Lost in Translation
From the case files of MAAPI - the Malcolm Ackroyd Agency for Paranormal Investigations...
Ref. 13/241
McCreadie, A
address not reproduced
Report summary: prevalent incidence of physical objective displacement and unascertained audio events. increasing regularity over an approximate twelve year period.
Attending: Robinson, G
Shoosmith, E
Akadian, E
Eleanor sat in the back of the Land Rover, surrounded in darkness and tentatively sipping coffee from a Thermos cup, the idling diesel engine adding a steady bass thrum to the soft rock ballad that oozed from the single working speaker.
“It’s not that I don’t like him, not at all. And it’s not that I don’t trust him,” she said, “It’s just something about him that makes it impossible to get close - not that I want to or anything! But, I mean, the not eating thing, and the skulking around at all hours. It doesn’t seem normal and, before you say it, I know that we’re not really in a ‘normal’ line of business, I know it attracts a lot of oddballs and geeks, but he doesn’t really seem to be one of those either,” she sighed deeply, “I expect you think I’m mad, don’t you, Greg?” she waited, “Greg?”
She leant forwards and punched him in the shoulder, causing him to stir suddenly from his slumber, “What? What the…?”
“How can you possibly sleep?”
“Erm, because I’m tired?” he yawned. “Were you saying something?”
“Just to myself,” she said, “as usual.” Here we are then. What's left of Malcolm Ackroyd's Agency for Paranormal Investigations. Or two thirds of it, anyway. How long are we going to plod along like this, on the back of former glories? How long can I go on?
The interior of the Landy was bathed in light at that moment - the headlights of the Transit as it crested the rise behind where they were parked. It pulled up alongside and Eric got out and walked over to them. Greg wound the window down, “got everything?”
“Yes,” Eric replied, “I think so, but the EMP’s on the blink again so we’ll have to do without.”
“Fine, never got anything meaningful from it anyway.”
Eric looked in back, “Hello, Eleanor.”
“Hi, Eric,” she answered, and then, after a second or two of uneasy silence, “well, can we get going already?”
I really don't dislike the guy. He's just a bit weird, is all. Eric Akadian had been Malcolm's last recruit. She recalled that she hadn't handled his arrival pretty well - had felt that the dynamic that had evolved between the three of them had been interrupted by the new appointment. But she had to admit that he'd had his moments, and he'd been there with Malcolm right at the end, when the two of them couldn't be. She could never take that away from him and, to this day, for all his oddness, she still felt that they owed Eric a debt of gratitude. If that meant letting him play his part, then so be it. He probably didn't have anything better to do, and herself and Greg would never have made much of a team on their own - they were just too comfortable with each other's company. Perhaps they needed some oddness after all.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. McCreadie,” Greg assured the elderly lady, “your daughter’s seen all our insurance documents. Nothing at all will be disturbed.”
“Well, not by us.” Eleanor mumbled under her breath.
“But it’s you I’m worried about,” the old woman frowned, “you don’t know what it’s like.”
“Let me assure you," he replied, "we’re used to this kind of thing. Please, don’t worry about us. This is our job, it's what we do. The main thing is that when you get back, you won't have any more troubles. Let us sort that out for you, okay?"”
“Can we use your TV?” Eric interjected.
Mrs. McCreadie looked at him for the first time, slightly puzzled, “I guess.”
Greg helped her down the steps of the front porch and guided her across the darkness of the garden towards her daughter's car which was parked at the kerbside, “here she is, waiting for you.”
On the porch, Eric looked up to the heavens, “a full moon.”
“Yeah,” Eleanor smirked, “pity we’re not hunting werewolves.”
She followed Greg back down the creaking staircase, “the detectors are all set,” she announced, “Eric?”
“Here,” came his voice from behind the television, “trying to find an adaptor to fit this old set.”
They made their way over to examine the equipment he had rigged in front of the TV.
“ITC?” Greg asked.
“Yes, have you used it before?”
“Dabbled a bit. Always found myself sceptical of it, to be honest.”
“You, a sceptic?" Eleanor laughed, "right! Anyway, what’s ICT?”
“ITC,” Eric corrected, “Instrumental Trans-Communication. By modulating the frequency of the set and creating a feedback loop with the recorder whilst angling the camera ninety degrees away it should be possible to pick up both visual and audible ultra frequency activity.”
Eleanor looked at Greg with a face that said “translation please?”
“It’s like a white noise recorder, only with pictures too,” he explained.
She clapped her hands together and displayed the biggest fake grin she could muster. "Oh, goody!"
During her shift she sat upright in her sleeping bag, back to the wall, and stared into the shimmering screen of the tuned out television. Greg was snoring, again, slumped in the armchair across from her. Eric had gone upstairs hours ago to ensconce himself in a spare room and had not reappeared. Just like him. This has got to be really bad for the eyes. Her mother had always said so. She looked around whilst massaging her neck and wondered for the umpteenth time how she had ever gotten herself involved in all this.
Then she returned her attention to the screen. She stared into it, willing something to appear there, if only to alleviate the boredom and prevent her from slipping into a coma. She imagined that, amongst the myriad of tiny shimmering black and white pixels, she could make out the vaguest outline of a face. She continued to stare. The screen stared back - it seemed to have developed a pair of bright white eyes. She stared harder. The face in the screen was unflinching. Greg was right. Doing this could really play tricks on your mind.
“Go away!” she whispered.
The face opened its mouth and shouted silently back, causing her to jump backwards and bang her head against the wall.
The face swelled to fill the screen, its eyes blazing, its mouth a cavernous blackness. It glared at her.
“G...Greg!” Eleanor stammered.
Greg snored fitfully.
“GREG! WAKE UP!” she screamed.
He was instantly awake, “what is it?”
“The television, it….”
It exploded, the screen shattering into a million tiny glass fragments that instantly littered the room and caused Eleanor to scream in terror.
Eric’s calm voice pierced the silence which followed, “It’s up here.”
Greg rose from the armchair and carefully helped Eleanor to her feet, dusting off the minuscule pieces of TV screen which still clung to her. They creaked their way upstairs as calmly as they were able to, Greg in the lead, Eleanor close behind, shaking with nervous tension.
“Unlock the door, Eric,” Greg called as he hammered upon it.
“There is no lock, Greg,” Eric replied from the other side. What followed was a series of bumps and thuds.
“Are you okay?” Eleanor shouted.
“For now.”
Greg stood back from the door and considered his options. The obvious one came to mind and he launched his considerable bulk forwards, the hollow core door splintering as he smashed through it and virtually fell through into the room beyond. Eleanor carefully climbed through after him.
The entire contents of the spare room were literally rattling. An unmade bed danced upon the floorboards, a chest of drawers was repeatedly rocking itself against the wall and a picture frame was attempting to smash its way through the stippled plaster ceiling. Eric stood in the centre of the room, watching, whilst a small candelabra jinked about on its chain above his head, its bulbs flickering on and off erratically.
And then everything was suddenly still, apart from the picture which dropped to the floor with a thud, its glass shattering and dropping out onto the carpet. Greg looked at Eric and smiled. This was why they did what they did. This was it! He turned to Eleanor, but she was not there - or rather, her body was but there was an absence written across her face that somehow told him instantly that Eleanor was not at home.
“It has her!" Eric whispered urgently.
Greg stepped towards her quickly, intent upon shaking her back to reality, and shaking out of her whatever had taken up residence.
"Stop, Greg!" Eric commanded, in a voice which instantly rooted his counterpart to the spot. "Don't touch her!"
Greg swung around in anger and desperation. "Then what the hell should we do?"
Eric raised his hands in what Greg first took to be a calming gesture, but he quickly came to the conclusion that there was some other reason behind it. There was a blankness in Eric's eyes also, now, which instantly increased Greg's alarm - if it could be increased further than it already was. But then Eric spoke, and Greg realised that he was merely concentrating - rather intensely. "I can feel her, Greg. I can sense her clearly."
"Eleanor?"
"No, not Eleanor. It's a woman....her name is Martha. She's not happy. She's trapped here."
"You sense her? How? This isn't the time to mess about, Eric. It's Eleanor we're talking about!"
Eric focused upon him, his concentration not dissipating. "Greg, you have to trust me, right now. I haven't been completely truthful with you, with either of you. But Malcolm knew, at the end, and he asked me to look after you both. He knew that you wouldn't be persuaded to give up, but he couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you two. Not the way it happened to him."
Greg was stupefied. "What on Earth are you going on about, man?"
"A man! Yes, I was one of those once." Eric smiled wryly. "Now, just do what I say, Greg. For Eleanor's sake. Stand still, exactly where you are and, no matter what happens next, do not intervene. Do you understand?"
Greg certainly had no plan formulated himself. Regardless of the experiences they'd had and the dangers they had overcome, his mind was a complete blank. All he could do was nod in agreement. Whatever Eric was talking about, he obviously had some kind of idea. He'd just have to let him get on with it.
Eric's concentration was once more fixated upon Eleanor's form - she appeared to be held rigidly upright, not a single muscle moving. Greg couldn't even tell whether or not she was breathing. And then Eric strode wilfully across the room and clasped her body in a tight embrace. I've never seen him touch anyone before, Greg realised with amazement, shocked that this had never occured to him before. At the same time, he noticed the room lighten considerably and, looking up, saw that the ceiling had become a bright white expanse.
He looked back at Eric and Eleanor. They now appeared to be jointly bathed in a sparkling yellow glow. Momentarily, he regretted that he didn't have any recording equipment with him, but he quickly castigated himself for his selfishness. These were his colleagues - his friends. Just about the only ones he had.
And then Eric spoke again, only this time his voice was strangely distant and seemed to emanate from above rather than from where he stood, wrapped tightly around Eleanor. The words would remain with Greg, always. “I’m going now, Greg. I’m taking her with me. It’s time we both translated,” his voice sounded strained with effort, “thanks for everything, both of you. It has been...fun.”
Translated....? And then the light became blindingly bright and he was forced to turn away, his eyes shut tightly.
When he re-opened them, the room appeared alarmingly normal. Eric was gone and Eleanor was slumped on the floor in the doorway. Greg went to her. She was unconscious but breathing.
He sighed deeply. “And then there were two,” he muttered to himself.
Ref. 13/241
McCreadie, A
address not reproduced
Report summary: prevalent incidence of physical objective displacement and unascertained audio events. increasing regularity over an approximate twelve year period.
Attending: Robinson, G
Shoosmith, E
Akadian, E
Eleanor sat in the back of the Land Rover, surrounded in darkness and tentatively sipping coffee from a Thermos cup, the idling diesel engine adding a steady bass thrum to the soft rock ballad that oozed from the single working speaker.
“It’s not that I don’t like him, not at all. And it’s not that I don’t trust him,” she said, “It’s just something about him that makes it impossible to get close - not that I want to or anything! But, I mean, the not eating thing, and the skulking around at all hours. It doesn’t seem normal and, before you say it, I know that we’re not really in a ‘normal’ line of business, I know it attracts a lot of oddballs and geeks, but he doesn’t really seem to be one of those either,” she sighed deeply, “I expect you think I’m mad, don’t you, Greg?” she waited, “Greg?”
She leant forwards and punched him in the shoulder, causing him to stir suddenly from his slumber, “What? What the…?”
“How can you possibly sleep?”
“Erm, because I’m tired?” he yawned. “Were you saying something?”
“Just to myself,” she said, “as usual.” Here we are then. What's left of Malcolm Ackroyd's Agency for Paranormal Investigations. Or two thirds of it, anyway. How long are we going to plod along like this, on the back of former glories? How long can I go on?
The interior of the Landy was bathed in light at that moment - the headlights of the Transit as it crested the rise behind where they were parked. It pulled up alongside and Eric got out and walked over to them. Greg wound the window down, “got everything?”
“Yes,” Eric replied, “I think so, but the EMP’s on the blink again so we’ll have to do without.”
“Fine, never got anything meaningful from it anyway.”
Eric looked in back, “Hello, Eleanor.”
“Hi, Eric,” she answered, and then, after a second or two of uneasy silence, “well, can we get going already?”
I really don't dislike the guy. He's just a bit weird, is all. Eric Akadian had been Malcolm's last recruit. She recalled that she hadn't handled his arrival pretty well - had felt that the dynamic that had evolved between the three of them had been interrupted by the new appointment. But she had to admit that he'd had his moments, and he'd been there with Malcolm right at the end, when the two of them couldn't be. She could never take that away from him and, to this day, for all his oddness, she still felt that they owed Eric a debt of gratitude. If that meant letting him play his part, then so be it. He probably didn't have anything better to do, and herself and Greg would never have made much of a team on their own - they were just too comfortable with each other's company. Perhaps they needed some oddness after all.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. McCreadie,” Greg assured the elderly lady, “your daughter’s seen all our insurance documents. Nothing at all will be disturbed.”
“Well, not by us.” Eleanor mumbled under her breath.
“But it’s you I’m worried about,” the old woman frowned, “you don’t know what it’s like.”
“Let me assure you," he replied, "we’re used to this kind of thing. Please, don’t worry about us. This is our job, it's what we do. The main thing is that when you get back, you won't have any more troubles. Let us sort that out for you, okay?"”
“Can we use your TV?” Eric interjected.
Mrs. McCreadie looked at him for the first time, slightly puzzled, “I guess.”
Greg helped her down the steps of the front porch and guided her across the darkness of the garden towards her daughter's car which was parked at the kerbside, “here she is, waiting for you.”
On the porch, Eric looked up to the heavens, “a full moon.”
“Yeah,” Eleanor smirked, “pity we’re not hunting werewolves.”
She followed Greg back down the creaking staircase, “the detectors are all set,” she announced, “Eric?”
“Here,” came his voice from behind the television, “trying to find an adaptor to fit this old set.”
They made their way over to examine the equipment he had rigged in front of the TV.
“ITC?” Greg asked.
“Yes, have you used it before?”
“Dabbled a bit. Always found myself sceptical of it, to be honest.”
“You, a sceptic?" Eleanor laughed, "right! Anyway, what’s ICT?”
“ITC,” Eric corrected, “Instrumental Trans-Communication. By modulating the frequency of the set and creating a feedback loop with the recorder whilst angling the camera ninety degrees away it should be possible to pick up both visual and audible ultra frequency activity.”
Eleanor looked at Greg with a face that said “translation please?”
“It’s like a white noise recorder, only with pictures too,” he explained.
She clapped her hands together and displayed the biggest fake grin she could muster. "Oh, goody!"
During her shift she sat upright in her sleeping bag, back to the wall, and stared into the shimmering screen of the tuned out television. Greg was snoring, again, slumped in the armchair across from her. Eric had gone upstairs hours ago to ensconce himself in a spare room and had not reappeared. Just like him. This has got to be really bad for the eyes. Her mother had always said so. She looked around whilst massaging her neck and wondered for the umpteenth time how she had ever gotten herself involved in all this.
Then she returned her attention to the screen. She stared into it, willing something to appear there, if only to alleviate the boredom and prevent her from slipping into a coma. She imagined that, amongst the myriad of tiny shimmering black and white pixels, she could make out the vaguest outline of a face. She continued to stare. The screen stared back - it seemed to have developed a pair of bright white eyes. She stared harder. The face in the screen was unflinching. Greg was right. Doing this could really play tricks on your mind.
“Go away!” she whispered.
The face opened its mouth and shouted silently back, causing her to jump backwards and bang her head against the wall.
The face swelled to fill the screen, its eyes blazing, its mouth a cavernous blackness. It glared at her.
“G...Greg!” Eleanor stammered.
Greg snored fitfully.
“GREG! WAKE UP!” she screamed.
He was instantly awake, “what is it?”
“The television, it….”
It exploded, the screen shattering into a million tiny glass fragments that instantly littered the room and caused Eleanor to scream in terror.
Eric’s calm voice pierced the silence which followed, “It’s up here.”
Greg rose from the armchair and carefully helped Eleanor to her feet, dusting off the minuscule pieces of TV screen which still clung to her. They creaked their way upstairs as calmly as they were able to, Greg in the lead, Eleanor close behind, shaking with nervous tension.
“Unlock the door, Eric,” Greg called as he hammered upon it.
“There is no lock, Greg,” Eric replied from the other side. What followed was a series of bumps and thuds.
“Are you okay?” Eleanor shouted.
“For now.”
Greg stood back from the door and considered his options. The obvious one came to mind and he launched his considerable bulk forwards, the hollow core door splintering as he smashed through it and virtually fell through into the room beyond. Eleanor carefully climbed through after him.
The entire contents of the spare room were literally rattling. An unmade bed danced upon the floorboards, a chest of drawers was repeatedly rocking itself against the wall and a picture frame was attempting to smash its way through the stippled plaster ceiling. Eric stood in the centre of the room, watching, whilst a small candelabra jinked about on its chain above his head, its bulbs flickering on and off erratically.
And then everything was suddenly still, apart from the picture which dropped to the floor with a thud, its glass shattering and dropping out onto the carpet. Greg looked at Eric and smiled. This was why they did what they did. This was it! He turned to Eleanor, but she was not there - or rather, her body was but there was an absence written across her face that somehow told him instantly that Eleanor was not at home.
“It has her!" Eric whispered urgently.
Greg stepped towards her quickly, intent upon shaking her back to reality, and shaking out of her whatever had taken up residence.
"Stop, Greg!" Eric commanded, in a voice which instantly rooted his counterpart to the spot. "Don't touch her!"
Greg swung around in anger and desperation. "Then what the hell should we do?"
Eric raised his hands in what Greg first took to be a calming gesture, but he quickly came to the conclusion that there was some other reason behind it. There was a blankness in Eric's eyes also, now, which instantly increased Greg's alarm - if it could be increased further than it already was. But then Eric spoke, and Greg realised that he was merely concentrating - rather intensely. "I can feel her, Greg. I can sense her clearly."
"Eleanor?"
"No, not Eleanor. It's a woman....her name is Martha. She's not happy. She's trapped here."
"You sense her? How? This isn't the time to mess about, Eric. It's Eleanor we're talking about!"
Eric focused upon him, his concentration not dissipating. "Greg, you have to trust me, right now. I haven't been completely truthful with you, with either of you. But Malcolm knew, at the end, and he asked me to look after you both. He knew that you wouldn't be persuaded to give up, but he couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to you two. Not the way it happened to him."
Greg was stupefied. "What on Earth are you going on about, man?"
"A man! Yes, I was one of those once." Eric smiled wryly. "Now, just do what I say, Greg. For Eleanor's sake. Stand still, exactly where you are and, no matter what happens next, do not intervene. Do you understand?"
Greg certainly had no plan formulated himself. Regardless of the experiences they'd had and the dangers they had overcome, his mind was a complete blank. All he could do was nod in agreement. Whatever Eric was talking about, he obviously had some kind of idea. He'd just have to let him get on with it.
Eric's concentration was once more fixated upon Eleanor's form - she appeared to be held rigidly upright, not a single muscle moving. Greg couldn't even tell whether or not she was breathing. And then Eric strode wilfully across the room and clasped her body in a tight embrace. I've never seen him touch anyone before, Greg realised with amazement, shocked that this had never occured to him before. At the same time, he noticed the room lighten considerably and, looking up, saw that the ceiling had become a bright white expanse.
He looked back at Eric and Eleanor. They now appeared to be jointly bathed in a sparkling yellow glow. Momentarily, he regretted that he didn't have any recording equipment with him, but he quickly castigated himself for his selfishness. These were his colleagues - his friends. Just about the only ones he had.
And then Eric spoke again, only this time his voice was strangely distant and seemed to emanate from above rather than from where he stood, wrapped tightly around Eleanor. The words would remain with Greg, always. “I’m going now, Greg. I’m taking her with me. It’s time we both translated,” his voice sounded strained with effort, “thanks for everything, both of you. It has been...fun.”
Translated....? And then the light became blindingly bright and he was forced to turn away, his eyes shut tightly.
When he re-opened them, the room appeared alarmingly normal. Eric was gone and Eleanor was slumped on the floor in the doorway. Greg went to her. She was unconscious but breathing.
He sighed deeply. “And then there were two,” he muttered to himself.