Pipeline by Christopher Carrolli Page A

wearing cologne or
after shave, right?” Dylan asked the question, knowing the answer
but wanting to establish a fact: the scent was unmistakably
David’s.
    “Never touch the stuff,” Sidney said, and
Brett threw his hands up in refute.
    Dylan faced Tracy and the severity of his
expression was an indicator of the seriousness the team could now
confirm. He showed her the EMF meter; the needle inched its way
between the notches marked five and seven.
    “When this needle jumps that high, there is
spiritual activity. And when a sudden scent invades a room, it’s a
sign of a spirit’s presence. That’s why we as investigators never
wear cologne or perfume to a sight because it might mask any
sudden, unusual scents. You have identified it for us, Tracy. David
is here. ”
    She closed her tearing eyes and breathed
heavily, trying to picture him in her mind, and the image she
perceived was of him rubbing his hands together and slapping
cologne on both cheeks. She opened her eyes, hoping that the trace
of him would be standing there as it had the night before, but only
the five faces stared back at her.
    The warped voice penetrated the static once
more with muffled attempts at words both indecipherable and
chilling. It was thick, heavy like molasses. Then a deeper,
throatier, growl interrupted, shouting a sharp bark. Two sounds
mixed together: one louder, faster, and dominant, the other slower
and weaker. Then friction between the two noises battled back and
forth, emitting a high-pitched, screeching sound now set on the
highest speed of the phantom turntable.
    Sidney, with eyes shut and mind open,
listened. Suddenly, something amid the background noise silenced
the coarse chaotic mainstream. The voice that Tracy had heard the
night it all began became clear and present and it spoke.
    “Tracy.” It was soft and fleeting but heard
by all.
    The heat of shock swallowed her in a wave,
and she made a steeple with both hands over the lower part of her
face. Leah came forward and grabbed her hands away, clenching them
firmly for support. Dylan and Brett both crouched in front of the
TV, and Susan’s legs buckled under her, dropping her to the
loveseat. Sidney opened his eyes and stared at the screen. They all
had become listeners as the pipeline breached an earthbound and
forbidden barrier.
    “David, is that you?” Sidney said, as he
stepped inches closer to the television.
    “Tracy.” The voice repeated its call in a
distant, lifeless monotone.
    “It’s him,” Tracy said, shaking as Leah held
her.
    “David, my name is Sidney. I can always hear
you, if you let me. Can you tell me why you’re here?”
    Sidney spoke in a tone usually reserved for
those who were hard of hearing, but underneath was a coaxing and
friendly invitation.
    “David, we are all here to help you,” Sidney
said to the static filled screen. “What is it that you want to tell
us?”
    No answer returned, and seconds passed with
the crashing sound of static unchanged. The small span of time
hinted at a spirit in confusion until one more word was spoken.
    “Prince--cess.” The final “esses” blended
amid the static, but the word was clear.
    “David!” Tracy shouted at the screen. Then, a
moan of pain and agony blared out from behind the screen,
heightening into a deformed, wailing cry that overwhelming the
static, and the fear of five hearts pounded in perfect percussion.
This voice wasn’t David’s; this voice belonged to another.
    The bitter, angry, groaning burst louder
through the speakers, sending Brett, Dylan, and Sidney, spiraling
backward from the force and tone of it. The lights flickered on and
off, and the temperature of the room turned to ice, as though
someone had opened the door and admitted an early winter’s blast
into the house.
    “What’s happening?” Tracy called out in the
erupting confusion, but the combination of fear and mystery on
Leah’s face told her the answer. Dylan and Brett stood aside, while
Sidney faced the