow staircase, and find a small brass plaque beside an open door.

HISTORICAL SOCIETY

The office beyond it is barely an office.

It's a closet with ambitions.

Bookshelves cover every wall.

Papers are stacked on the floor.

Rolled maps stand upright in an umbrella holder.

Three cardboard archive boxes occupy the only chair besides the one behind the desk.

And sitting behind that desk is a tiny woman with silver hair and glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

She looks at you.

“You're late.”

You check your phone.

12:16.

“By a minute.”

“A minute is late.”

She stands.

“Come on.”

Apparently introductions are optional.

She leads you through another doorway.

And suddenly the room opens.

The archive stretches almost the entire length of the building.

Metal shelving disappears into dim fluorescent light, packed with boxes, ledgers, photographs, newspapers and records bearing dates going back centuries.

You stop.

“What was this room?”

“No idea.”

She keeps walking.

“I've been asking for thirty-seven years.”

You follow her.

“You've worked here thirty-seven years?”

“Forty-two.”

“I thought you just said….”

“I spent the first five asking other questions.”

You decide to leave that alone.

She’s definitely a character.

You admire that about her.

At the far end of the archive, several boxes are already sitting on a table.

BARNABY

She pulls out a chair.

“Sit.”

You sit.

She remains standing.

“I've lived in this town eighty-three years.”

You look up.

“You're eighty-three?”

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were.”

She opens the first box.

“When I was a girl, everybody knew stories about Barnaby. Most of them were nonsense. Children daring each other to touch the gates. Lights in the windows. Voices in the woods.”

“Ghost stories.”

“Mostly.”

She removes an old photograph.

“But what you told me on the telephone reminded me of something else.”

She slides it toward you.

The Barnaby Estate.

Older.

No scaffolding.

No paved drive.

And considerably more isolated.

“Have you ever heard of the New England vampire panic?”

You look up.

“The what?”

“During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, families throughout New England sometimes exhumed relatives they believed were somehow responsible for sickness among the living. Consumption, mostly. Tuberculosis.”

“You're serious.”

“Quite.”

She sits across from you.

“They opened graves. Examined bodies. Sometimes removed organs and burned them. Rhode Island had some of the most famous cases, but the practice wasn't confined there.”

You look at the photograph again.

“And Barnaby?”

She opens another folder.

“1847.”

Inside are handwritten documents, brittle newspaper clippings and what looks like a property ledger.

“Three bodies were exhumed on the grounds.”

You look back at her.

“Why?”

“That depends on which account you believe.”

She slides one of the papers toward you.

“Members of the household had been falling ill. One after another. The official explanation was consumption.”

“Consumption?”

“Tuberculosis. They called it consumption then. The disease seemed to consume the body.”

“Ah, thank you. My wires were got crossed the moment you mentioned a vampire panic. And the unofficial explanation?”

She smiles faintly.

“That something underneath Barnaby was feeding on them.”

You can’t help but distort your face in disgust at the thought.

“Were the bodies members of the family?”

“Two were.”

“And the third?”

“We don't know.”

She taps the page.

“No name. No corresponding death record. No record of anyone being buried in that location at all.”

“So they found a random body?”

“They found a man.”

Something about her wording makes you feel like there’s more.

“A man?”

She nods.

“The account describes him as remarkably well preserved.”

“After how long?”

“That’s the problem.”

You wait.

“…No one knew.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was no marker. No burial record. Nothing identifying him. But according to the account, the men who opened the grave believed the condition of his body meant he was responsible for the illnesses.”

You stare at her.

“They thought he was a vampire.”

“They wouldn’t necessarily have called him that. But they believed the dead could draw life from the living.”

You look down at the document.

“And historians?”

“Historians would eventually classify what happened at Barnaby as part of the New England vampire panic.”

“But you don’t?”

She doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, she looks toward the shelves.

“I told you I've lived here my entire life.”

“Right.”

“I grew up about a mile from Barnaby.”

She takes off her glasses.

“When I was nine years old, some friends and I went onto the property.”

You smile.

“Kids get into everything.”

She doesn't understand the joke.

Probably for the best.

“We weren't supposed to be there. Barnaby had already been empty for years. We dared each other to get close enough to touch the house.”

“And did you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because there was a man standing in the window.”

Your smile fades.

“Someone lived there?”

“No.”

“You're sure?”

“Quite.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall. Dark hair. Very pale.”

She looks down at the photograph between you.

“And his clothes seemed funny.”

“Funny how?”

“Old.”

“How old?”

She thinks.

“I didn't know then. I was nine.”

Her finger moves across the photograph.

“But I know now.”

She stops on one of the figures standing outside Barnaby.

Your eyes follow her finger.

The photograph is faded.

But one man stands slightly apart from the others.

Tall.

Dark hair.

Pale face.

You look at her.

“The man in the window?”

“I can't say that.”

“But you think it was.”

“I know what I saw.”

You look down at the date written beneath the photograph.

1891.

“When did you see him?”

“1952.”

You stare at her for a moment.

“You thought he was a ghost.”

“For most of my life.”

“And now?”

She slowly puts her glasses back on.

“Now I think ghosts are probably the simpler explanation.”

As if on cue, the fluorescent light above you flickers.

You look at the boxes covering the table.

The exhumations.

The unidentified body.

The photograph.

The man in the window.

And something digging its way out from underneath fresh concrete.

You look back at her.

“What do you think is underneath Barnaby?”

For the first time since you arrived, the old woman hesitates.

Then she leans back in her chair.

“When I was a girl, I heard whispers about that house.”

“What kind of whispers?”

She looks toward the photograph.

“That the Barnabys weren't burying the dead.”

A beat.

“They were hiding the living.”

End of Part 2.

Part 1: The Restoration

The red light comes on.

Behind you, the Barnaby Estate rises beyond a set of iron gates.

Three stories of dark stone and narrow windows.

Scaffolding climbs the eastern wall.

The whine of a saw carries across the lawn as workers move between stacks of lumber and construction equipment.

A temporary banner stretches across the fencing behind you.

BARNABY ESTATE RESTORATION PROJECT

You smile into the camera.

“After sitting vacant for nearly twenty years, one of the region’s most infamous and recognizable historic homes is getting a second chance.”

Arman slowly widens the shot.

“The Barnaby Estate was recently acquired by the Historical Society after concerns that the property could be lost to development. But thanks to a substantial donation from a private investor, restoration efforts are officially underway.”

You turn slightly toward the mansion.

“The project is expected to take more than a year, but when complete, the Historical Society hopes to reopen portions of the estate to the public for the first time in decades.”

It’s exactly the kind of story you expected when George handed you the assignment this morning.

History.

Preservation.

A few shots of construction workers carrying lumber.

Maybe a quote about what the project means to the community.

Easy.

“And joining us this morning is Sal Barry, whose crew is overseeing much of the restoration.”

Sal steps beside you in a reflective vest and work jacket.

“Sal, thanks for talking with us.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

“So how’s everything going?”

He looks back at the mansion.

“Ah, it’s a big job. Bigger than we thought, honestly. But she’s a beautiful old building. Good bones. We’re happy to be doing it.”

“That must be exciting. Working on a property with this much history.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah.”

He pauses.

“Although I’ll tell ya, this one’s been kinda weird.”

That gets your attention.

“Weird?”

“Yeah.”

Sal laughs.

“I mean, I gotta be honest with ya. We poured concrete Friday.”

He scratches his jaw.

“Came back Monday morning…”

He looks toward a few of his workers.

“…something had dug its way out.”

You stare at him.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Something dug its way out.”

“Out of the concrete?”

“Yeah.”

“You mean an animal?”

“Maybe.”

“From underneath the concrete?”

“Yeah.”

You glance at Arman.

Making sure the camera is still rolling.

“Okay. What exactly did it look like?”

Sal laughs again.

“Look, the guys have been having a field day with it. One of my guys, Tito, his wife’s some kinda bruja or something.”

You blink.

“She’s a witch?”

“Yeah. Well, I dunno. That’s what he says.”

Somewhere behind you, a voice calls out.

“That is not what I said, Sal.”

Sal turns.

“Tito, you told me she’s a bruja.”

“I said her grandmother was.”

Sal shrugs.

“Okay, so it runs in the family.”

Someone behind the camera laughs.

You squint and press your lips together trying to maintain professional composer.

Do not laugh.

Do not laugh.

Do not laugh.

Sal turns back to you.

“Anyway, Tito says maybe we disturbed something from the great beyond when we started digging and now it ain’t too happy about it.”

You glance toward the mansion.

“And what do you think happened?”

“Kids.”

“Kids?”

“Yeah. Kids screwing around. They know the place has been empty. Probably think it’s funny coming out here at night.”

“With the concrete?”

“Kids get into everything.”

Sal suddenly turns directly toward the camera.

“And if any of you little punks are watching this, we got cameras now.”

He points two fingers toward his eyes, then at the lens.

“We see you.”

You press your lips together tighter. 

Do not laugh.

“Well…”

You clear your throat.

“Hopefully that solves the mystery.”

“Oh, it’ll solve it.”

Sal grins.

“We catch somebody in there, I’m putting ’em to work.”

“Or something…”

You look back into the camera.

There is a pause in your earpiece.

Then the studio anchor’s voice comes through.

“Missy, you’re still live.”

Shit.

You straighten.

“Right.”

A laugh comes from the studio.

“We’ll be checking back in with Missy Holloway next week as restoration continues at the Barnaby Estate. Perfect timing, too. Halloween is right around the corner.”

Another voice joins in.

“Gotta love those construction guys.”

You smile through it.

“Back to you, Chuck”

The red light goes dark.

You lower the microphone.

“Man.”

Arman lowers the camera from his shoulder.

“I am never going to hear the end of this from George.”

“I don’t know.”

He looks down at the camera.

“I think that made the whole thing a lot more interesting.”

You turn toward him.

“Really? I thought it was a disaster. I could barely keep a straight face.”

“Are you kidding? The station’s phone is probably already ringing.”

You look back toward Sal, now walking toward the construction site.

“Because some guy thinks kids dug through his concrete?”

Arman shrugs.

“People like weird.”

He starts packing up the camera.

“And weird seems kinda right up your alley anyway.”

You roll your eyes.

But your attention drifts back toward the estate.

Toward Sal.

Toward the house behind him.

Maybe Arman is right.

Maybe this story won’t be so boring after all.

End of Part 1.