The van slows to a stop on dirty brick drive in front of the large, old, rundown house as the late afternoon sunlight starts to fade. The words Phantom Pursuit are painted on the sides of it with the letters slanted forwards to make them look they are going fast even when the van is parked.
Three passengers disembark, their boots crunching on the grit on the driveway. They are wearing identical gray coveralls with a cartoon white-sheet ghost printed on the back; he looks like he is trying to run away from something. They move to the back of the van, and the thin one opens the doors.
The trio put on heavy belts with various electronic devices holstered on them. They then take turns assisting each other with putting on the head-mounted camera rigs.
The fat one starts working with three computers hooked to monitors at the back of the van, “camera test,” he says.
“On,” says the thin one.
“On,” says the woman
“Okay, getting your feeds clearly, but...”
The fat one leaves the monitors and walks over to the thin one, adjusting the camera strapped on just above his right ear.
“There,” says the fat one looking back to the monitors, “you were angled down too far; all I was getting was the ground.”
“Alright,” says the thin one, “lets shoot the intro before it gets too dark.”
The fat one grabs a hand held camera from the van, and he and the thin one move back so that the front of the old house and the Phantom Pursuit van can both be in the background of the shot. The woman moves to stand behind the fat one, out of view of the camera.
“Okay, three... two... go!” says the fat one, pointing the camera at the thin one.
“Hello, and welcome to another episode of Phantom Pursuit,” says the thin one in a slightly richer voice than the one he had been using a minute before. “This week we are at Braithewell Manor, and yes, that is Braithewell as in the Braithewell Paper Company.”
The thin one scratches his nose as he talks, “Braithewell Manor has sat vacant for nearly thirty years due to the mysterious circumstances under which the house was vacated, but tonight we will take you inside and find out the truth for ourselves, “the thin one drops the voice, “There, how was that?”
“Good, but lets get another one, and this time keep your hands away from your nose.”
They shoot three more takes before the fat one is satisfied. He then urges the woman quickly up to the porch to record her part.
“Braithewell Manor has stood empty for nearly thirty years since the unexplained disappearance of Reginald Braithewell the Third, his wife, Arianna, and their children, Susannah and Reginald the Fourth in 1984. One night they simply vanished without a trace. Some say it is because the home was built atop an indian burial ground, and that night the spirits rose up and dragged the whole family to the afterlife as revenge for desecrating their sacred land, they say that the spirits of the family still walk the halls of this once fabulous home, unaware that they have even passed on.”
The woman continues, making flirty eyes at the camera, “We asked the Braithewell family for more details,”she breaks character for a moment, “Interview goes here, blah, blah, blah, blah,” and then goes back into character, “Now, we're going to head inside to explore Braithewell Manor, making us the first people to do so in nearly three decades. If the unquiet spirits of the Braithewells or anything else still roam these halls, we're going to find them. Lets go inside!”
“Okay,” says the fat one, “I think that was too dark Let me get lights on you.”
The fat one removes work lights from the van, and sets them up on the ground, shining them up onto the porch before doing three more takes with the woman before packing the lights back into the van.
“Alright, we ready to head in?” asks the thin one, “Cameras still working?”
“Yeah,” says the fat one from the monitors at the back of the van, “gray and spiffy.”
“So, uh, was this really an indian burial ground?” the woman asks.
“No, but just saying they chopped down old growth trees to build it is only spooky to eco-freaks,” the thin one says.
Pulling a key from one of the pockets of the coveralls, the thin one lets the trio of investigators inside.
The entryway of the mansion is dark, lit only by the moonlight coming through the windows.
“I hate this part,” The woman says, “I can't see shit.”
“Just let your eyes adjust,“ The thin one says.
“And stay in character, this is all recording,” the fat one chastises her, “and watch it with the swearing. We should only be bleeping things when something spooky happens.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she pitches her voice lower and sexier, “Better?”
“Indeedy,” says the fat one.
“Let's move in farther,” says the thin one, and heads off to the right. He narrates what he sees as he goes, describing dust covered drop cloths protecting the unseen antique furnishings beneath them, “and through here should be the dining room, and then the kitchen.
As they move through the dining room, the men and woman slowly sweep their heads back and forth over the white shapes of the covered table and chairs and the covered china and curio cabinets along the walls. They hope to catch something on video that they don't notice with their eyes.
The kitchen is not as well preserved as the other rooms on the ground floor. The counters with their old appliances, microwave, mixer, blender, toaster, sit uncovered and unprotected from years of dust. The fat one spots something on the counter.
“Is that a pie?” he asks, pointing to what appears to be a pie with a lattice crust, “Is that an apple pie?”
The thin one walks over to the counter and picks up the pie, stirring up the accumulated dust from the top of it, “It's tin,” he says, turning it over so that the woman and the fat one can see that it is hollow inside.
“Oh,” says the fat one disappointedly.
“Oh?” the thin one mocks,” Oh? What, were you... were you gonna eat a thirty year old apple pie?”
“I'm hungry,” the fat one says.
“Ooh, shocker,” replies the girl with a giggle.
“We ate just two hours ago,” the thin one says, sounding annoyed.
“What if it had been real though?” the woman asks, still giggling, “What if the ghosts baked us a pie?”
“Okay,” says the thin one, using his deeper voice again, “Lets split up and take some readings. I'll check out the rest of this floor, you,” he points to the woman, “go upstairs, and you,” he points to the fat one, “go to the basement.”
The trio splits up, and the fat one heads to the basement door. Even with his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he cannot see in pitch black. He pulls a red flashlight from his belt, and turns it on. The light is weak, but it allows him to see well enough to move around.
The fat one descends the stairs into the basement slowly. Halfway down he lets out a scream, not because of anything he sees, but because the next step is missing. He drops the flashlight and grabs onto the handrail running along the wall to keep himself from tumbling forward.
“Did one of you just scream?” the thin one's voice floats up from the walkie talkie holstered on the fat one's belt.
“I'm okay up here,” the woman responds.
“I almost fell down the stairs,” the fat one says into the walkie, “but I'm fine, thanks.”
The fat one carefully makes his way down the rest of the stairs towards where his light landed, holding onto the handrail the whole way in case there are any other unseen obstacles. Once he is safely at the bottom of the stairs, he kneels down to retrieve his light from the floor.
He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and quickly turns his head and torch towards it. In the dim red light he sees a figure hunched over and staring at him. He gasps and recoils away from it, losing his balance and falling onto his back on the dusty floor. He scrambles away as fast as he can, his butt leaving a wide trail in the dust.
The hunched over figure also backs away violently, losing its own balance, and scrambling away. It seems to be just as scared of him as he is of it.
“Damn it,” the fat one mutters, getting to his feet, “Fragging mirror.”
The basement is different than the upstairs. There are boxes around some of the walls, but there is also an old sofa set up opposite a big television set, “Okay, I'm in the basement now,” the fat one narrates, “and it's not what I was expecting. It looks like this was some sort of TV room, but nothing down here is protected with drop cloths. I wonder if something kept people out of here so that they couldn't cover these items.”
“It looks like everything down here has remained undisturbed though. There must be something very strong here to even keep burglars and vandals out,” the fat one moves closer to the couch, sweeping the light back and forth, tracking where he is looking, “This is probably where the Braithewell children, Susannah and Reginald the fourth would sit and watch tv, and... what's this?”
The fat one crouches down to look at a cord sticking out under the door of tall, narrow cabinet sitting next to the old wood encased television. He opens the door and gasps. Putting his walkie to his mouth, he says .”Guys, you'll never guess what I just found!”
“If it's thirty year old Cheetos, I would advise you against eating them,” says the thin one.
“Ha ha, no. They have an Intellivision!”
“That's great,” says the thin one dryly, “if we start a spin off called Old Electronics Pursuit we can use footage of that.”
“So then you're not interested in the top loading VCR?”
“No.”
“Guys, I think there's something up here,” says the woman.
“Any readings?” the fat one asks.
“Temperature seems steady,” she pauses while switching instruments on her belt, “Nothing on the EM.”
“What do you hear?”
“Movement,” the woman says, looking around the empty hallway. She sees old wallpaper peeling, and picture frames whose images are completely obscured by the layers of dust coating them.
“Rats maybe?” asks the fat one.
“I don't think so,” the woman says, opening a doorway and peering into a bedroom. The bed and other furnishings are covered in sheets like the furniture on the ground floor, “I think I'm in the daughter's room now. I think the walls are pink in here anyway, and that is definitely a Cyndi Lauper poster.”
She perks her head up as she hears the movement noise again. She turns around and looks out into the hallway to see what caused it, but she's still alone.
“Did one of you come upstairs?”
“No,” says the thin one.
“Wow, they have a VHS cassette of 'Last Summer',” says the fat one, “You could get at least fifty bucks for this online.”
The woman moves back into the hallway, walking slowly to the next door. This one opens onto a bathroom. She can see a pair of long disused toothbrushes hanging from a little rack over the sink.
She hears movement again; a sort of sliding noise followed by what may be a door closing.
“Guys, there is definitely something up here,” the woman says, “Can someone please come and look with me?”
“On the way,” the thin one says
“Coming,” says the fat one.
The woman waits until she hears two pairs of feet noisily thumping their way up the stairs down the hall behind her.
“Have you heard anything else?” the thin one asks.
“Yes, I think it may be coming from the end of the hall,” the woman says, pointing to door at the end of the hall ahead of her; it is being illuminated by a beam of moonlight through the window.
“Alright,” says the fat one, “we're finally going to get some really good evidence.”
“Or we're going to find a homeless person,” says the thin one.
Together, the Phantom Pursuers move to the end of the hallway as quietly as possible. It takes a bit of effort for the fat one to open the door,as it has become slightly warped over the years, and all three of them cautiously look into the large master bedroom. They see the shrouded shapes of a bed, a vanity, dressers, and nightstands, all made vague by their protective sheets.
“This must have been the bedroom of Arianna and Reginald,” The thin one says.
“It looks undist-” starts the fat one, but he cuts himself off when he hears a noise. Movement, but muffled.
Accompanying the movement is a muffled “'Onk!” sound.
“Hello?” asks the thin one, “If you are here, please make yourself known to us.”
“'Onk!”
The woman points at the closet, and the others nod in agreement. They cross the room as quietly as possible, some of the floorboards creak as they step on them.
The thin one reaches out to grasp the doorknob, turns it slowly, and then yanks the closet door open.
From between the hangers with the old, dusty, decaying clothes hanging from them, a white shape launches itself at the group, “'Onk, 'onk, 'onk, 'onk” the shape yells as it passes between them as they recoil in fear and surprise. The shape begins to bounce around the room.
The men and woman scream, the fat one may have soiled his pants, and they run, practically shoving each other out of the way as they race for the stairs, and then out the front door into the night where they stop only once they have reached the safety of their van.
“That was simply marvelous, dear,” Ariana says as we watch through the widow as the Phantom Pursuit team talk animatedly to each other.
“Don't compliment me,” I reply, “I only set up the mirror. It was Susie and Reggie who thought up putting a goose in the closet. I still would like to know where they got that goose from.”
“The pond out back, I believe,” Arianna says, “So what should we do if they decide to come back? I think we should drop something on the thin one's head.”