Room Eighty-Four

1: Behind the Door

"Where is this woman? Why is she late?" I tweak the miniature mic on my lapel and allow Ron to do what he does best and adjust the audio levels from inside the acoustics booth. "What questions would she have for me?"

The heel of my boot repeatedly taps against the wooden boards beneath my feet. The stillness in the stuffy room triggers a familiar sense of unease. Even as the computer monitors illuminate the space with a greenish glow produced by old night vision footage.

Maximus's guttural purrs and violent scratching assaults the room door from outside, but at any second gentle raps of knuckles would replace the black cat's claws. The tapping of my heel increases, vibrating a loose floorboard underneath the worn carpet.

"You're anxious." Ron's mature and cigarette-scratched voice replaces the silence in my earphones. "But our most entertaining interviews were the ones where you ask eyewitnesses detailed questions about their paranormal encounters. The best ones pulled in some of our highest ratings."

I nod. "But with this interview I'm not the only one asking questions. Still, you estimated ten million views in the first twenty-four hours of airing?"

"That's right." Ron tinkers with the settings and his voice comes in louder, clearer. "It would be a much-needed boost for Room Eighty-Four's continued success. No doubt."

"No fucking doubt."

Thirst, habit, and mixed emotions urge me to replace my glass of cola with an iced cold foamer. However, the professional in me wants to kick me in the groin for even entertaining such a thought. As the flattened soda and melting ice slosh near the rim of the cup in my hand, Ron's words sink in. "Only a pretentious amateur would get wasted before filming their most anticipated episode."

I snort at his mind-reading ability. "It's not the fear of appearing like an ignorant, incompetent jackass that frightens me, but what might slip my lips." I take a sip, push the glass out of reach, and mentally pat myself on the back for fighting temptation. "Thank god for editing." A soft rapping on the door lures me to turn in my squeaky seat toward Ron. "You heard that, right?"

"Must be her." He scrambles to take his position behind the large camera before me and adjusts the tripod. "Should I start shooting?"

"You mean you weren't?" With a flick of my wrist, I prompt him to record, and with reluctance I walk to the door. After unlocking the latch and allowing the door to open a sliver, I peer through the gap.

"You must be Ms. Elaine Humphrey." I search her cynical glare. Her dark messy pixie cut shapes her sunken face, while smeared makeup collects in tiny creases at the corners of her eyelids.

"And you must be Bruce Dunce." Her moist breath wisps through the door crack. "Well, aren't you gonna show me what's behind the door to room eighty-four?"

I ignore the impulse to slam the door in her face for mocking my tagline and chuckle at the condescending joke instead. I allow her to step inside, surprised that Maximus has left the vicinity. "Welcome." My invitation comes out dry and unenthusiastic.

"Wow." She tucks her tote under her arm and crooks her neck, taking in every flat screen displayed on the wide horseshoe shaped desk that takes up half the room. "You really like the total dark and creepy atmosphere, huh? Or is this just a set? Something you do for views?"

I swallow my annoyance and clear my throat. "Is that question part of the interview?"

She jerks her head and meets my gaze, expressing annoyance. "You really work like this?"

I nod. "Yep."

With a manicured finger, she points to the hundreds of tin film reel canisters that line the four walls. "And what about those? Are those real archives of all the paranormal phenomenon you've featured on the show?"