Everything whirled for a moment, and she swore she saw stars. Her mind reeled. When the ground beneath her feet finally stopped spinning, she managed to crack open her eyes for a second.
"Where the hell are we?"
Her first thought was "haunted house." Dust and cobwebs crisscrossed every wall. If she squinted in the hazy gray light, she could make out stark white sheets covering menacing forms. Burns and cracks in the walls lead to half-burnt oil paintings of ancient mariners and ships gliding through the foaming sea.
"What is this?" Fannie came in through the door to her right. "Did we land in the Addams Family's home or something?"
"No. And it's not The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, either. Mrs. Muir's house never looked this bad in the show." Screams and moans managed to make it through the foghorn outside a burnt window. "Look at this place. Half of it's been in a fire. The other half is abandoned. If you were a ghost, isn't this the kind of house you'd want to set up residence in?"
Fannie shuddered. "Looks worse than some of the abandoned plantation houses in Alabama. And I thought we southerners could get Gothic."
Brett went to a window and stuck her head out to see where they were. The little house was attached to a darkened lighthouse. A vicious sea pounded against the sides of a craggy gray cliff. The sky echoed the sea, a thin line of heavy black clouds dotted here and there by the occasional silvery gray. A soft mist fell, cooling her cheeks and making her mascara run.
"Great, it's raining, too." She wiped her face with her sleeve. "I don't suppose you brought an umbrella."
"I don't even have my purse!" Fannie jumped as more screeches and a scream of terror cut through the gloom. "Brett, honey, I think we'd better get out of here. I don't particularly want to be a host for a ghost. I've seen The Exorcist. I like myself in my own body."
Brett smirked. "It would take three ghosts to fill out those curves of yours." Searching through one of the few uncovered and unburnt desks brought up something she suspected they were going to need. "Here." She shoved an antique, pearl-handled pistol into Fannie's hand and took a second for herself. "If things get rough, we may have to get a little ugly."
"I'm hoping it won't come to that." The southern woman raised her eyebrows as Brett easily checked the gun for bullets. "You know guns?"
"I'm from the country, remember? I was taught to shoot the moment I could handle the darn things. Don't often get a chance to in LA." She stuck the gun in her waistband. "Let's go find Joyce."
Joyce was standing at the top of the lighthouse, looking out a brass telescope. "Girls!" she squeaked in horror as they managed to puff their way to the misty outside deck. "I see something out there! A lot of somethings! They're surrounding...well, somebody...on the cliff! At least, I think they're something. When I look through the telescope, they're just sort of faint. But when I don't, they're crowding around that poor guy. I don't think they want to give him a hug, either."
"The man on the tree?" Brett managed to stumbled to the telescope after she caught her breath. Maybe it was that imagination Ira referred to earlier, but she could have sworn the baby-faced man bound to that twig of a tree crucifixion-style looked a hell of a lot like... "Shit!" She dropped the telescope. "Charles is down there!"
Fannie peered through the telescope, adjusting the lense. Her big brown eyes got even wider. "Holy hell, you're right. He's not movin' too well. Never heard a man scream so much like a girl before..."
"I'll twit him about that later." Brett was already pulling back, checking every corner for an idea. "We have to get their attention."
"What about...this?" Joyce was pushing at the old lamp. It took all three women to get the rusty light aimed at the cliff. "Whew! I don't envy the lighthouse keeper," Joyce panted. "That's hard work!"
"Messy, too." Fannie brushed dull red specks off her black star shirt. "That thing had more rust on it than some of Gene's pick-up lines."
Brett was already pushing buttons on the dusty panel next to it. "How do you turn this thing on? Does it even have electricity?" As her fingers moved, they finally grasped a large lever. "Well, here goes nothing. This is the only thing I haven't tried. Ladies, you might want to get Charles. I've seen lighthouses in Maine. These things can get a little bright. I'll be down in a minute."
"Yeah," Fannie started, "but..." It took both hands, but Brett was able to flip the switch. Suddenly, every single thing for miles around was bathed in brilliant white light. Fannie threw her hand over her eyes. "A little bright? They can see that back in Culver City!"
"Owww!" Joyce buried her face in Fannie's side. "If that doesn't scare those...whatevers...off, nothing will!"
Brett threw the plaid jacket over her head to shield her eyes from the glare. "Come on. Let's go get Charles, before the light attracts passing ships."
The rain had stopped by the time they all hurried to the cliff side. The creatures screeched as the lights hit them, making most of them rear back. Brett stepped back as they got a good look at them. "They're...burned. Charred. Rotten. They look like they were in a fire."
Joyce gulped, pushing close to Brett. "How are we going to get past that crowd?"
"Doesn't Charles hate crowds? He won't go in the audience for anything." Fannie had to duck away as two reached out for her. "Whoa, boys! You're not getting your hands on my buxom body, thank you very much!"
"H...help!" Joyce's squeal cut through the muffled moans and reaching arms. "They're trying to touch me!" She swung her purse around. It went right through them, but it did move them back. "I think I have something in here that could get rid of them." She handed Brett the glasses and pipe. "Here. Hold these."
"What am I supposed to do with them?" She just barely managed to avoid two of the barely-visible ghost-zombie things reaching out for her. "Hey! Watch it! I had enough of that earlier with Ira!"
She had no idea what to do with the glasses, so she put them on her face until they could get to Charles...and she screamed. As she gazed through the Coke-bottle lenses, the ghosts suddenly became far more visible. "Wait! We're frightened of the things we can't see..."
Without thinking, her fingers pressed the trigger. "Get away from that poor man, you monsters!" Three gunshots boomed across the ocean as they cut through now-visible wraiths. "Fannie, here." She handed her the pipe. "Hold onto this and take out the rest of them. I'm gonna get Charles."
Fannie's fingers trembled. "But how? I can't see..."
"You will in a minute." She managed to dig through bodies, some of them as small as children. Her heart felt sore as she realized they were all burned. Scarred. Charred beyond recognition. "Charles? Charles, my god!"
Charles sagged under the pile of wraiths. His wrists were bound to the branches of the leafless tree. Rope held his chest and ankles to the dead gray trunk. There was a nasty purple bruise on his dimpled chin and a goose-egg under his toupee, but he otherwise seemed unharmed. His sky blue eyes were, however, wide with sheer terror. "Brett," he whimpered, "make them go away! Please just...I never wanted to go through this again...get them away!"
"You can do that yourself!" She thrust the glasses on his face. "Here. Does that help?"
Those blue eyes blinked. He gasped, sagging even further into the branches. "Yes! They're...well, they're not gone, but they're not all coming after me, either. Thanks! Besides," he manged to make a face, "I'm nearsighted. I need those. All I could see of you was a blur."
Joyce had dashed over, purse in hand. "Glad I always carry one of these with me." She pulled out a nail file and rubbed at the ropes. "Never know when you might need a quick fix on a broken nail."
"Good girl." The older woman went about undoing the knots on his left hand. "You get his right and his feet, I'll get his left and his torso."
"I never thought I'd actually be happy to see either of you, but here we are!" He nearly toppled into Brett's arms when they got him loose. "They...God, I couldn't breathe...couldn't think...it was like that day..."
Joyce rubbed his back sympathetically as Brett just held him. "It's ok, Charles," the blonde squeaked. "We're here. We won't let those old ghosts get you again. You're our friend."'
"Charles," Brett began quietly, "what happened? What is this?"
"I'll tell you later." He pulled away from them as Fannie dashed over.
"I'm glad you're all right." She threw away the gun, then handed him his pipe. "This is yours. Hope it'll make you feel better. Just don't puff that thing at us. I just washed this shirt. I don't need it to smell like your smoke."
"Thanks, Fannie. Nice to know you care." He shoved the pipe in his shirt pocket, then grabbed his hat out of Brett's pocket and plopped it jauntily over his toupee. "I need this. The lump's making my wig look weird."
Brett smirked. "You don't need a lump to do that, Charles. It already looks weird."
"I knew I could count on a word of encouragement from you, Brett." His smirk fell the moment he saw Richard's jacket. "What are you doing in that? I thought they took it..."
Fannie got in between them. "Maybe we ought to save the explanations for when we get out of here. If," she added, "we can figure out how to get out of here."
The shining yellow beam from the lighthouse was slowly joined by silvery light breaking through the clouds. The few remaining ghosts writhed and moaned under the beam, but they were vanishing. "Ira called me a coward," Charles said in a low voice. "Maybe I am, but I know who my friends are. And I know how to get us out. Ladies, stay with me."
"I'm not too scared," Charles growled to the air, "to do this!" He blew into the pipe, sending smoke over the last of the ghosts. Their moans were drowned out by the swirling smoke, and then that flash and rumble again...and then, they were gone.
~*~*~*~*~
Brett opened her eyes as soon as the rumbling stopped to find them back in near-total darkness. "Great," Fannie groaned. "We're in the hall again."
"At least there's no ghosts here," Joyce assured her cheerfully. "Just us."
Charles leaned against the wall, smoking that infernal pipe of his with his eyes closed. He was a little pale under his California tan and the bruise, but at least he seemed calmer now. Brett swatted smoke from her face as she joined him next to the wall. "Can't you put that thing out?"
"It relaxes me." His eyes remained closed, but there was tension in his jaw. "Brett, you're from New England. Do you remember reading about the Hartford circus fire in 1944?"
She nodded. "It was all over the papers and the radio." The muscles in his face got tense like a wire. "Oh god...Charles, you mentioned once backstage that you were there."
He nodded slowly. "I was. I was 13 then. I escaped. Other kids..." his voice softened, "weren't so lucky. That's why I won't take part in Gene's antics in the audience. I...can't go out there. I can't handle large crowds. I can't."
When those pale blue eyes of his opened, they were haunted. "There were too many men surrounding Richard. They got Gene down right away, but Richard...he fought. Fought like a tiger. That boxing he did came back, I guess. I tried to get them off, but I couldn't. Ira said I was too much of a coward to fight back." He made a face and rubbed his head under his hat. "And then he punched me in the jaw and whacked me over the head. I don't remember anything else before I was trussed up to that pathetic twig."
Another arm went gently around Charles' other side. "It's ok, Charles," Joyce squeaked. "I was there. I think I saw you, and I know I heard you. You tried to save them. Ira was mean. You're not a coward. You were very brave."
"Speaking of Ira," Fannie added, "where is that little bastard?"
Charles tapped his pipe against the wall. "He said something about his 'queen' playing a game if she didn't do what he wanted. Unless Queen Elizabeth or The African Queen are in on this, I presumed he meant you, Brett." He couldn't resist a smirk. "Although he may have meant the Evil Queen from Snow White."
She gave him a light punch on the arm. "Funny, Charles. No, he tried to put the moves on me. I gave him the definitive answer up his ass."
"Vulgar." Charles puffed his pipe again and grinned. "But effective. That should teach him to try to seduce an almost-divorced woman."
"You said it." She called out to the ceiling. "Ok, Ira. We found Charles. Where are the other two?"
Footsteps padded down the dark hall. "Look who's in such a hurry!" Ira emerged from the shadows, almost as if he were a part of them. "Hello, Reilly. Not too scared to join the game?"
Charles narrowed his eyes, tapped the pipe again, and stuffed it in his pocket. "Not anymore. Where's Richard and Gene? Especially Richard. He was barely moving the last time I saw him."
"You'll find them." He crossed his arms, those sharp teeth flashing glossy white in the blackness. "Here's your next clue. Return with us to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when people performed by microphone, and blank was king."
Fannie glared at him. "What in the hootin' hell does that mean?"
There was no answer. The moment he gave the clue, Ira had faded back into the darkness. Brett and Charles ducked after him, but all they found was more wall.
"Um, guys?" Joyce was doing a little dance. "I think I need to use the little girl's room, if you know what I mean."
"Wouldn't hurt me, either." The well-endowed southern belle next to her sighed. "We'll all think better if we have a bathroom break and get freshened up a bit."
"I agree." Brett pulled the plaid jacket further around her shoulders. The air conditioner seemed to be about the only thing working. It was freezing in there. "How about you, Charles?"
He shrugged. "I don't really need to go, but freshening up after...well, after everything wouldn't hurt."
"It's unanimous." The quartet trooped down the hall to the nearest "Men" and "Women" sign. Leaving Charles to do whatever "freshening up" meant to him, she followed the other women into their bathroom.
Ten minutes later, she was straightening her wig after having used the toilet while Fannie applied lipstick. "Darlin'," she started as she blotted her berry-red lips with a piece of toilet paper, "why do you wear that wig? Are you losin' your hair, like Charles?"
"No, thank you, I am not." She checked her teeth to make sure there was nothing stuck in them from lunch. "The producers suggested I should look younger."
The redhead next to her fluffed her own very real chestnut tresses. "You know, I've seen you with your own hair. I think you look just fine. If they can't handle women aging, that's their problem."
She was about to respond when she heard a yelp from the men's room. "What's that?" Joyce stumbled out of the cubicle, trying to shake toilet paper off her beige heel. "I don't think it's Charles."
"He must have run into somebody else in there." Fannie gave her hair one last pat and handed the lipstick back to Joyce. "Come on. Let's go see if Charles needs rescuing again."
Charles did not need rescuing, but the man who clung to him as they stumbled out of the bathroom looked like he might have needed either a cold bath or ten gallons of chamomile tea. Bill Daily jumped at every noise, including the women as they joined them. He nearly jumped right in Charles' arms when Brett tapped his shoulder.
"Oh, thank god!" He gasped. "I was starting to think I was the only person left in the universe! I've been hiding in the bathroom for the past half-hour. The smell was getting to me. The maids must have vanished. Maybe the goons I saw earlier got them. They were huge, those guys. Charles," he hugged him hard, "I'm just glad you're all right! They were dragging around you and Richard and Gene, and Richard's face looked like he'd gone ten rounds with Mohamed Ali and lost..."
"Could someone get him off me?" Charles whined painfully. "I can't breathe!"
Brett finally managed to pry Bill's fingers from around Charles' body and get the shaking man into the dark hall. "Ok, Bill, from the beginning. Who were those goons, and what did you see?"
Charles handed the shaking man a paper cup of water. "Thanks, Charlie," he rambled. "I need this. I don't know what I saw. I'm not sure I want to know what I saw. I didn't know anyone around here had goons. I mean, we all know Ira would sell his mother to get ratings, but those guys were big. Like, King Kong big. It's so dark in here, I couldn't see where they were dragging you or Richard to. I thought they were taking Gene towards the studios, but like I said, it's dark. Does anyone know why it's so dark? Did CBS forget to pay the electricity bill?"
"Not a clue." Charles made a face as he rubbed his abused noggin. "Ira slammed me over the head, and I woke up tied to a tree and surrounded by burned ghosts. Not one of my better nights. And," he looked down at his cup, "I panicked and couldn't stop them from hurting the other two."
Bill patted his shoulder. "Gee, that's rough. I'm sorry Ira was a jerk to you. You don't deserve that. You give some of the best answers on the show. And Rich can be an arrogant prick when he's not picked, but he doesn't deserve to be one big purple spot, either."
"We're missing Gene, too," Brett added. "Which brings us back to Ira. He's decided he wants to play his own sadistic Match Game. If we solve his demented riddles, we'll find Richard and Gene."
"Did he say what would happen if we don't find them?" The shaking man in the dark blue sweater gulped his water too quickly and ended up coughing so hard, Fannie had to slap him on the back.
She shook her head. "He wasn't specific. Vague threats. Something about being worse than not renewing our contracts."
Fannie was rubbing at her own head. "Does anyone remember what he said? Joyce?"
"Uh huh." She scrunched her blue eyes and tried to recall the clue. "Return with us to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when people performed by microphone, and blank was king."
"Radio." Charles leaned against the wall again and puffed his pipe. "People performed by microphone on the radio. I used to listen to the Metropolitan Opera and all the big drama shows like Lux Radio Theatre with my parents as a child."
"Gene was on the radio. He was an announcer." Brett rubbed the side of her pounding head again. As soon as this was all over, she needed a glass of water and at least six aspirin. "About...two years ago, I think...Richard found some picture of Gene knitting a sock and put it on the show. He and Gene showed it to Charles and me later. The background was pretty obviously a radio studio, probably some time in the 30's." She couldn't resist wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. "And Gene was darn cute then, too."
"That's it. The answer is radio." Charles tapped his pipe on the sole of his shoe. "How are we going to let Ira know?"
Joyce immediately dug into her purse. "Here!" She tossed Charles the pen and pad. "Just write down your answer on this and call it out, like on the show."
"Well, all right." Charles elegantly outlined "radio" on the pad, then held it over his head. "Ira, our definitive answer is 'radio!'"
Charles had no sooner spoken then there was another flash, and the ground rumbled under their feet again. After that, she knew no more.
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