Poltergeist (9 page)

I frowned. If Tuckman's group had internal tensions—and I thought I might have glimpsed a few in the recorded sessions—maybe it wasn't so far-fetched to imagine a connection to Mark's death. I chided myself for getting sidetracked and tucked the thought away. I couldn't waste my time here; I needed to pick Ben's brain while Brian was still asleep.

"OK. What about this poltergeist personality? The file copies Tuckman gave me include a six-page biography of this ghost who doesn't exist and the participants seem to accept it as an actual… person, I guess.”

Ben perked up a bit. "Ahh, yes. That was where the Owen group was unique in the study of PK up to that time. They created the personality to which they would ascribe the poltergeist activity first, rather than attributing activity to a random personality only after it happened—which is what you see in classic poltergeist cases. Since their premise was that they controlled the entity, they gave it a distinct background, complete with mistakes, fictionalizations, and historical errors. Then, if the answers to their questions during the séances matched the flawed biography, they were obviously drawing on their own story only—not an actual ghost or collective psychic knowledge of a real person. Philip was a collective endeavor and only existed through the group and under their control. The most interesting sidelight was that Philip's tastes and answers would change depending on which participants were in the séance circle at the time.”

"But they all knew the bio," I objected, "so how could that happen?”

"There're always details you don't think of at first, like 'What's your favorite color?' or 'Do you like ice cream?' Philip's personality developed over time as those details were filled in and was colored by the preferences of the sitters. Those with the strongest opinions tended to have a stronger influence, but if one of those people was missing, Philip's preferences would change. For instance, one of them didn't like a certain song, so when she was there, Philip didn't like that song, either—but when she was gone, he liked it fine." I'd seen that with Tuckman's group a bit, too.

"So Philip could manifest even if the whole group wasn't present?" I asked, thinking of Celia's appearances without Ken or Mark.

"Oh, yes. They discovered that they could get Philip to perform with as few as four of the eight group members—and it could be any four." I was becoming disappointed in Tuckman's group for lack of originality. I wondered when I'd see them break Philip's mold, since I couldn't understand why Tuckman would be so sure someone was messing with him so long as his study continued on the same tracks.

Albert started to rove around the room, eyeing us both as if he found the conversation distasteful but couldn't quite tear himself away. Ben carried on without even noticing I'd started to glaze over. "Later, they noticed that they individually experienced incidents of minor PK when they were alone, too.”

"What happened?" I prompted.

"Nothing spectacular—and this was all near the end of the experiment—just object movements, flickering lights that seemed to respond to questions, the sensation of being watched. It might have been suggestion and conflation, but the group attributed the incidents to Philip, even when they happened in multiple locations simultaneously. Unfortunately, none of the at-home incidents was recorded in any objective way. "The other telling thing was that they couldn't get anything to happen collectively or individually if they were consciously trying. Phenomena only occurred when the members were expectant, but otherwise relaxed and making no effort to create phenomena. They thought that would change eventually. They said they had hoped to create a visible apparition or an apport, but the group broke up before any greater advances were recorded.”

"Hang on—what's an apport?”

"Oh, sorry," Ben said, then cleared his throat and continued. "An apport is a real, extant object that appears from empty air. Usually it's something significant.”

I leaned back in my seat on the book-laden sofa and looked at the volume in my hand. It wasn't very thick or heavy. Quite unimpressive. I thought of Tuckman's manipulations and fancy equipment. "Did the Philip group do this in a lab?”

"No, mores the pity. They did it in a house with very little recording equipment, no monitoring, and no control.”

"Then how is anyone sure it wasn't a hoax?”

Ben squirmed around and found room to prop his feet on his cluttered desk, tipping the chair far back. Albert dimmed and vanished, giving up on the conversation at last.

"That's the million-dollar question," Ben said. "Most of what the group claimed they could do has been shown to be possible, but only on small scales and inconsistently. Recent psychological studies into false memory and expectation claim it's all conflation, but they've only addressed the traditional séance, not the Philip experiments themselves, which—for all their flaws—were at least held in a lighted room with an attempt at neutral scientific inquiry. As I said, no one's been able to reproduce the level of phenomena the Owen group got. Most who've tried get little or nothing. That tends to bolster the hoax idea—or self-delusion.

"But there are broadcast records of a TV episode and a short documentary film about the experiment. The tape and the film have since disappeared. But the book came out in 1976—the original paperback, that is." He pointed to the hardback in my hand. "That one, there, is a later version from 1978 with some additional chapters. A lot of people still remembered those TV episodes in '78. If the book were published in the last ten years and had the same lack of documentation for events that happened thirty years ago, I'd be skeptical, but it's contemporary with the events claimed and though it's been doubted, it's never been debunked. Even the psychological experiments into conflation and false memory don't disprove the events claimed by the Philip group. The fact that some members have since died or disappeared and the rest now refuse to discuss the experiment doesn't help to clear up any questions.”

I sighed. This was a mess. Dicey experiment number one leading to dicey experiment number two. "Did anyone ever get hurt during the Philip experiments?”

Ben frowned. "No. Not unless you count a few bruises from the table getting frisky—at least I never heard of any injuries. Why?”

I shrugged. "It just seemed that if you could move a table around, you could also do some damage with it.”

"I don't think they ever got anything so dramatic. It was only a folding card table.”

The original group hadn't invested the time or equipment Tuckman had. That wasn't the only place they differed, but how significant were the differences? The fact that Tuckman's group worked in a lab under monitored conditions would make me expect fewer oddities, not more. I tried another tack. "Why did you recommend me to Tuckman?”

Ben blinked. "To be honest, I was surprised he asked—I hadn't heard from him since he moved from U-Dub to PNU—but my reputation as the 'freaky-things expert,' as he put it, had stuck in his head and he said he figured that if anyone knew an open-minded investigator, it would be me. I'm not sure it was a compliment…”

I looked askance. "Probably not.”

Ben crooked his mouth into half a smile. He looked about six minutes from falling asleep and his mouth was operating on autopilot. "Yeah, he's a bit of a jerk.”

"Y'think?”

Something thumped downstairs. Albert rushed into visibility. More thumps echoed up the stairs punctuated with a series of grunts and growls. Ben tried to twist in his chair and fell onto the floor in a tangle of limbs.

"Oh…drat it! Rhino on the rampage." He dragged himself upright. "I'm sorry. He usually sleeps longer after lunch.”

"When do you sleep?”

"When Mara's home—which is about four hours twice a week. Or that's what I remember. Brian will probably grow up thinking I have early Alzheimer's and that Mara is my caseworker.”

"I thought your mother babysat on occasion to give you guys a break.”

Ben shook his head as the thumps approached the attic door. "Not for a while. She fell and fractured her leg.”

I stared at him in horror. "Not Brian…?”

Ben made it to the door. "No. She slipped walking up some steps in the rain. But she's a tough old lady with strong bones, so it's not too bad.”

I heard Brian say "Graah!" on the other side of the door and then the door bulged inward with a cracking noise and a rattle. Ben snatched it open and Brian tumbled through into his legs.

"Graaaah!”

Ben tried to look stern, but only looked a little cross-eyed.
"
Schreck-liches
kind!”

I wasn't sure what it meant but Brian rolled on the floor and giggled. I didn't think that was the effect Ben had wanted.

"You may need to switch to Russian," I suggested.

"Unfortunately, my mother's already got him started. German is my last recourse for emotional outbursts and my grammar goes all to hell—heck!—when I'm mad. Soon I'll have to switch to Finnish or learn a new language to stay ahead. How long do you think it will take to learn Urdu?”

I didn't know if he was serious.

"Maybe you should try pig Latin.”

Ben hoisted Brian up. "How 'bout frog Latin? If transmogrification actually existed, I would ask Mara to turn him into a frog.”

Brian laughed harder. "Ribbit!" he shouted, clapping his hands.

I followed them down the stairs, reserving judgment on the existence or nonexistence of anything. "Looks like you don't need a witch to do that.”

Brian planted a loud kiss on his father's cheek, then wriggled out of Ben's arms at the foot of the stairs and charged across the hall toward the living room in full rhino-mode once again.

"Well. So much for froggy," Ben sighed. "I think I'm going to have to take him to the park, or he'll never run down. Do you want to come along, or would you prefer to cut short your visit to the wild animal park?”

I did feel a pinch of guilt, but I said, "I'd better get back to work. I've got another couple of quandaries for you, though.”

Ben began stalking the wily rhino-boy as he called back over his shoulder, "What quandaries?”

"First, how come glass—especially mirrored glass—filters the Grey?”

"What do you mean?”

"I mean when I look through glass I see less detail in the Grey. If the glass is mirrored, the filtering is greater, and multiple layers of glass filter still more of the visual component. Why?" I called to him.

Ben tackled his son and carried him into the hall to put on his coat. He reached for what looked like a dog harness and leash hanging from the coat rack and picked it up while keeping one eye on Brian. "OK, you want to go out and run? Do you need a leash or will you let Papa keep up this time?”

Brian eyed the leash and pursed his tiny mouth. "Not doggie. Rhinerosserous.”

Ben knelt down in front of Brian.
"
Hören
,
mein
kleiner
rhino—you need to hold Papa's hand till we get to the park or you'll have to wear the leash. I don't want you running into traffic again. OK?”

Brian looked grave. "OK.”

"So, holding my hand all the way to the park, right?”

"Yes.”

"OK." Ben stood back up and took Brian's hand; then he looked back at me as Brian tugged him toward the door. "What was it…? Oh, yeah. Glass acts as a filter…There's a lot of folklore about the effects of mirrors and silver on spirits and monsters, but I don't know how that would relate—folklore's not a reliable source.”

"Science hasn't been batting a thousand for me," I reminded him.

"True…I'll have to look into it. Brian, hang on. I need my coat first." He struggled into a jacket while trying to hold on to Brian's hand and talk to me. "Is this a general question or is it germane to the case at hand?”

"Both. Tuckman's observation room is separated from the experiment space by two layers of glass and I could barely see the Grey effects on the other side, most of the time. The energy concentrations had to be very large or very close to the window for me to see anything distinct. But it's happened before—I can see less Grey in my truck than out of it.”

"The truck might be a special case, but I'll see what I can find out, in general. What else? Quick, before the rhino charges.”

"I need to know how fake phenomena could be manufactured so it would fool the participants in Tuckman's séances.”

"Do you mean that Tuckman is faking his results?" Ben was aghast.

"No. But I need to know how the effects could be faked so I can show him they aren't—I think.”

"OK, you need to know the mechanics of fakery and how to spot them. I'm sure I've got some information about it, somewhere. I'll have to do some research.”

"You don't mind?”

"Not if you don't mind waiting for me to find the time. And it's something to think about aside from playdates and chores.”

Brian tugged harder and made his rhino roar—I wondered why he thought rhinos made that noise and wished he would stop. I shouted over it as we walked toward the porch. "Thanks. I'll give you a call another time, unless you call me first.”

Ben frowned. "Sorry we were interrupted.”

I waved him off and opened the door for us. "It's OK. You answered the most important questions I had." I held up the book. "I'll get this back to you as soon as I can.”