A Haunting on Pennsylvania Avenue

Part VI

By Liss Webster

"Josh, have you lost your mind?" demanded Leo, standing up from his chair behind the wide mahogany desk he favoured.

"Leo, I know it sounds a little far out…"

"Far out? Far out? Josh, you've got to stop listening to Margaret. God knows she's a great assistant, but when it comes to this kind of thing, the woman is a lunatic!"

"It's not Margaret." Leo flapped a hand, and sat down again.

"Whatever. Look, Ron Butterfield and his agents are going over the place with a fine tooth comb. They've got guys double-checking the hate mail we've been getting. Health & Safety are doing an audit of the entire West Wing."

"I know," interrupted Josh, a scowl creasing his forehead. "I had an encounter with one of their risk management nazis earlier."

Leo sighed. "Are they still on speaking terms with the Administration?"

Josh shrugged, and pulled a face. "Dunno. I left her with Donna."

"Well, that sounds…"

"Donna was showing her all the places where she – Donna, I mean – could conceivably meet her death because the White House doesn't comply with regulations about work place safety."

"OK."

"She seemed pretty pleased at the opportunity."

"Josh…"

"Leo, I think we have to hear these guys out. I think they could have a point. I mean, I know it's weird and… insane, but I think they have a point. And if it is a… a ghost – and yeah, I know exactly how ridiculous that sounds, and God knows there is no way we can, y'know, pay these guys and have it itemised on the White House financial disclosures, because the Republicans will bury us – then I think these might be the guys to help us." Josh's face was intense as he leaned forward, and Leo sighed and rubbed a hand over his chin. It was insane, no two ways about it. Ghosts weren't real. They couldn't be real. And yet – what other explanation could there be? He took a deep breath.

"MARGARET!" Margaret's head appeared around the door, eyebrows raised in enquiry. "Get me the senior staff!" Margaret's head disappeared, and Leo turned back to Josh, who grinned.

"What shall we tell the President?" he asked.

"As little as possible," replied Leo. "I think when it comes to hiring a couple of… of ghost busters, plausible deniability is fairly essential."

"Right."

. . .

"Please tell me we're not seriously having this discussion?" Toby was blazing with righteous indignation. "Just because a couple of charlatans talk their way into the building?"

"You need to keep an open mind," countered Josh, as he walked alongside the Communications Director, Leo, CJ and Sam following behind.

"I have an open mind! My mind is wide open. That doesn't make me an idiot, which seems to be where you went wrong this morning, Josh!"

"Toby may have something approaching a point," commented CJ. "Do you know how the press corps would have responded if I told them the real reason I booted them out of the briefing room?"

"Dean and Sam said the spirit was probably released when we renovated the briefing room," said Josh.

"Dean and Sam? We're listening to two kids called Dean and Sam?" Toby pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've always been a madman, Josh, but this is taking it to a whole new level."

"I think it's kind of neat," said Sam. Toby turned and glared at him.

"Shut up, Sam."

"Okay," Sam replied peaceably.

"When this is done, we will never mention it again."

"Absolutely not."

"We will pretend it never happened."

"Yes we will."

"Guys," interrupted Josh, his hand on the press room door, "we're here."

In the briefing room, a ludicrously tall young man was wandering up and down the aisles, waving an instrument that looked suspiciously like a walkman with flashing lights attached. Leaning against the podium was another man, slightly older, talking – no, definitely flirting - with Donna Moss. Josh's eyes narrowed.

"Hey, Dean, Sam," he called out. "I've got the rest of the gang here. Listen, Dean, you're a Republican, am I right?" Dean Winchester looked slightly taken aback by the question, and shrugged.

"Politics isn't really my thing. It's not like I vote." Josh grinned, and looked pointedly at Donna.

"Not your type," he said, dimples flashing. Donna scowled.

"So, about this…"

"Wait a minute!" It was Toby. "You don't vote? Not only are we trusting two kids called Dean and Sam…"

"I think I should really point out that my name is Sam too," said Sam, only to be promptly ignored.

"…But we're trusting two kids called Dean and Sam who can't even be bothered to vote?"

The younger man, whom logic dictated must (also) be Sam, tentatively raised his hand. "I voted."

CJ stepped in. "As much as I am enjoying this crazy macho posturing you guys have got going – and believe me, it's always a joy – can we please get to the reason we're here? There's only so long I can keep the press out of this part of the building before they start eating their young. Or me."

Young Sam waved his gadget at them. "We're picking up strong traces of EMF in here. It's all over the building, but strongest here, so it's probably where the spirit is centred."

"EMF?" asked Leo, frowning slightly. He was out of his depth here, and didn't like the feeling.

"Electro-magnetic field," supplied Josh, hands on his hips, looking knowledgeable. "It's…" Words failed him. "Yeah, I got nothing."

"Spirits are a manifestation of energy," explained Dean. "They give off an electro-magnetic field – it's the best way of detecting their presence."

Toby clutched at his head. "Spirits? Manifestations? Are you listening to this crap?" He looked as if he was good to go on for some time, when a clipboard seemed to fly out of nowhere and narrowly missed his head. Silence fell. They all stared at the clipboard where it lay, innocently, on the floor.

"Who threw that?" asked Toby eventually.

"I'm thinking that would have been a manifestation of energy," replied Josh, craning his neck to look at the back of the room.

"There are no manifestations of energy!" shouted Toby. A second clipboard was flung forth, and this time didn't miss.

"You might want to try telling them that," pointed out Josh, as Toby held his head, looking not a little stunned.

"I think it might be time to get out of here," said Dean, gesturing to the door. "Go!"

CJ twisted the handle, then again, and again. "It won't open!" she called. Against all laws of physics, a wind had sprung up in the room, getting stronger and stronger. The air was filled with a cyclone of objects – mugs and pencils and newspapers and even a collapsible chair. Gradually, in the centre of the storm, a figure was coalescing, growing more distinct with every second, its energy seeming to pin the room's occupants against one wall, its shape… dissipating.

The storm died down, the detritus of the press room falling to the ground. In the back, by the entrance to the press corps offices, stood Margaret, a white box in her hand.

"Margaret?" asked Leo, amazed, smoothing down his tie.

"I…" She began, looking stunned. Then she held up the box. "Salt."

Leo raised an eyebrow. "Salt works?"

Dean grinned at Margaret. "Salt definitely works."

She smiled back and nodded, victorious. "I thought it would."