Cliff Weston returns to the comfortable chair. He has a relaxed look on his face, but inside he feels anything but. A chair has been set nearby. His interview subject may be in it, but then again he may not be.
This’ll make great television, he thinks.
He scans his note cards. Ten questions. That’s all he gets. Ten questions is what separates him from one of the greatest interviews of all time. Who else can say they’ve actually interviewed a ghost? Ok, maybe some of those paranormal nutjobs on television, but he’s not one of them. He’s a television icon. He is mentioned in the same breath with the greats in his industry. He inhales deeply and then exhales slowly.
“You can do this, Cliff,” he says, unaware that he’s spoken it aloud.
“Excuse me,” the ghost replies.
“Uh, nothing. Just talking to myself.”
“Glad I’m not the only one. That’s really all I get to do on most days.”
Cliff and the ghost sit on a small island of calm in a sea of activity. Most viewers don’t realize that what they see on their televisions is only a small part of everything that is going on while it is being filmed. Orders are being shouted. Places are being taken. Finally Cliff is given the signal.
Television screens around the country flash with the shows opening graphics and theme music. Eyes which have seen the promotions of this particular program glue themselves to their sets. Cliff Weston turns to the camera and flashes a wide smile filled with chemically whitened teeth.
“Hello, I’m Cliff Weston. I have long been interested in the paranormal and specifically ghosts,” he reads from the teleprompter. “Today I have been given an amazing opportunity and I am glad to be the one to bring it to you. I have with me a real live ghost so to speak.”
Cliff chuckles at the scripted pun. The ghost sighs his frustration.
“Like I haven’t heard that one a million times.”
Mr. Weston looks at the empty chair, which isn’t, in surprise as if he’d already forgotten that a spiritual entity is sitting there. He clears his throat and adjusts his position nervously.
“Let’s get to know our guest a little better shall we?” Cliff says, smiling at the camera. “What’s your name?”
“This counts you know,” the voice from nowhere says. “My name is Stan Voegel.”
“Come on! This isn’t part of the interview. We’re allowing our audience to get to know you,” Cliff whines.
There is a sign from Stan.
“Oh, alright, but don’t push it. Next.”
“How did you…um…exactly how did…er…?”
“How did I die? Is that what your stammering over?”
“Well, yes. Uh.”
“You’re not very good at this are you? Are you new?”
The crew stifles their laughter. Cliff looks aghast.
“No, I most certainly am not new! Have you not seen me on television?”
“No, I haven’t. I slipped in the bathtub, to answer your question.”
“Slipped in the bathtub?” Cliff asked.
“That’s what I said. Are you slow? Can I get someone else over here? Someone that’s smarter? Where’s Tonya? She seems like a sharp one.”
Cliff clears his throat once more.
“I’ll be taking care of the interview,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
“Okay then. Let’s get on with it.”
Cliff Weston can picture television sets around the country being clicked off as viewers realize that this interview could easily be a fake, a publicity stunt. He needs something.
“Can I get you some water?” he asks.
“Seriously?” Stan replies.
“Well, I just thought…” Cliff is interrupted.
“No, I don’t think you did.”
“The audience. They need something to show them you’re really here and this isn’t a hoax. Can you make yourself appear for them?”
“So now the interview has begun. Yes I can make myself appear, but to save you a question no I can’t right now. It takes too much out of me and we would have to cut this interview way down. Let me do something else though.”
Cliff reaches for his water bottle, but suddenly it is gone. He sees it hovering a few inches to the left. He reaches for it, but it moves again. He laughs.
“Very nice trick,” he says with a smile.
“You like that? How about this?”
Suddenly Cliff Weston is slapping himself across the face. He tries to speak, but each time his own hand silences him. Each word is separate as if a sentence of its own.
“Please. Would. You. Stop. Now?”
“Do your viewers still think this is a fake?” Stan asks.
Cliff shakes his head violently. His hand drops limply to his side. He tries his best to compose himself before speaking.
To be continued
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