The Batman Who Saved Batman

The mere mention of Batman conjures up images of the dark knight lurking in the shadows, striking fear in the heart of Gotham’s criminal underworld; a brooding figure who doles out justice and heroism with swift, incomparable force. But in the 1960’s, the changing landscape of the comic book industry resulted in slumping sales that not even the world’s greatest detective could outfight. DC Comics was just about ready to rid of the character from their line up entirely. However, the caped crusader would find new life in an unlikely forum: television. The 1966 television series would not only bring comedy and camp to the Batcave, but also introduced new generations to the adventures of the dynamic duo. In order to survive his failing comic counterpart, Batman emerged from the shadows and donned a colorful costume, becoming what he needed to be before he became a superhero icon.

I recently found a picture of my very first birthday complete with a cake shaped just like Batman. The bright blue tights, the shiny yellow utility belt, and the charming grin could only have come from the 1966 television series starring Adam West. I vividly remember singing along with the infectious earworm of a theme song, punching and kicking the air imagining POW’s and BIFF’s flashing before me. It was a real treat when the weekend afternoon rolled around and reruns of this classic show would air. I was on the edge of my seat for every classic cliffhanger.  But thankfully, I did not have to wait a whole day to find out what happened to the dynamic duo, even though it was a safe bet that they would escape relatively unscathed.

The history of the live-action Batman television show begins very much like an episode of the series itself, with William Dozier. Dozier is uncredited but it was his voice that narrated each exciting opening and harrowing cliffhanger with the booming timbre of a radio show host from the 1930s. But it would be his role as producer that would prove to be his legacy with the show. After reading a few comics (the first he had ever read), Dozier felt that the show would work best if it was done in the style of a campy comedy aimed at all ages with brightly colored sets that seemed to explode out of the pop art scene of the time. However, 20th Century Fox felt that the show would be much more successful if it were produced as a serious adventure show that was aimed at a younger audience. Two separate dynamic duos were screen tested and, in the end, Batman and Robin would forever be associated with Adam West and Burt Ward, respectively.

As any fan of any Batman would attest, what makes a great Batman story is a great villain and this series was no exception. Frank Gorshin would be the first of many accomplished character actors who would plot against the citizens Gotham as the Riddler (a role that John Astin played during Gorshin’s season two hiatus). Burgess Meredith was no stranger to the world of television, but he still gave an incomparable performance as Oswald “The Penguin” Cobblepot giving birth to a squawking laugh that is unmatched to this day. Versatile entertainer Cesar Romero also had an unforgettable laugh that, as legend has it, was his actual laugh that producers insisted he incorporate into the Clown Prince of Crime’s repertoire. Refusing to shave off his trademark mustache, make-up artists would paint over his facial hair giving him a unique and unforgettable look in addition to his unforgettable laugh. The femme fatale role of Catwoman was given to Julie Newmar, whose star was very quickly on the rise at the time she was cast.

Sometimes the show featured villains directly out of the comics such as The Archer played by Art Carney, Walter Slezak’s Clock King, and David Wayne as the Mad Hatter. Mr. Freeze was portrayed by three separate actors: George Sanders, Otto Preminger, and Eli Wallach. Eventually the Batman series would be the place to tune in as villains were created specifically for the show to accommodate the larger than life celebrities clamoring to be a part of the pop culture phenomenon. Some of the most memorable performances on the show were of villains created specifically for the big name actors who portrayed them like Victor Buono as King Tut, Vincent Price as an egg-cellent Egghead, Cliff Robertson as Shame, Joan Collins as Siren, Zsa Zsa Gabor as Minerva, Milton Berle as Louie the Lilac, and even Liberace made it to the show as the villainous Chandell and his not-so-villanous doppelganger, Harry.

The show was an instant success creating fan favorites out of otherwise unknown characters from the comics such as Alan Napier’s Alfred, Neil Hamilton’s Commissioner Gordon, and Madge Blake who played Dick Grayson’s Aunt Harriet. Chief O’Hara was played by Stafford Repp and created for the series but was later added to the comics. On July 30, 1966, Batman: The Movie was released and with a bigger budget, the creators of the show decided to go all out for the big screen debut. New gadgets such as the Batcopter, Batcycle, and Batboat were introduced into the caped crusader’s arsenal. And not only did this adventure have new equipment and a longer runtime, but the dynamic duo would have to save the day from four supervillains. The Joker, Penguin, and The Riddler along with Catwoman formed the United Underworld  to hold the United World Organization’s Security Council hostage, threatening to turn them into dust with a dehydrator. Every actor reprised their role except Julie Newmar who was replaced with Lee Meriwether due to scheduling conflicts.

Opening to a lukewarm reception, the movie seemed to reflect the oncoming decline of the television series. Head script writer, Lorenzo Semple, Jr. had set the tone for the first season but was noticeably absent in the second. Julie Newmar’s rising fame tied up her schedule even further resulting in the purr-fect casting of Eartha Kitt as Catwoman. The ratings for the show had declined by the third season and in an attempt to boost viewership, the creators decided to debut a character straight out of the comics before she even officially debuted on the comics. Yvonne Craig was cast as Commissioner Gordon’s daughter, Barbara who was a librarian by day but by nightfall she was Batgirl. Her tenacity was a welcome breath of fresh air that still maintained the balance in the dynamic duo, which she turned into a thrilling trio. But even with the addition to this new character, it would not be enough to save the show from poor ratings and budget cuts and ABC cancelled the show before the end of season three. Even an attempt by NBC to save the show was thwarted when the sets were inadvertently destroyed.

There are those that would argue that the campy, comedic style of the 1960’s television series was a disaster whose popularity was a mere fluke of the psychedelic age. That a majority of its cast had their respective careers ruined by typecasting, unable to crawl out of their characters’ shadows. But I beg to differ. When the show was picked up, the comic was not selling at all,and Batman nearly went the way of his other serial contemporaries, forgotten by most. In fact, the television series bridged the gap between the would-be death throes of the comic and the prolific era of Dennis O’Neil and Neal Adams in the 1970’s. The cast has since reunited several times and both Adam West and Burt Ward have recently signed to voice the dynamic duo in an unnamed animated movie. The longevity of the caped crusader and the boy wonder would not be what it was without the colorful 1966 series, which continually introduce the characters to new generations. Will this popularity continue? I’m willing to find out by tuning in at the same bat- time, same bat-channel. Happy anniversary, Batman!

Fifty Seven Days

Sam got out of the car when he saw the old man walk out onto the lawn. Though they were fitted, Sam wasn’t used to the new clothes, or maybe nerves convinced him his hands weren’t busy enough. He checked his pockets three or four times before the old man saw him. Sam smiled and was unsure if it was appropriate to hide his smile or not. The stern look on the old man’s face assured him it would be best to do away with the smile and shake hands. The old man looked at Sam’s hand for a reasonable second before shaking it. Two large men were carrying a large dresser out of the old man’s front door.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked. “Are you guys moving? I thought you loved this place.”

“Actually, we’re starting renovations on the house this weekend.”

“Looks like you’re moving a lot of stuff.”

“We’re doing the whole house, practically.”

“Nice!” Sam was unsure if he was feigning interest or not. “So Paul is going to get a bigger room?”

“Paul won’t be living with us anymore.”

“Why not?”

“He’s moving out, heading to college.”

“College? Wow! That is excellent news. I can’t believe my little brother is headed out to college. I bet he’s super smart too. He was always the genius of the family.”

“We’re all very proud of him.”

“That’s going to be an awfully big house to be living alone in… what with the renovation and everything.”

“There’s going to be a guest house out back. Down the line we’re going to start renting it out.”

“Oh?”

“It’ll be a good source of income for when your mother and I retire.”

“Any prospective renters yet?”

The old man didn’t answer. Instead he looked back at the movers.

“Hold on,” the old man said to Sam. He walked over to the movers and said something to them. Sam couldn’t hear but was sure it was some detailed direction on how they were moving furniture incorrectly. Sam chuckled to himself as he thought of it. “Sorry about that, Sam.”

“That’s all right.”

It was quiet. There was a nice breeze, like the conversation was trying to take a breath.

“You look well, son. Looks like you’ve put on some weight since the last time I saw you.”

Sam put up his arms and looked down at his body. He playfully patted his gut.

“It’s good,” the old man said, “You look healthy.”

“So are you guys finally putting in a pool too?”

“Nah, it seemed like a good idea when he had kids running around the house. It actually doesn’t do much for the property value either.”

“I remember one summer it was so hot mom decided to buy us one of those inflatable pools.”

“I thought you and Paul hated that thing.”

“Yeah, it was only about two feet deep, barely 15 feet wide. It was like a glorified bathtub. By the time that cheap hose would fill it up the water would be so hot anyway, remember?”

“Just barely,” the old man answered.

“I got a job.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, I’m working on cars again. Not a big garage, it’s just one of those drive-thru tune up and oil change deals, you know?”

“That’s something.”

“Hey, is my mom going to be coming by soon?”

“She’s actually at your aunt’s place right now. That’s where we’ll be staying until the renovation is over.”

“Oh.”

“Something wrong? I can call her right now if you need to speak with her.”

“No, that’s okay. I was just hoping that maybe I could come over for dinner tonight.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Right.”

Sam turned towards his car and reached into his pockets for his keys. Instead he pulled out a small metallic disc and quickly turned around. He gave it to the old man who looked at it, confused at first but the hint of a smile melted his otherwise stern face. The old man examined it closely and saw the etched equilateral triangle on one side and the number “45” on the other.

“Forty five days, eh?” the old man asked.

“Yeah. Well, technically it’s been fifty seven days but with the new job I really don’t go as regularly as I used to. I figure it’s good if I aim for nice round numbers anyway, give myself something to shoot for.”

The old man gave it back to Sam.

“Actually,” Sam refused to take it back, “I was hoping to show you guys at dinner tonight. But since that’s not happening I thought I’d just show it to you now. You can keep that since I’m hoping to get the sixtieth this weekend.”

The old man insisted on Sam taking it back. Reluctant and dejected, Sam plucked the disc from his hand.

“Here,” the old man said pulling out a business card, “You can reach me at the cell phone number. Call ahead and you can tell her over dinner tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sam smiled and didn’t bother hiding it. His eyes glistened as he looked at the business card as if he were trying to memorize the phone number straightaway. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys.

“Son?” the old man said before Sam got in his car. “Keep it up.” And with that Sam drove back home.

A Bout with Writer's Block

I certainly hope that you, the reader, would find it in your heart to forgive me for making you wait so long in between releasing stories. You see, I’ve run into what we in the trade like to refer to as writer’s block. It’s a concept that I’m sure you’re all too aware of. Even as I commit these words to the page I haven’t the foggiest notion how to tug on that proverbial narrative thread. But to make up for my long absence, I present to you, to the best of my recollection, what has occurred during my unannounced hiatus as I battled writer’s block. What follows after this paragraph is based on true events (mostly).

Poised at my desk with my wrists elevated over the delicate keys of my aged Underwood, the ideas were all but flowing. I looked behind me at the open door to my office and called for Muse. I would not be so presumptuous as to call her mine, but she had seemed to favor me lately. Perhaps I was hers. She doesn’t have a true name so one day I referred to her simply as Muse, a moniker she seemed to find amusing. This particular day her fickle heart brought her—Well, I had no idea where she was. I still don’t. This would not be a problem if I wasn’t so near to the end of a story and was in dire need of her inspiration.

Calling once again to her, I heard the rapid approach of footsteps and immediately recognized them not as Muse’s, but as my faithful friend, Jack. When I brought him home, he was a forlorn pup. Not only was he the runt of his litter at only six feet tall, but he was also born with one head. It’s a most embarrassing malady for a Cerberus but I love him all the same. There never was a more faithful hellhound. I climbed upon his back and we rode north in search of the elusive Muse.

When we were nearly to the Northern Bay there was a shriek as if someone were being attacked. Jack leapt to action before I could direct him to do so and we found the source of the incessant screams coming from the top of a dried, bare tree. One would think that such noises could not be produced by so burly a knight. A rather large dragon was lying down at the bottom of the tree but the source of the knight’s trepidation was not the fire-breathing dragon. Just behind the dragon were the lovely and brave Lady Caitlin of Livermore and her trusted saber-toothed cat, Nesbitt.

“Do you need help there, good sir?” I yelled to the knight.

“Not at all, dear scribe,” he replied with the slightest of wavers in his voice. “You just caught me in the middle of rescuing this fair damsel in distress.”

“Do I appear to be distressed?” Lady Caitlin interjected. Her voice was a stern contrast to that of the knight’s. Nesbitt approached the tree and elicited a whimper from the knight. Nesbitt was a loyal companion as one would be to a woman who, just about a year prior, had rescued the poor cat from river demons.

“I just thought you could use—” the knight added.

“How about you do less presuming about what I could use and leave these poor dragons alone?” Lady Caitlin cared a great deal about all the creatures on her land. “This one is lucky I was nearby eradicating a troll’s nest. He’s just a baby and you were just about ready to slay him. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“I am, princess.”

“I am no princess. Now get out of here before Nesbitt realizes she’s hungry.” And with that the knight ran down the field towards his steed in the distance never to be heard from again.

“Good morning, Lady Caitlin. And to you, Nesbitt,” I greeted them.

“Are you here to ‘rescue’ me as well?”

“You’re far more experienced with that than I could ever dream of. I’m actually in search of Muse. She hasn’t been around these parts, has she?”

“Can’t say that we’ve seen any muse let alone the one you refer to as such. But then again, I’ve been busy ridding the countryside of would-be knights in shining armor. But I will surely send word if Muse is seen around these parts! I do enjoy your sonnets, good scribe!”

“Thank you so much, Lady Caitlin. I suppose I will head back home and hope Muse will aim to do the same,” I bowed, as did Jack, and we set on our way back home.

Back at my desk, I stared blankly at the curled sheet of paper within the typewriter; its words sprawled about as if looking for a conclusion that may never come. I looked at the stack of pages that yearned to be completed with the final sheet. Words that may never come lingered in the air and there was no way for me to pluck them, no way for me to even see them without my dear friend Muse. I began to wonder if there was anything I said to have offended her or driven her away. But it was futile, for even if I had realized that that was the case there was little, if anything, that could be done about it.

Perhaps, I thought to myself, I can’t undo something said to Muse but there is a very real chance I can undo something said to me. Jack lay still under my desk as I reached down to rub his belly. I tiptoed out of the office to let him sleep and snuck into the garage. What I had in mind would only take but a few moments, maybe even fewer than a few.

It was dusty in the garage. I lifted the tarp and found my most dangerous and prized possession. You would think that operating a time machine would be like riding a bike but I can assure you that it’s a much more complicated process than pedaling. Fortunately, I was a stickler for detail and kept copious notes of operating the infernal machine. I knew the exact day I wanted to visit. I was eight years old and I had just received word that I won an award for a short story contest in which my teacher had submitted one of the first things I had ever written. That was the moment I knew I wanted to become a storyteller. I had put pen to paper and have never stopped since.

I knew that if I could convince my younger self of what’s to come, then I can avoid the having to seek out Muse each time I wanted to complete a story. However, my younger self had something else in mind. I didn’t speak much. The words I used were never spoken, only written. Words of poets and novelists who were long gone before I had even been born were stacked neatly around my tiny bed. The picture books I never learned to let go of were always under my pillow. They were stories that I knew I could depend on when sleepless nights were aggressively sleepless. And then there were the comic books. There were first editions and collections that lined the shelves. Clothes were foregone to make more room for books that I would never have time read. The bound stories, paperback and hardback, surrounded the younger me like a shell that I used to protect myself from the harsh reality of adulthood.

There was no way I could convince my younger self that writing wasn’t worth it. While I basked in the warm light of nostalgia, I was dejected that I was stuck with a story in need of a resolution. And that’s where this story ends. Perhaps by the time your eyes meet these words, I will have found an ending to my novel. Who knows? Maybe Muse found it in her heart to lend me a hand one last time. But until then, I apologize, once again, for boring you with the banality of my life in the absence of writing.

Voodoo Mumbo Jumbo

Professor Smith dragged his gaunt, delicate frame to the porch thankful that Elisa doesn’t live on the third floor of an apartment building. He took off his hat and was about to push the doorbell button with his slender fingers but he remembered something. Reaching into his coat pocket, the professor pulled out a small white pendant hanging from a thin bronze chain. It was made of polished quartz and he let it hang from his hand for a few seconds. It was still, suspended by gravity between the porch floor and the palm of his calloused hands. No movement, he thought to himself, better take a note of that. He put the pendant back into his inside jacket pocket and finally ringed the doorbell.

Small, nervous footsteps scurried to the front door before it creaked open. A woman in her late fifties greeted the elderly professor and welcomed him into the house. She had short, cropped hair the way some old women do. Her apron was worn but still brightly colored yellow. Her cheeks were rosy, possibly from preparing something for the professor, but it was equally likely that her demeanor was to be credited. She would hardly ever allow herself to be seen without a smile on her face despite her inability to hide her true feelings in her eyes.

“Please! Please! Have a seat!” she implored Professor Smith. “It’s been so long! I’m so happy you could make it!”

“Thank you, Elisa,” the professor answered as the corners of his mouth curled upwards. “The years have been kind to you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Elisa answered, her rosy cheeks growing even rosier. “I hope you’ll forgive the way I look. Let me take your hat and coat.”

“I’m a bit chilly so I hope you don’t mind if I keep my jacket on.

“If I remember correctly, you always loved blueberry scones with your tea.”

“You really didn’t have to go through the trouble, dear. You asked for my help and I’m here to give it. There’s no need for any of this.”

“Never mind all that! You’re a guest in my house and I always treat my guests with the utmost hospitality!”

“Even old friends?”

“Especially old friends! Oh, look at me blathering on like a doting grandmother. Your tea! I’ve completely forgotten about your tea.”

Those same footsteps that scurried to welcome the professor into this quaint house scurried on into the kitchen. Utensils rattled about and the refrigerator door opened. The scurrying slowed as the refrigerator door closed.

“Oh, my,” Elisa said as she emerged from the kitchen shamefully. “I’m so sorry this never happens to me. I guess I’m just a bit out of practice playing hostess and everything. But it seems I’ve run out of milk.”

“That’s perfectly all right. I really don’t need tea. I can get started right away actually if that’s all right with you.”

“Nonsense! I’ll just skip to the store! It’s not that far. I shouldn’t take long at all. Again, I am so sorry! At least I remembered you like milk with your tea. Really, it’s no trouble and I’ll be back in no time. You sit tight, professor!”

And with that, the scurrying took Elisa out the front door leaving the professor alone in the house. The ticking of the small clock reverberated off the hardwood floors and wallpapered walls. The faint smell of lilacs indicated that she had the windows opened for a short while in the morning. The sunlight, though plentiful, just barely warmed the house. The professor reached into his jacket pocket and let the pendant hang just in front of his face. It moved back and forth just slightly. There was barely any movement until—

SLAM! Heavy footsteps walked through what the professor believed was the door leading from the garage. The professor clumsily put the pendant back in his jacket pocket. A man about the same age as Elisa came into the living room where the professor was sitting.

“Elisa! Have you been moving my tools in the garage around again? I can’t find my—,” the man stopped when he saw the professor sitting in the large chair. Elisa usually saved that seat for guests. “I apologize. I didn’t know that Elisa had a guest coming over. My name is Artie, Elisa’s husband.” Artie extended his hand and the professor shook it.

“Oh yes, of course! Elisa talks about you all the time. I’m Professor Smith. We—”

“Now, I remember. You two knew each other in college if I remember correctly.”

“Yes, she was my student; very bright.”

“That she is. But if I’m not mistaken she brought you in here for a very specific purpose: a purpose which would totally fly in the face of all evidence that either one of you had a shred of intelligence.”

Professor Smith’s eyes widened as he was taken aback by the verbal abuse. He wasn’t expecting anything so aggressive from Elisa’s husband.

“I’m sorry?” the professor tried to be as cordial as one could be.

“I’m sorry again. It’s just that… I know how brilliant she is and how brilliant you are. She talks about you all the time but you are here to get rid of our little ‘ghost’ problem, is that not it?”

“Elisa did mention that there was a possibly spirit haunting the premises.”

“And you’re some sort of ghostbuster?”

“Actually, I’m a medium. I know that sounds strange coming from someone who has worked in academia for so long but I simply help spirits trapped here move on.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Sometimes there’s something a spirit couldn’t do when they were alive. That happens all the time but every once in a while there will be that one thing that doesn’t allow them to leave this plane of existence. And until that one thing is complete, the never will. They end up haunting a place. They’re usually harmless though. Rattling here, banging there.”

“I appreciate that you want to help my wife but she’s just a bit scared of a few creaks, that’s all. It’s nothing but the house settling. It was already old long before we bought it. Honestly, I think you’re just making things worse. You’re just enabling this behavior with all your voodoo mumbo jumbo.”

“Don’t be silly. I doubt I’ll have to use any voodoo for this particular case.”

“Geez, you’re really doing this? Look, you seem to be a nice guy. And if you’re a close friend of Elisa’s I’m sure you’re a really smart, stand up guy but I really don’t appreciate you exacerbating the situation. These are just superstitions, her imagination running away with her.”

“So how scared is she by all the supposed things going bump in the night?”

“It freaks her out. It upsets me because she should know better, you know? I hate worrying about her but when she gets so frightened it makes me wonder how she gets along whenever I’m out of the house.”

“What will it take for you to not worry about her? She’s fully capable of living an independent life. In fact, she had for a long time before she met you.”

“I know, but to see her giving in to these little superstitions is frustrating. If it wasn’t for the fact that I didn’t have a job when she was pregnant with our second child she would have had a PhD herself. She always wanted to go back to school, but I don’t know if she can still do it. Every little floorboard creak has her jumping even if it’s just me coming from the kitchen after a midnight snack. It breaks my heart.”

“Sounds like you care for her on a deep level, Artie.”

“I do. I really do. And I hate worrying so much.”

“How about you just trust her? Maybe she’s so scared is because instead of making her feel safe you make her feel like the victim of her own psyche. I know you don’t mean to but she’s as sensitive as she is intelligent.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the things I love about her. She’s sensitive enough for the both of us. The kids really needed that in their lives. Did you know when our first child was born, I couldn’t even bring myself to read her a bedtime story? How simple would that have been? Just read a story or make one up. Kids really don’t care as long as they hear your voice as they’re going to sleep. Didn’t really figure that out until our son was born. Three times, before we had a son. I guess third time is the charm. Ha!”

“Do you really think that’s all it took? Some implied reassurance from you to send them off to sleep? I’ve always been good with kids but I could never put my finger on why I was able to get them to stop crying or go to sleep or anything like that. But I think it has to do with trust. See, their innocence doesn’t allow them to mistrust their parents. They trust their mother and father wholeheartedly. But trust goes two ways.”

“Oh, I trusted them, all right. I never knew how to say it short of actually saying the words. And even then it took me until they were in college for me to tell them how proud of them I was. How much I would trust them with my own life.”

“Maybe they feel that on some level. It’s that one bit of comfort they need. They trust you but felt they didn’t have your complete trust.”

“Now that you mention it, I did get closer with our oldest daughter around the time she graduated college. Makes me wonder what else I missed out on.”

“It’s the little things, Artie. Those are what count. You don’t have to say the words to tell someone something.”

“Are you saying I don’t trust my wife? That’s why she’s scared all the time?”

“I’ve only been talking to you for ten minutes and I know that you undoubtedly trust your wife as much as you love her. But does she know that?”

“I don’t think she does.”

“Then let her know.”

“How?”

“Let her feel safe. Let her talk to me about this ‘voodoo mumbo jumbo,’ as you call it, because it comforts her. It’s not going to hurt anyone. And she’s going to get the sense that you trust her decisions.”

Elisa’s familiar scurry approached the front door and both men looked towards the rattling knob, then towards each other.

“I better get back to the garage. It would look out of place if I just all of a sudden was supportive of this haunting nonsense. But I won’t interfere.”

“I understand. It was nice meeting you, Artie,” the professor said. They shook hands and Artie headed towards the garage before turning back saying, “Stay awhile and have some of her scones. She’s quite the little baker, Elisa.”

“I’ll do that,” the professor answered. The door creaked open and the professor offered to carry the small plastic jug of milk for Elisa.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Elisa responded. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying this thing to the kitchen. Now have a seat and I’ll get you your tea.”

“And a scone too if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, yes! Of course.”

“Elisa?”

“Yes, professor?” Elisa asked. The usual cluttering noise of the kitchen ensued as she boiled a pot of water and popped in a few scones in the oven to heat them up.

“I never really got a chance to ask you since you left to go to the grocery store in such a hurry. But how are you? How have you been?”

The scurrying of her feet stopped as if Elisa had completely disappeared from the house completely. Professor Smith walked towards the kitchen and saw her just standing there. Elisa was watching the steam slowly billow out of the tea kettle.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” the professor apologized.

“No,” she answered, “Don’t be sorry.  I’ve been good.”

The professor took out the pendant once more and let it hang in front of him. There wasn’t even the slightest movement.

 “What’s that?” Elisa asked.

“Sacred stone,” he answered. “In the presence of a spirit it should swing.”

“It’s not moving.”

“No it’s not.” The tea kettle began to whistle and the professor put the pendant back into his jacket pocket. Elisa scrambled to make the tea and prepare the scones.

“Look at us blathering on,” Elisa said. “You know my husband would have never approved of all this business. Other than your foray into the supernatural, professor, I think Artie would have liked you.”

“I’m sure I would have liked him too.”

“I miss him,” Elisa said, her voice breaking up, “so much.”

“I understand.”

“But wait. I could have sworn all that ruckus in the garage in the afternoon was him, my husband’s ghost. The kitchen lights turning on and off in the middle of the night when he would get those late night snacks. It had to be him. Don’t tell me all that was just the house settling.”

“Who’s to say it wasn’t Artie?”

“But your pendant. Your stone didn’t swing a single millimeter. That means there’s no spirit here at all.”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Just some ‘voodoo mumbo jumbo.’”