Sinking (10/13)
Yup, this story is still going (no thanks to all the holiday hullabaloo).
Title: Sinking, Part 10
Series: TCR (real, not fake)
Rating: PG-13 for spookiness and language.
Warnings: Violence and mental instability.
Summary: Producing a television show is no easy feat, but it's fulfilling work-- until a strange presence begins to break everything down.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. IN SHORT: None of this is real. I just like scary stories.
(Jump to: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13)
When Stephen arrived at the studio Tuesday morning, things did not start off well.
Allison was waiting for him and before he could even manage a hello she spoke, calmly and methodically. "Stephen, I want you to know that this was not my idea, but I don't blame everyone for wanting peace of--"
"What is it?" he interrupted.
"Promise me you won't get upset."
"I'm not promising you anything."
She looked shocked, then angry. "If you're just going to be an asshole and throw a hissy fit, then--"
He was not in the mood, he was not in the mood. He pushed past her, his backpack banging into the wall, and he looked around for anything odd. She followed after him silently for a minute, then finally said gruffly, "They're on the third floor."
They made their way up the stairs-- Stephen taking a moment to throw his jacket and bag into the second floor hall-- and when they reached the third floor he stopped dead in the doorway, completely taken aback.
A group of staff members, not just interns but production assistants and stage crew and writers, were quietly gathered around an elder woman wearing a long flowy dress and a ridiculous amount of eye make-up. She wore multiple rings on each finger and too many bangles clanked around her wrists.
"Ah, yes, yes," she said softly, eyes closed. Her hands hovered in front of the door to the prop room, and she slowly turned, as if she sensed a trail. The sheer shawl around her shoulders dangled below her arms. "I feel it, a presence..."
"You are kidding me," Stephen said to Allison, though he stared straight at the strange woman. "You are fucking kidding me.”
The people gathered in the hall finally noticed he was there. A few ducked their heads and retreated, mumbling excuse me's as they slipped into the stairwell. The others just waited, looking guilty and apprehensive. The woman opened her eyes and lowered her arms dramatically, gazing at him.
"Get out," Stephen barked. "I don't know or care who you are, but you are not welcome in my building."
The woman did not react. She spoke as if she hadn't heard him. "There has been a crossover from the other side."
Stephen approached her swiftly, pointing back towards the doorway. "Get the hell out!" he hollered.
"Stephen!" Richard stepped out from the cluster. "Calm down. She just--"
Stephen glowered. "What are you doing, Richard?! And you!" He looked from Richard to Allison. "Why is she even up here?"
"We were just going to let her do her thing,” Richard explained, though he certainly seemed to know that whatever the explanation, Stephen would not be satisfied. “It could make everyone feel better--"
"She's just going to antagonize things!" Stephen snapped. “Do you realize what could happen when this gets out?”
"He is afflicted," the woman said, voice booming in the hallway. She gazed evenly at Stephen, never blinking. "He is susceptible, and it knows, and it has--"
Stephen reached out to grab her, to drag her downstairs and throw her out of the building, but Richard quickly stepped between them and put his arm around the old woman's shoulders, leading her away. "Come on, thank you, let's go, let's go," he said hurriedly.
Stephen didn't even watch them go. He glared angrily at the clustered staff. "Who brought her here? Who was it?"
No one said anything.
"Either the person who brought her in is fired, or all of you are."
"What?!" a production assistant gasped. "Stephen, that's not fair, Allison and Richard said it was okay and--"
"Get out. You're gone."
"What? I-I-"
Allison swept over and said quietly, "It's okay, you're not fired," before rounding on Stephen. "You are out of control! Get downstairs and cool your head!"
Stephen shook his finger in her face. "You--"
She grabbed his hand, leaned close, and hissed, "Stephen, you are scaring the shit out of everyone. Please go."
And just like that, all of his anger fizzled, and he looked over her shoulder at all the shocked and disgruntled faces staring back at him. He stuttered over apologies as he turned away and headed back downstairs, feeling so out of himself that once he reached his office with his coat and backpack, he couldn't remember having picked them up.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, sliding downwards until he was sitting on the floor. He felt light-headed.
He knew he shouldn't be so angry. He didn't mean to scare anyone, but they were being ridiculous. How could they pull through this when the staff would put their faith in some Sylvia Browne knock-off? How could he steer them out of this when they didn't understand that they had to stay strong in themselves? Whatever was going on, it obviously wanted them to leave, and Stephen would not have them driven away. They had to show no fear, be unaffected.
If he couldn't do that, if he couldn't stay cool here, his anger would spread. Every night on the drive home, he shunted his frustration off with his character, relegating it away from his family. But it was getting to be too much. He couldn't let it touch them...
A knock on the door. He jerked his head up and clenched his teeth. He didn't trust himself to speak without saying something he'd regret, so he reached up turned the knob, pushing the door open. The intern in the hall looked surprised to see him on the floor, but she shrank back at the expression on his face. He stared at her, waiting for her to speak.
"Um, Stephen," she said quietly. "There's a... there's a priest here."
He guffawed. "Oh, of course! Of course. The old one or the young one?"
"He... he wants to talk to you..." The intern trailed off, slinking back into the hall.
Stephen got up and followed her downstairs, but she went no further than the start of the front hall. She took off back upstairs, likely afraid he would lose it again. At the end of the hall, waiting by the door, stood an elderly man in a black cassock. Allison was there too, looking no less irritated than before. Stephen tried to offer her a smile as he approached.
She didn't smile back. "The person who asked Father Moore to come didn't want to stay," she said pointedly.
Stephen ignored the remark and offered his smile to the priest instead. He shook the father's hand. "How can I help you, Father?"
"I think we both know that I've been asked here to help you," Father Moore replied, switching his black bag from one hand to the other when their handshake was done. "There are fears that a ghost, or worse, lurks in this building?"
Stephen felt his smile waning. "Father, I apologize that your time has been wasted. There is nothing going on here that we shouldn't be able to handle."
Moore frowned. "I wouldn't be so dismissive of your staff's feelings on the matter. From what I've been told, they're very frightened."
"Father, you haven't been present for what's been going on. I don't see how you can seem so sure that your services are needed."
"I think, no matter the reality, the offer of comfort from God can go a long way, don't you?"
Stephen didn't really have anything to say to that. Of course he appreciated the comfort God could offer, ever since Chicago...
"I would not hesitate to offer that comfort," the priest continued, "to those who are troubled, to those who ask for my help."
Stephen glanced at Allison, who did not look away. "I think it would help," she said. “Everyone wants assurance that everything is going to be okay, from something bigger than themselves." She hesitated, but added, "And although they look up to you, you can't give them that right now."
"If you will permit," the priest said, "I'd like to bless the building."
Saying no to someone of his own faith was, perhaps surprisingly, more difficult than with the gypsy woman. Stephen certainly didn't feel the urge to physically throw him out, and with that realization, he abruptly felt awful for how he had treated the psychic, or spiritual guide, or whatever she had been. How could he have behaved that way?
He hadn't felt that angry since years and years ago, and it was not a period of his emotional health he wanted recurring in his life. But then, it was recurring, wasn't it? And he did not at all feel like he could stop it, not alone.
Stephen nodded and stepped back. "Father, please come in."
The priest nodded and headed inside. Allison followed behind him, and squeezed Stephen's shoulder as she passed.
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Stephen did not ask Father Moore if he could feel a presence in the building, and at no point did the priest give any sort of inclination that he felt something was wrong. He went from room to room, quoting scripture and anointing the doors and windows, and after that he simply shook Stephen's and Allison's hands, encouraged them to contact him if he as needed, and left.
From that morning to the afternoon, Stephen noticed a change. He wasn't definite on all the religious beliefs and inclinations of his staff, but after Father Moore left, a sense of relief permeated the tension in the building. Everyone just seemed more at ease. Allison had been right; the staff couldn't look to Stephen for assurance. It made him feel awful.
Jon's phone call that afternoon did not help.
"Stephen, what the fuck is this I hear about a psychic and a priest?"
Stephen resisted the urge to slam down the phone. "Jon, it's what the staff wanted."
"Jesus Christ."
"This place is my responsibility, and if you don't like how I handle things--"
"Uh, no, I don't like how you handle things," Jon said. "And your show is actually my responsibility too, moreso even, if you've forgotten. I've got fucking Herzog calling me and asking me what the fuck is going on over there."
Stephen bristled. "Why doesn't he just call me?"
"Pretty soon they will, to tell you they're pulling the plug," Jon snapped. "But they want me to talk to you as head of Busboy before they start interfering."
"Interfering?"
"It could mean any number of things, but I'd rather it not get to that point."
"They can't take this away from me!" Stephen said, voice almost cracking.
Jon was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again he was calmer. "Stephen, do you need time off?"
"No, no, I don't want to leave."
"I didn't say you'd have to leave. I just meant a vacation."
"No."
"Okay. Do you want to move the show somewhere else?"
Stephen felt something lurch inside him, his stomach or his heart or something more. "No. We're not moving." He wanted to slam his fist onto the desk.
The other end of the line had only silence, as if Jon was taken aback. Finally, he coughed. "Well. So suddenly it's not that bad?"
"I... it's probably all nothing."
"You had a priest over, for God's sake."
"And like you said, it's all in our heads. Having a priest bless the building will make everyone feel more comfortable."
"Stephen, just the other day you were convinced you saw some kind of malevolent ghost."
"Who knows what I saw."
"Well, I don't, but I know what you think. Don't lie to me. You blow at it."
"Jon... I can't just abandon all of this. Even if there is... something, I know we can... we can see it through. See where it goes."
"Even after the injuries and the fire--"
"You can't make me just give up!" Stephen snapped. "This has to be seen through!"
"... I see."
"Jon--"
"I have to go, Stephen," Jon said, but his voice sounded strange. Like he was thinking, deciding. "I'll be in touch."
"Jon, wait." But he'd already hung up.
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Through the rest of the week and the following week, there were no strange occurrences. No accidents, no attacks. Everyone seemed to return to normal. The writers got back into stride, and Stephen found himself getting genuine laughs again.
Of course, nothing was perfect. On Wednesday, Allison mentioned, hopefully, that the staff's missing possessions would reappear, but it didn't happen. Roddy definitely wasn't coming back. Stephen was still getting flack (online and off) for how he'd incited an audience walk out. Jon didn't call.
And although everyone else relaxed and happily threw themselves into the old swing of things, Stephen did not feel the same way. He tried to hide it, because everyone else acted as if the pall over the show had lifted, because he dreaded doubting his faith in God, but although he didn't see any more strange shadows, he still had a strange sense that they were still around. Maybe he was just being paranoid, and that thought just gave him more anxiety. Was he losing it?
He functioned fine for now, and even Allison didn't seem to think he was still acting oddly, but if the presence really wasn't gone, how long would he last? Would the nagging feeling get worse and worse until it was just Stephen who brought the show down? Would his feeling be confirmed when the ghost came back full force for everyone?
More than ever, he had the overwhelming fear of being forced to leave. Not necessarily of the show being cancelled or, oh God, actually being replaced, but even just forced to vacate the building. This was his space, his realm.
He prayed the ghost, the force, whatever it was, wouldn't come back, but he knew his hopes and prayers were hollow. He was perhaps the only person on staff who was not surprised at the disaster two weeks after the blessing.
Title: Sinking, Part 10
Series: TCR (real, not fake)
Rating: PG-13 for spookiness and language.
Warnings: Violence and mental instability.
Summary: Producing a television show is no easy feat, but it's fulfilling work-- until a strange presence begins to break everything down.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual. IN SHORT: None of this is real. I just like scary stories.
(Jump to: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13)
When Stephen arrived at the studio Tuesday morning, things did not start off well.
Allison was waiting for him and before he could even manage a hello she spoke, calmly and methodically. "Stephen, I want you to know that this was not my idea, but I don't blame everyone for wanting peace of--"
"What is it?" he interrupted.
"Promise me you won't get upset."
"I'm not promising you anything."
She looked shocked, then angry. "If you're just going to be an asshole and throw a hissy fit, then--"
He was not in the mood, he was not in the mood. He pushed past her, his backpack banging into the wall, and he looked around for anything odd. She followed after him silently for a minute, then finally said gruffly, "They're on the third floor."
They made their way up the stairs-- Stephen taking a moment to throw his jacket and bag into the second floor hall-- and when they reached the third floor he stopped dead in the doorway, completely taken aback.
A group of staff members, not just interns but production assistants and stage crew and writers, were quietly gathered around an elder woman wearing a long flowy dress and a ridiculous amount of eye make-up. She wore multiple rings on each finger and too many bangles clanked around her wrists.
"Ah, yes, yes," she said softly, eyes closed. Her hands hovered in front of the door to the prop room, and she slowly turned, as if she sensed a trail. The sheer shawl around her shoulders dangled below her arms. "I feel it, a presence..."
"You are kidding me," Stephen said to Allison, though he stared straight at the strange woman. "You are fucking kidding me.”
The people gathered in the hall finally noticed he was there. A few ducked their heads and retreated, mumbling excuse me's as they slipped into the stairwell. The others just waited, looking guilty and apprehensive. The woman opened her eyes and lowered her arms dramatically, gazing at him.
"Get out," Stephen barked. "I don't know or care who you are, but you are not welcome in my building."
The woman did not react. She spoke as if she hadn't heard him. "There has been a crossover from the other side."
Stephen approached her swiftly, pointing back towards the doorway. "Get the hell out!" he hollered.
"Stephen!" Richard stepped out from the cluster. "Calm down. She just--"
Stephen glowered. "What are you doing, Richard?! And you!" He looked from Richard to Allison. "Why is she even up here?"
"We were just going to let her do her thing,” Richard explained, though he certainly seemed to know that whatever the explanation, Stephen would not be satisfied. “It could make everyone feel better--"
"She's just going to antagonize things!" Stephen snapped. “Do you realize what could happen when this gets out?”
"He is afflicted," the woman said, voice booming in the hallway. She gazed evenly at Stephen, never blinking. "He is susceptible, and it knows, and it has--"
Stephen reached out to grab her, to drag her downstairs and throw her out of the building, but Richard quickly stepped between them and put his arm around the old woman's shoulders, leading her away. "Come on, thank you, let's go, let's go," he said hurriedly.
Stephen didn't even watch them go. He glared angrily at the clustered staff. "Who brought her here? Who was it?"
No one said anything.
"Either the person who brought her in is fired, or all of you are."
"What?!" a production assistant gasped. "Stephen, that's not fair, Allison and Richard said it was okay and--"
"Get out. You're gone."
"What? I-I-"
Allison swept over and said quietly, "It's okay, you're not fired," before rounding on Stephen. "You are out of control! Get downstairs and cool your head!"
Stephen shook his finger in her face. "You--"
She grabbed his hand, leaned close, and hissed, "Stephen, you are scaring the shit out of everyone. Please go."
And just like that, all of his anger fizzled, and he looked over her shoulder at all the shocked and disgruntled faces staring back at him. He stuttered over apologies as he turned away and headed back downstairs, feeling so out of himself that once he reached his office with his coat and backpack, he couldn't remember having picked them up.
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, sliding downwards until he was sitting on the floor. He felt light-headed.
He knew he shouldn't be so angry. He didn't mean to scare anyone, but they were being ridiculous. How could they pull through this when the staff would put their faith in some Sylvia Browne knock-off? How could he steer them out of this when they didn't understand that they had to stay strong in themselves? Whatever was going on, it obviously wanted them to leave, and Stephen would not have them driven away. They had to show no fear, be unaffected.
If he couldn't do that, if he couldn't stay cool here, his anger would spread. Every night on the drive home, he shunted his frustration off with his character, relegating it away from his family. But it was getting to be too much. He couldn't let it touch them...
A knock on the door. He jerked his head up and clenched his teeth. He didn't trust himself to speak without saying something he'd regret, so he reached up turned the knob, pushing the door open. The intern in the hall looked surprised to see him on the floor, but she shrank back at the expression on his face. He stared at her, waiting for her to speak.
"Um, Stephen," she said quietly. "There's a... there's a priest here."
He guffawed. "Oh, of course! Of course. The old one or the young one?"
"He... he wants to talk to you..." The intern trailed off, slinking back into the hall.
Stephen got up and followed her downstairs, but she went no further than the start of the front hall. She took off back upstairs, likely afraid he would lose it again. At the end of the hall, waiting by the door, stood an elderly man in a black cassock. Allison was there too, looking no less irritated than before. Stephen tried to offer her a smile as he approached.
She didn't smile back. "The person who asked Father Moore to come didn't want to stay," she said pointedly.
Stephen ignored the remark and offered his smile to the priest instead. He shook the father's hand. "How can I help you, Father?"
"I think we both know that I've been asked here to help you," Father Moore replied, switching his black bag from one hand to the other when their handshake was done. "There are fears that a ghost, or worse, lurks in this building?"
Stephen felt his smile waning. "Father, I apologize that your time has been wasted. There is nothing going on here that we shouldn't be able to handle."
Moore frowned. "I wouldn't be so dismissive of your staff's feelings on the matter. From what I've been told, they're very frightened."
"Father, you haven't been present for what's been going on. I don't see how you can seem so sure that your services are needed."
"I think, no matter the reality, the offer of comfort from God can go a long way, don't you?"
Stephen didn't really have anything to say to that. Of course he appreciated the comfort God could offer, ever since Chicago...
"I would not hesitate to offer that comfort," the priest continued, "to those who are troubled, to those who ask for my help."
Stephen glanced at Allison, who did not look away. "I think it would help," she said. “Everyone wants assurance that everything is going to be okay, from something bigger than themselves." She hesitated, but added, "And although they look up to you, you can't give them that right now."
"If you will permit," the priest said, "I'd like to bless the building."
Saying no to someone of his own faith was, perhaps surprisingly, more difficult than with the gypsy woman. Stephen certainly didn't feel the urge to physically throw him out, and with that realization, he abruptly felt awful for how he had treated the psychic, or spiritual guide, or whatever she had been. How could he have behaved that way?
He hadn't felt that angry since years and years ago, and it was not a period of his emotional health he wanted recurring in his life. But then, it was recurring, wasn't it? And he did not at all feel like he could stop it, not alone.
Stephen nodded and stepped back. "Father, please come in."
The priest nodded and headed inside. Allison followed behind him, and squeezed Stephen's shoulder as she passed.
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Stephen did not ask Father Moore if he could feel a presence in the building, and at no point did the priest give any sort of inclination that he felt something was wrong. He went from room to room, quoting scripture and anointing the doors and windows, and after that he simply shook Stephen's and Allison's hands, encouraged them to contact him if he as needed, and left.
From that morning to the afternoon, Stephen noticed a change. He wasn't definite on all the religious beliefs and inclinations of his staff, but after Father Moore left, a sense of relief permeated the tension in the building. Everyone just seemed more at ease. Allison had been right; the staff couldn't look to Stephen for assurance. It made him feel awful.
Jon's phone call that afternoon did not help.
"Stephen, what the fuck is this I hear about a psychic and a priest?"
Stephen resisted the urge to slam down the phone. "Jon, it's what the staff wanted."
"Jesus Christ."
"This place is my responsibility, and if you don't like how I handle things--"
"Uh, no, I don't like how you handle things," Jon said. "And your show is actually my responsibility too, moreso even, if you've forgotten. I've got fucking Herzog calling me and asking me what the fuck is going on over there."
Stephen bristled. "Why doesn't he just call me?"
"Pretty soon they will, to tell you they're pulling the plug," Jon snapped. "But they want me to talk to you as head of Busboy before they start interfering."
"Interfering?"
"It could mean any number of things, but I'd rather it not get to that point."
"They can't take this away from me!" Stephen said, voice almost cracking.
Jon was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again he was calmer. "Stephen, do you need time off?"
"No, no, I don't want to leave."
"I didn't say you'd have to leave. I just meant a vacation."
"No."
"Okay. Do you want to move the show somewhere else?"
Stephen felt something lurch inside him, his stomach or his heart or something more. "No. We're not moving." He wanted to slam his fist onto the desk.
The other end of the line had only silence, as if Jon was taken aback. Finally, he coughed. "Well. So suddenly it's not that bad?"
"I... it's probably all nothing."
"You had a priest over, for God's sake."
"And like you said, it's all in our heads. Having a priest bless the building will make everyone feel more comfortable."
"Stephen, just the other day you were convinced you saw some kind of malevolent ghost."
"Who knows what I saw."
"Well, I don't, but I know what you think. Don't lie to me. You blow at it."
"Jon... I can't just abandon all of this. Even if there is... something, I know we can... we can see it through. See where it goes."
"Even after the injuries and the fire--"
"You can't make me just give up!" Stephen snapped. "This has to be seen through!"
"... I see."
"Jon--"
"I have to go, Stephen," Jon said, but his voice sounded strange. Like he was thinking, deciding. "I'll be in touch."
"Jon, wait." But he'd already hung up.
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
Through the rest of the week and the following week, there were no strange occurrences. No accidents, no attacks. Everyone seemed to return to normal. The writers got back into stride, and Stephen found himself getting genuine laughs again.
Of course, nothing was perfect. On Wednesday, Allison mentioned, hopefully, that the staff's missing possessions would reappear, but it didn't happen. Roddy definitely wasn't coming back. Stephen was still getting flack (online and off) for how he'd incited an audience walk out. Jon didn't call.
And although everyone else relaxed and happily threw themselves into the old swing of things, Stephen did not feel the same way. He tried to hide it, because everyone else acted as if the pall over the show had lifted, because he dreaded doubting his faith in God, but although he didn't see any more strange shadows, he still had a strange sense that they were still around. Maybe he was just being paranoid, and that thought just gave him more anxiety. Was he losing it?
He functioned fine for now, and even Allison didn't seem to think he was still acting oddly, but if the presence really wasn't gone, how long would he last? Would the nagging feeling get worse and worse until it was just Stephen who brought the show down? Would his feeling be confirmed when the ghost came back full force for everyone?
More than ever, he had the overwhelming fear of being forced to leave. Not necessarily of the show being cancelled or, oh God, actually being replaced, but even just forced to vacate the building. This was his space, his realm.
He prayed the ghost, the force, whatever it was, wouldn't come back, but he knew his hopes and prayers were hollow. He was perhaps the only person on staff who was not surprised at the disaster two weeks after the blessing.