“It’s hard for me . . . to admit all of this and . . . it’s hard for me to believe that any of this is happening, I guess, and it just escalated into this . . . event last night and . . . I’m here—I mean, we’re here—because . . . because I want these events to stop.”
“Otherwise known as the unexplained events.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, staring out at the flat and desolate land beyond the highway. “The unexplained events,” I murmured.
Sensing I was finished with my story, Miller shifted his girth around in the booth and said flatly, “Technically, Mr. Ellis, I’m a demonologist.”
I was nodding even though I didn’t want to. “Which is?”
“Someone who is an expert on the study and handling of demons.”
I stared at Miller for a long time before I asked, “Demons?”
This is not a good sign, the writer warned me.
Miller sighed. He had noted the disbelief in my grimace. “I also communicate with what you would call ghosts—if that works better for you, Mr. Ellis. In laymen’s terms, you could call me a ghost hunter as well as a psychic researcher.”
“So you basically study . . . anything that’s supernatural?” The words came out just as I had expected they would because the writer was telling me, You are in so over your head.
He nodded. I looked at him hard while trying to recall phrases I had drunkenly encountered on the Web sites last night.
“Can you . . . clean an infested house?” I finally removed my sunglasses.
Miller flinched and drew in a wince when he saw the side of my face and the extent of its bruising fully revealed. This jangled something in him. This was another blow that would convince.
“You don’t think I’m crazy, do you?” I asked quickly.
“I’m making that decision as we speak,” he said, recovering. “That’s what this initial meeting is all about: trying to figure out if I believe you.”
I had closed my eyes and was talking over him. “I mean, I’m not an unstable individual. I mean, maybe I am but I’m not, like, um, trouble or anything.”
“I’m not so sure about that yet.” Miller sighed, sitting back in the booth and crossing his arms. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“I don’t know any more.” I helplessly raised my hands.
“Have you ever had a psychotic episode, Mr. Ellis?” Miller asked. “Have you ever been in any kind of delusional state?”
“I . . . I think I’m in one right now.”
“No. This is just fear,” Miller said. He marked something down on the notepad.
Pretend this is an interview, the writer whispered. You’ve done thousands. Just pretend this is another interview. Smile at the journalist. Tell him how nice his shirt is.
I suddenly guessed at what Miller was getting at.
“I had a drinking problem and . . . a problem with drugs and . . . but I don’t think that’s related . . . and . . .”
In that second everything fell apart.
“You know what? Maybe I’ve made a mistake. Maybe it was just some kids who were pulling a prank and I don’t know anymore and I’m a famous man and I’ve had stalkers and maybe someone is actually impersonating this fictional character of mine and maybe all of this—”
Miller interrupted what was becoming a rant by asking, “Are you the only target of these unexplained events?”
“I . . . guess I am . . . I guess I was . . . until last night happened.”
“Is there anything you’ve done to anger these spirits?” He asked this as if he casually wanted the opinion of a book I had recently read, but it implied something sinister to me.
“What are you saying? Do you think this is my fault or something?”
“Mr. Ellis, there’s no fault here,” Miller said with wary patience. “I’m just asking if you have perhaps antagonized—inadvertently in some way—the house itself.” He paused so this could sink in. “Do you think that your presence in this house—which according to you was not infested when you first arrived—has somehow caused the spirits to become angry—”
“Hey, listen, this thing last night, whatever the f**k it was, went after my kids, okay?”
“Mr. Ellis, I’m just saying you cannot antagonize the spirit world and expect them not to react.”
“I’m not antagonizing anyone—they’re antagonizing us.” This admission prodded a newfound nerve. “And the house wasn’t built on an ancient Indian burial ground either, okay? Jesus Christ.” This flash of anger—a release—calmed me down momentarily.
