Paranormal Television

The camera centered on the face of the 30-something Englishman whose mane of blonde hair was tied back into a ponytail, hanging parallel to his spine. With a small microphone attached to his polo shirt, he tapped into his showmanship, presenting to the viewers—you—the Ermengarde Mansion, looming ominously behind him as it stood like a hungry shadow cast against the summer's evening twilight; a near-silhouette of a historical monument whose texts were written with the blood of the bygone century. As the Englishman bolstered his bravado for the camera, his voice seemed to echo in the empty air surrounding the lifeless mansion. Curious, how no birds seemed to regal this land with their song. Not even the crickets dared chirp here.

"...and we present to you all the Ermengarde Mansion! Today, we're going to take a look inside a home that has not opened its doors in nearly four hundred years! Come on!" With all the charisma of an excited youth, the Englishman made a full arm beckoning motion to the camera before a voice from behind the cameraman called for a cut. The Englishman dropped his act with a sigh. "That's a difficult thing, keeping a smile on the entire time. So! How shall we go about this? Shall we film ourselves marching up to and inside the mansion, or shall we cut straight to it, no transition?"

The brains behind the outfit, an older man whose hairless dome made good friends with the crimson rays of the sun, stepped in and draped his arm over the host's shoulders.

"Devon," the chrome dome said, "you just worry about looking pretty for the camera, alright? I'll handle the thinking in regards to the scenework, don't you worry about that. Now, once we're inside the mansion, I'm going to need you to dial back the excitement. Remember, this is a show about locating the paranormal. We were lucky to be given the chance to show the world what awaits inside Ermengarde Mansion! Once we're inside those four walls and the cameras start rolling again, I want you to act frightened."

"Frightened?"

"Terrified! You will have seen a ghost the minute the cameras started rolling again. It'll be brilliant!"

"Alright," Devon agreed, meeting his bald-headed director's smile with one of his own. "I'll do just that, then!"

"Right. Everyone! We're moving inside the front doors now! Pack it up and let's go in! We'll start rolling once we're inside!"

...

...

Help me.

The camera centered once again on the face of the 30-something Englishman, Paranormal Television show host by the name of Devon, except... he's already missed his scripted cue. Distracted, Devon had turned away from the camera eye, his gaze darting about the foyer, searching for the source of that—

Help me.

As slow as clockwork, Devon rotated on the spot, until he faced the camera again. Pointing up at the ceiling as he peered into the camera lens, he asked, "Did you hear that?"

Help me.

"There it was again!" The color drained from Devon's face. He wore the look of a man who tried so dearly to hold onto what professionalism he had left. Meanwhile, the director was standing off screen, giving Devon big thumbs up. The director assumed Devon was acting, but he wasn't.

Help me.

"There it was again! Guys, we have to leave!"

The foyer—and the rest of the mansion, mind—seemed to be in pristine condition. Dated, but pristine. A luxurious atmosphere filled with a darkness that had not yet touched the television crew's eyes. It only just then became a question in the minds of the many: why on earth were the lights in here on? The windows betrayed a home without power only minutes ago.

Help me.

One of the crew members let out a high-pitched scream. Another crew member made a gagging noise. The director managed to spit a "What the hell?" before Devon caught on to what was happening. The air thickened with the unmistakable scent of rotting death, as blood poured from the walls from places unseen. The lights went red, and there, at the foot of the grand staircase, stood a shadowy anomaly that could only be described as the walking remains of a woman who somehow suffered a horrible fate before she died. The walls of the blood-soaked foyer whispered tantalizing secrets and beckoning pleas, a cacophany of whispers not meant for the ears of the living; and it was then, right then, that Devon realized he should have listened to the stories about this place.

Meanwhile, the director pointed at the shady figure at the grand staircase, who'd begun shambling toward the television crew with a crazed smile stretching across her putrid face. "Camera, are you still rolling?! Get this!"

The camera was indeed rolling, but he couldn't hold his device steady. The cameraman had gone and pissed his pants at the sight of the dark specter of a woman, whose twisted visage would beguile only the thirstiest of men, men like the director, who was not only excited that the entire mansion awakened at the television crew's presence, but he wanted the closest, most personal view of the ghost woman with bones so disfigured, with flesh so torn, with pale skin so painted in crimson. And those eyes.

Those eyes.

"Director, no!" Devon screamed, too late to catch the director by his arm. The director walked away from the crew, and right into the ghost's arms.

What happened next would never be shown on television. It started with the ghost woman's furious wail. The next thing the camera saw was the director's limbs flying in all directions, one by one, as he was picked apart by the ghost. His arm slammed into the wall, his leg landed halfway up the stairs, his other arm nearly touched the ceiling, and his other leg hit the floor right in front of the crew. The ghost let the director's limbless torso lay there and bleed out. She then lunged at the rest of the crew, tore the camera out of the cameraman's hands, beat him to death with it, and threw it against the wall, ending Paranormal Television before the show even started. No one ever saw the television crew again, their bodies gone, undiscovered forever and ever.