was you,” the demon lover says.
Ray says, “And now? Who are you?”
“You charge by the hour?” the demon lover says. “Why follow me around? I don’t seem to have my wallet on me.”
“Meggie’s busy,” Ray says. “And I’m curious about you. What you think you’re doing here.”
“I came for Meggie,” the demon lover says. “We’re friends. An old friend can come to see an old friend. Some other time I’ll see her again and you won’t be around. I’ll always be around. But you, you’re just some guy who got lucky because you look like me.”
Ray says, “I love her.”
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” the demon lover says. He goes back to the fire and the naked people waiting for other naked people. Thinks about the story he is meant to tell.
The séance has not been a success. Irene the medium keeps saying that she senses something. Someone is trying to say something.
The dead are here, but also not here. They’re afraid. That’s why they won’t come. Something is keeping them away. There is something wrong here.
“Do you feel it?” she says to Meggie, to the others.
Meggie says, “I feel something. Something is here.”
The demon lover extends himself outward into the night. Lets himself believe for a moment that life goes on. Is something here? There is a smell, the metallic stink of muck farms. There is an oppressiveness to the air. Is there malice here? An ill wish?
Meggie says, “No one has ever solved the mystery of what happened here. But perhaps whatever happened to them is still present. Irene, could it have some hold on their spirits, whatever is left of them, even in death?”
Irene says, “I don’t know. Something is wrong here. Something is here. I don’t know.”
But Who’s There? picks up nothing of interest on their equipment, their air ion counter or their barometer, their EMF detector or EVP detector, their wind chimes or thermal imaging scopes. No one is there.
And so at last it’s time for ghost stories.
There’s one about the men’s room at a trendy Santa Monica restaurant. The demon lover has been there. Had the fries with truffle-oil mayonnaise. Never encountered the ghost. He’s not somebody who sees ghosts and he’s fine with that. Never really liked truffle-oil mayonnaise, either. The thing in the bungalow with Meggie wasn’t a ghost. It was drugs, the pressure they were under, the unbearable scrutiny; a folie à deux; the tax on their happiness.
Someone tells the old story about Basil Rathbone and the dinner guest who brings along his dogs. Upon departure, the man and his dogs are killed in a car crash just outside Rathbone’s house. Rathbone sees. Is paralyzed with shock and grief. As he stands there, his phone rings—when he picks up, an operator says, “Pardon me, Mr. Rathbone, but there is a woman on the line who says she must speak to you.”
The woman, who is a medium, says that she has a message for him. She says she hopes he will understand the meaning.
“Traveling very fast. No time to say good-bye. There are no dogs here.”
And now it’s the demon lover’s turn. He says: “A long time ago when Meggie and I were together, we bought a bungalow in Venice Beach. We weren’t there very much. We were everywhere else. On junkets. At festivals. We had no furniture. Just a mattress. No dishes. When we were home we ate out of takeout containers.
“But we were happy.” He lets that linger. Meggie watches. Listens. Ray stands beside her. No space between them.
It’s not much fun, telling a ghost story while you’re naked. Telling the parts of the ghost story that you’re supposed to tell. Not telling other parts. While the woman you love stands there with the person you used to be.
“It was a good year. Maybe the best year of my life. Maybe the hardest year, too. We were young and we were stupid and people wanted things from us and we did things we shouldn’t have done. Fill in the blanks however you want. We threw parties. We spent money like water. And we loved each other. Right, Meggie?”
Meggie nods.
He says, “But I should get to the ghost. I don’t really believe that it was a ghost, but I don’t not believe it was a ghost, either. I’ve never spent much time thinking about it, really. But the more time we spent in that bungalow, the worse things got.”
Irene says, “Can you describe it for us? What happened?”
The demon lover says, “It was a feeling that someone was watching us. That they were somewhere very far away, but they were getting closer. That very soon they would be there with us. It was worse at night. We had bad dreams. Some nights we both woke up screaming.”
Irene says, “What were the dreams about?”
He says, “Not much. Just that it was finally there in the room with us. Eventually it was always there. Eventually whatever it was was in the bed with us. We’d wake up on opposite sides of the mattress because it was there in between us.”
Irene says, “What did you do?”
He says, “When one of us was alone in the bed it wasn’t there. It was there when it was the two of us. Then it would be the three of us. So we got a room at the Chateau Marmont. Only it turned out it was there, too. The very first night it was there, too.”
Irene says, “Did you try to talk to it?”
He says, “Meggie did. I didn’t. Meggie thought it was real. I thought we needed therapy. I thought whatever it was, we were doing it. So we tried therapy. That was a bust. So eventually—” He shrugs.
“Eventually what?” Irene says.
“I moved out,” Meggie says.
“She moved out,” he says.
The demon lover wonders if Ray knows the other part of the story, if Meggie has told him that. Of course she hasn’t. Meggie isn’t dumb. It’s the two of them and the demon lover thinks, as he’s thought many times before, that this is what will always hold them together. Not the experience of filming a movie together, of falling in love at the exact same moment that all those other people fell in love with them, that sympathetic magic made up of story and effort, repetition and editing and craft and other people’s desire.
The thing that happened is the thing they can never tell anyone else. It belongs to them. No one else.
“And after that there wasn’t any ghost,” he concludes. “Meggie took a break from Hollywood, went to India. I went to AA meetings.”
It’s gotten colder. The fire has gotten lower. You could, perhaps, imagine that there is a supernatural explanation for these things, but that would be wishful thinking. The missing girl, Juliet, has not returned. The ghost-hunting equipment does not record any presence.
Meggie finds the demon lover with Pilar. She says, “Can we talk?”
“What
