Chapter 7 - Josh - Cut
A dark, small-town mystery steeped in folklore. THE STUDY OF QUIET THINGS is a serialised fiction drama shared one chapter at a time.
This is a serialised fiction. If you haven’t read the previous chapters, you’ll find them here in order, so you can dive right in.
The building is derelict and abandoned. But it is not empty.
There are ghosts of its past haunting the decrepit rooms lining the corridor swathed in the colour of night. A pale torch beam sweeps the darkness, illuminating a skeletal bed frame rusting in one room, a white porcelain sink chipped like pale old bones in another. Smashed windows see the tattered remains of curtains trembling with a cold autumnal breath, sharp as teeth.
In another room, graffiti stains the walls. In yet another, remains ashes, sharing a story of nighttime fires. Empty beer and whisky bottles strewn on the ground tell tales better left forgotten.
The torchlight continues penetrating through the dank gloom, floorboards creak and smashed glass crushes beneath the leather-booted feet meandering the three-story building; stalking its hundred stranded rooms, and a million memories of mentally ill patients still held within the walls that once kept them safe.
Or tried to keep them safe.
The light beam flickers, and the man pauses, bashing the side of his torch. He takes a deep breath, hovering over the threshold of a cavernous room all but devoured by shadowy darkness.
“So, this is it,” the man in leather boots says to himself. His voice tinny in the expanse of silence. Before crossing the threshold, he sweeps his light across the room, illuminating a warning sprawled in crimson red letters from floor to ceiling on the opposite wall:
Get out. Get out and save your soul.
The man clears his throat, then: “This is the alleged site of multiple uncanny phenomena. Many eyewitnesses say things have happened here—here, in this very room.” His weighty pause is heavy with expectation. He whispers now, adding extra gravitas to his words. “I can’t believe I’m here—the infamous Westfield Sanatorium Day Room.”
“CUT!” the director yells, and immediately the room floods with bright set lights.
The man raises his forearm to his squinting eyes, torch still clutched in his hand. “For fuck’s sake. What’s wrong this time?”
“Nothing’s wrong!” the director says. A beaming smile spreads across her face. “It was perfect, Josh. You were perfect. But…”
Here it comes.
“I’ve had a great idea. We’ll run it again but pause after you say Westfield Sanatorium Day Room to give Claire—” the director points to a work experience student clutching a clapperboard, then to the window on the far side of the room, “—a chance to count two seconds before smashing that window.” The director squeals, clapping her hands together. Her sharp platinum blonde bob sways with excitement.
“Smashing a window? Seriously?” Josh asks. He nods towards the student. “What about health and safety?”
The director laughs. “Just so we’re on the same page, Josh, you think it’s okay to bring a film student into an alleged haunted building— (Josh doesn’t like the way she says alleged) but it’s not safe for her to lob a brick through a window?”
In all honesty, Josh couldn’t give a flying fuck about health and safety, but that’s not what this is about.
“I’m sure Claire doesn’t want criminal damage added to her CV,” he counters, but again, that’s not the heart of his argument. “This was once government property, you know.”
“I don’t mind,” chips in Claire the Student. “Besides, it’ll be fun.”
Fun? Josh suppresses a groan.
“Don’t be such a poopy pants!” the director says. “Besides, nearly every other window in this building is fucked. I can’t see how throwing a brick through one more will make any difference.”
“It’ll make a difference to the viewers.” Josh says, his tone flat, because this is the crux of the matter.
“Exactly,” says the director. “They’re gonna love it. A proper jump scare just before we cut to backstory.”
Josh sighs out with such force that the director’s bangs fluff away from her forehead. “All I’m saying is I think we should allow the viewers to experience what we experience, instead of fabricating the truth.”
“Josh, honey.” She places her hand on his arm, smiling her sweet smile. “This is the entertainment industry. Your viewers want to be entertained.”
“They want the truth.”
The director is still smiling when she shakes her head. “The truth is nothing happens in your ghost hunting expeditions—”
“You know I hate the term ghost hunter. I’m an investigator, not a savage.”
“Savage or not, how many times have the crew seen or heard anything legitimate, hey? Just think of this as the spooky spice on top of your ghost stories.”
Spooky spice?
Claire the Student approaches. She has handed the clapperboard to another member of crew, and holds, instead, half a brick from a tumbled down interior wall.
“Wait two seconds and chuck, right?” Claire asks, delighted to get involved in the action.
The director gives a double thumbs up. She gives Claire a pat on the shoulder that morphs into a gentle shove to send the girl on her way. “Okay, positions. Reset. Quit the lights. Henry, for fuck’s sake, you’re in shot. Okay, good. Set, and, action!”
It’s a wrap. Another session in the can. Another rough ready to send to post for them to turn the shit show of an investigation into what looks like a legitimate haunting. Yeah, now Josh is saying words like legitimate and alleged, because what happened tonight was a complete farce. He takes a moment, watching the crew dismantle the skeletal bones of lighting, sound, and film equipment. The volume of their swearing and lively banter could wake the dead—it’s a shame it hasn’t. At least then Josh would have had an opportunity to show the crew what he’s really about, and maybe encourage them to take this show a little more seriously. As it is, the first grip is donning a white sheet used as a backdrop and is pretending to be Casper the Friendly Fucking Ghost.
“Ohmagod,” a voice behind him, it’s Claire, enlivened by her part in the action. “That scene is going to be so dope.”
Josh doesn’t believe people talk like this—for reals. “So dope.” He replies with ironic sarcasm.
“Totally,” Claire agrees.
She’s doing that thing people do around him—smiling and saying nothing, waiting for him to fill the silence with some profound statement. God, it makes him uncomfortable. She flicks her long auburn hair over her bony shoulder.
“You’ll earn yourself an acting credit with IMDB with that performance,” Josh says, nodding towards the smashed window, its jagged teeth.
“Do you think?” she asks, eyes wide.
Josh immediately feels a pang of guilt for his passive aggressive dig. He sighs out. It’s not her fault. It’s not the director’s fault, or even the production company’s fault.
It’s the world, that’s what’s wrong.
The world’s insatiable appetite for a story, regardless of whether it’s true or not. Headlines, clickbait—the world has been trained to respond only to sensationalism, while the quiet truth lies hidden beneath layers of SEO, algorithms, and click rates.
“So,” Claire fills the gap. “Tell me about the actual ghost story here. What’s supposed to happen?”
What’s supposed to happen is to give the dead the time and respect to tell their story, to allow them to speak through the silence, to cut through the noise of the world to transcend reason—to offer a space to fill—not create a narrative in which they should exist. But that’s not what Josh says. Instead: “Back in the turn of the century, the Sanatorium was—”
“—Beer o’clock!” yells the sound guy, cutting Josh short.
Claire the Student squeals and claps her hands, mimicking the director. Josh isn’t sure if this is her natural response or learned behaviour. Either way, she’s off trotting towards the group. “Coming Josh?” she yells over her shoulder. “The best ghost stories are always told over a drink.”
And Josh knows why—it’s because alcohol has the tendency to loosen tongues and the threads of a true story. But still, a beer could be just what he needs right now, especially after the joke of this onsite investigation with his filming team of non-believers, and on this site too, of all places. He had a feeling coming here would stir up too much emotion.
“Sure,” he says, trying his best to make his smile look warm and sincere.
Claire squeals again. “Last one there gets the round in!” And she’s off and racing with the laughing crew.
It is as Josh steps out into the night, leaving the sanatorium behind him, vowing silently to return and investigate by himself in the coming nights, that he receives the notification ping. Or several—there’s a reason he keeps his phone on aeroplane mode when filming. But this one email in particular stops him in his tracks before he even opens it. It’s the sender’s name that does it.
The sender being a ghost of sorts. It’s Kai Krasinski.
In a split second, Josh feels angry, curious, hopeful, and everything in between. He’s holding his breath as he opens the email:
Sender: Kai@*******.com
To: JoshHarringbow@*******.com
Subject Line: Thought this would be right up your alley.
---------- Forwarded message ---------
Sender: svh.blogging@gmail.com
To: Kai@*******.com
Subject Line: EMF Consultation Request
Hi. Not sure if you can help, but does your EMF consultation include paranormal investigation?
Josh’s heart sinks, and he can’t work out if the knot in his stomach is caused by raging anger or heartbreaking sadness.
“Bastard,” Josh spits.
He’s erring towards the former because he can’t believe that after ten years his estranged best friend contacts him out of the blue with nothing more than a forwarded fucking message. But still, there is a glimmer of hope here. It’s been a long time since Josh has received a genuine request for paranormal investigation—since his show went live on the streaming platform and viewed by millions, to be precise.
So that this SVH Blogging person didn’t contact him directly to get their five minutes of fame, and that this person has done their homework to understand the correlation between EMF and paranormal activity, Josh decides it’s not been an entirely wasted email.
After all, friends come and go, but ghosts—they always remain.
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I love that I can see all of these threads starting to be loosely woven together.