The Ghost Channel
Cassandra Sykes ran down the hall of the SML Building, late as usual. Her employer, SML Broadcasting, owned Classic Music TV, the Wonders of Nature Channel, the Kids' Sports Network and more than a dozen other cable television stations. Cassandra was one of three people responsible for programming SML's latest acquisition, the Ghost Channel. Today, she was to attend a meeting with her two colleagues to discuss ideas for the new fall line-up.
As Cassandra burst through the conference room door, J. Maxmillian Ackerman, the son of the owner of SML, looked up at the clock.
"The meeting was scheduled for 9:00, Cassie, not 9:20."
"Sorry, Max, I couldn't get the old Ford started. Have I missed anything?"
"Marilyn and I were just going over the ratings for last week's shows," he replied, reaching for a stack of computer printouts.
I'll bet, Cassandra thought as she looked at the flushed face of the third member of their team, Marilyn Blanchard.
It was no secret to Cassandra that Marilyn and Max shared a very close working relationship even though they were both married.
"And how are we doing?" she asked.
Max, always the quick thinker, handed the printout to her and said, "See for yourself."
"Coffee, anyone?" Marilyn offered as she refilled her own cup.
"No thanks," Max answered. "I'd like to get started. I'm taking the afternoon off, and I want to get as much accomplished as possible this morning. Okay, Marilyn, what have you come up with?"
"I think we should do a series on famous murder sites. We can take a couple of cameras and a group of psychics into places where the killings occurred."
"That's not a bad idea," Max said. "Do you have any specific places in mind?"
The confused look on Marilyn's face attested to the fact that she hadn't given the potential series much thought beyond the original idea.
"Maybe places like ... ah ... maybe Sharon Tate's mansion, The Amityville Horror house, Jeffrey Dahmer's apartment."
"Can't do it," Cassandra said, saving Max the trouble of bursting Marilyn's bubble.
"Why not?" Marilyn asked petulantly.
"For one thing, the Tate and Dahmer sites have been torn down, and as far as other murder scenes go, I think it might be difficult to get permission to go inside them. A lot of these places are private homes whose owners have spent years trying to get people to forget about the tragedies that occurred under their roofs. The last thing they want is their houses shown on national television."
"I've got an idea," Max said. "How about a dead presidents series? There have been rumors of Lincoln haunting Ford's Theater, George Washington's spirit being seen at Mt. Vernon, Thomas Jefferson at Monticello and any number of deceased chief executives in the Oval Office."
"I think that's a great idea!" Marilyn said, gushing like an infatuated schoolgirl.
"What do you think, Cassie?" Max asked.
"Not bad. Why don't we first assign a research team to see just how many commanders-in-chief's ghosts have been spotted? We may not have enough material for an entire season, but we might at least get a three- or four-part miniseries out of it. What else have we got?"
"Why don't we do a weekly program featuring a different city in each episode?" Marilyn asked. "We go on location and film allegedly haunted places, interviewing people that have ghostly stories to tell. Most large cities offer ghost tours, so it shouldn't be difficult to find material."
Cassandra bit her lip to keep from laughing.
"Sorry, Marilyn, but that idea has already been taken. The History Channel ran a series called Haunted History."
"Then how about a reality show where we send a group of people into a presumably haunted house and see how they react?"
Max, embarrassed by his girlfriend's lack of knowledge of their competitors' programming, lowered his head and pretended to take notes on his yellow legal pad.
"You mean like MTV's Fear?" Cassandra asked, on the verge of losing her patience with Marilyn's incompetence. "Honestly, Marilyn, don't you ever read TV Guide?"
"Okay, sarcasm isn't going to get us anywhere," Max said. "Now, there's no law that says our lineup has to be restricted to factual programming. We could include a fictional series."
Cassandra nodded. It wasn't a bad idea.
"Ghost stories have been part of our culture since Shakespeare's day, probably before that."
"Then let's include a weekly movie, a ghost story, in the new lineup."
"Yes, but nothing gory or too sensational," Cassandra stipulated. "We ought to try to stick to classic literature."
"Okay," Max agreed, jotting down ideas on his yellow pad. "Tentatively, we cancel Modern Ghostbusters on Fridays and replace it with Dead Presidents. Where should we put the movie?"
"Sunday night," Cassandra said. "The latest studies show that people like to watch movies on Sunday nights. Oh, and while we're at it, let's give The Ouija Knows Best the boot and reschedule Beyond and Back in its time slot."
"What do we do about Saturday night?" Marilyn asked, studying the ratings from the past six months. "That seems to be our weak point."
So, Marilyn could read a ratings chart. Cassandra was impressed. Maybe she wasn't all beauty and no brains after all.
"Okay, Cassie, what have you got to offer?" Max asked Cassandra, who was responsible for the bulk of the Ghost Channel's programming.
"My idea actually goes along the same lines as the ideas that Marilyn put forth today."
"It does?" Marilyn asked in surprise. "But you rejected my ideas."
"As you proposed them, yes. I intend to combine and expand your concepts into one thirteen-episode series. We take a group of psychics, scientists and civilians, preferably ones who are in some way connected to the featured site such as survivors or their relatives."
"And what sites are those?" Max asked, trying to keep up with her. "The murder sites or the haunted American cities?"
"Neither. The common belief is that so-called ghosts—if they exist—are little more than the energy that lingers on after a person's death. Do you think people want to give up watching HBO and tune into a group of people running around an eighteenth-century inn looking for traces of ectoplasm?"
"What is it you propose then?"
"Death and destruction on a grand scale. Think of the psychic energy that must exist in places like Jonestown or the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, Texas."
"Jim Jones and his cult self-destructed in 1978. That was more than thirty years ago! And now you want to go to the jungles of Guyana? There may not even be anything left there to see."
"Who cares? There could be a Walmart or McDonald's on the property, but that wouldn't change what happened there. Even people who don't believe in ghosts might tune in just to see the actual location where the tragedy occurred."
Max immediately saw the potential in her idea.
"I'm sure we can find thirteen places to tantalize people's curiosity for the macabre."
"I've got some right here," Cassandra said, taking several sheets of paper out of her briefcase. "On the first page are natural disasters: the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, 30,000 people killed; Krakatoa, 36,000 killed; the earthquake that struck Japan in 1923 resulted in over 99,000 deaths; a Peruvian earthquake killed 70,000; a cyclone over East Pakistan is believed to have killed over one million."
"They're all tragic," Max admitted, "but I think we should limit our programming to one earthquake. We don't want to get redundant."
"Right," Cassandra conceded. "On the next page, we have the Johnstown flood with 2,200 casualties and, more recently, the tsunamis that hit Thailand and Sri Lanka. On a lesser scale, we have the Iroquois Theater fire in Chicago where 589 people died when they were trapped in a burning theater; and then in 1944 a Ringling Brothers circus tent caught fire in Hartford, Connecticut, incinerating 168 people, mainly women and children."
"I don't understand you, Cassie. You don't want the fictional movie to be gory or sensational, yet you want to parade these horrific events before our audience."
Cassandra ignored the comment and continued her pitch.
"I propose we start with the crash of Flight 103 over Lockerby, Scotland, and for the grand finale we give them the sinking of the Titanic."
Marilyn and Max stared at her, open-mouthed with astonishment.
"Are you suggesting we send a crew out to the middle of the Pacific Ocean just to film a group of people staring down into the water?" Marilyn asked.
Even Max couldn't let that one pass.
"The Titanic sunk in the North Atlantic. My God, Marilyn, are you the one person in the world who didn't see the movie?"
"I saw it. I just didn't pay attention to all the boring little details. I was too busy admiring Leonardo DiCaprio."
"I'm sure Cassie intends for the film crew to go to the approximate scene of the sinking or perhaps the graveyard in Nova Scotia where many of the victims were later buried."
"That's not quite what I had in mind," Cassandra declared with an enigmatic smile. A few moments later she softly added, "I intend to go right down to the wreck of the Titanic."
"Yeah, right," Max laughed, thinking she was joking. When he realized she wasn't, he exclaimed, "You're crazy! Do you know how much it would cost to get a TV crew down to the bottom of the Atlantic?"
"I'm sure they told James Cameron the same thing, and he laughed all the way to the bank, carrying his Oscars in his hand."
"I don't think SML will ever go for it," Max said, but he was beginning to feel a sense of mounting excitement all the same.
"That's where you come in, Max, dear. You'll just have to convince Daddy to take the gamble."
* * *
A week later Cassandra's phone rang at 3:00 a.m. Half asleep, she reached over to her night table, took the receiver off the hook and put it to her ear.
"This had better be important," she warned the unknown caller.
"Cassie, it's me, Max."
"Max? Do you have any idea what time it is?"
"I'm sorry, but wait until you hear what I have to say. I just spent the day at my father's place in the Hamptons, and I pitched your new idea to him while I was there."
Cassandra sat bolt upright in bed, fully awake.
"Did he say yes?"
"Almost."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You've got the okay to do one episode: a pilot we'll broadcast as a special."
"One episode? Damn it, Max," she swore, wishing she had the nerve and the financial independence to tell Max what a cheap bastard he had for a father.
"It's a test. If the pilot goes over well, you get to film six more episodes."
"My choice of locations?"
"Except for the Titanic."
"Shit! I'd be willing to trade him the other twelve for just that one."
"Cassie, hear me out. If those six episodes get a fair share of the ratings, you get to film the remaining six, including the Titanic!"
"Oh, Max! I could kiss you and that wonderful father of yours!"
"I'm not sure my wife or my mother would approve," he laughed.
Nor would Marilyn, Cassandra thought but wisely kept silent.
"I'll let you get back to sleep now."
"Like I could sleep after that news!"
"You'd better get all the rest you can because I want to see you in the office on time Monday morning. You've got to make the pilot episode a success."
"I'll be there; don't you worry. I may even show up early."
True to her word, Cassandra was at her desk and ready to work by 8:00 a.m. At 8:05 Max called her into his office.
"There's been a change in plans," he said, as she took the chair opposite his desk.
"What?" she yelled.
"Don't worry; my father hasn't changed his mind. I spent all day yesterday studying historical data on program ratings. Gone With the Wind, Ken Burns's Civil War series on PBS and the movie Gettysburg—what do these programs have in common?"
"Ted Turner?" she answered sarcastically.
"Very funny. After my exhausting research, I've come to the conclusion that the Civil War is alive and well in places other than the Deep South. The whole success of your idea hinges on the first episode. If we want high ratings, I think we should film it on a Civil War battlefield."
"Okay, so we'll head out to Pennsylvania."
"No. Too many people might remember the History Channel's Ghosts of Gettysburg. We're going to Sharpsburg, Maryland."
"Please forgive me if I begin to sound like Marilyn, but what's in Sharpsburg?"
"Antietam Creek."
* * *
"What do you mean you have to leave?" the host of the party asked Cassandra. "It's only 8:30 on a Saturday night."
"I know, but I've got to see the show we're airing tonight. I've got a lot riding on its success."
After saying a hasty goodbye to the other guests, Cassie rushed home. Before she even removed her coat, she turned on the TV. An eerie theme song opened the show as the camera panned over the battlefield. This panoramic view gave way to a close-up of Dane MacGregor, a young actor who gained national fame by portraying the dashing Dr. Hugo Ayres on the daytime drama Hearts and Heroes.
"Antietam Creek, near the town of Sharpsburg, Maryland," Dane announced in his deep, masculine voice. "The battle that took place here on September 17, 1862, resulted in more casualties than on any other day of fighting during the bloody Civil War."
The camera zoomed in on what seemed to be a long trench or ditch, lined on either side with split rail fences. Dane was shown walking down the center of the depression.
"This sunken road, which later came to be known as Bloody Lane, served as the Confederate line. General Robert E. Lee issued an order to his men that this line was to be held at all costs. At 5:00 a.m. the battle commenced."
At this point, Dane narrated the taped reenactment of the battle. Over the muffled sounds of exploding mortar shells, firing muskets and screaming soldiers, the actor continued.
"The sunken road formed a natural bunker that gave the Confederate army an advantage, but eventually Union soldiers were able to gain a position in which they could fire down on the defending troops. The result was an abattoir. Confederate soldiers fell into this ditch, their bodies piling up two and three deep."
Cassandra, who had literally been sitting on the edge of her seat, now relaxed, sat back and watched the remaining forty-two minutes of the show and the accompanying commercials. The three psychics featured in the episode claimed to have heard phantom shouts, clashing metal and ghostly drums. The parapsychologists added a modicum of credibility to the show as they tried to explain, in layman's terms, the smoke-like clouds that appeared on several digital photographs of the area. Finally, descendants of men who had fought on both sides of the battle added human-interest stories. It was, in Cassandra's opinion, an excellent production, but would the TV audience agree with her?
The following Monday morning Max was waiting in Cassandra's office with a bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling on ice.
"Congratulations!" he cried heartily as he handed her a copy of the previous evening's Nielsen ratings.
"Did your father see these?" Cassandra asked after quickly reading them.
"Why else would I have sprung this little celebration on you? He gave his okay for the next six episodes."
"That's great, Max. I'll get started on them first thing this morning."
"You know what bothers me about this series?" Max asked, putting down his champagne glass.
"What could possibly bother you? You know as well as I do that this program is going to be the biggest hit this channel has had yet."
"That's just it. If we do get the okay to film the Titanic episode, where do we go from there? We can't go back to interviewing every kook who claims to have heard things that go bump in the night at the local bed and breakfast or seen Elvis and Jim Morrison having burgers and fries at a local bar and grill."
"Who knows? Maybe we should just retire at that point and rest on our laurels. Anyway, let's not think that far ahead right now. We both have a lot of work to do."
The subsequent episodes of In the Wake of Disaster were even more successful than the pilot episode. When SML first started broadcasting the Ghost Channel, the station was an industry joke; no one took it seriously. But after the success of its new show, the station became as respectable as the History Channel and the Discovery Channel, and Cassandra Sykes became the new golden girl of cable TV. Several stations, including USA and Lifetime, made tentative job offers.
While she felt no great loyalty to SML, she declined the competitor's offers despite the higher salaries they offered. She stayed at the Ghost Channel for one reason only: the episode on the Titanic. It would not only be the feather in her cap career-wise, but it was also the most interesting project she could imagine. There is something about that grand old ship lying on the bottom of the North Atlantic that has captivated the curiosity of millions of people for close to a century. It has long been an obsession of explorers, reporters, treasure hunters, writers and moviemakers, and Cassandra was no exception. She read everything she could on its discovery by Dr. Robert Ballard and carefully studied the pictures taken by the DSV Alvin and the Jason Jr. of the wreckage on the ocean floor and the artifacts recovered by the salvage company.
Following the success of In the Wake of Disaster, SML rewarded Cassandra's efforts by making her vice president of programming. A nice title, but Max, the owner's son, still brought home a much larger paycheck for far less work and responsibility. Even in the dog-eat-dog world of television, nepotism was alive and well. Did Cassandra mind? Not really. Even though she did twice as much work for half the pay, she still appreciated the promotion. She enjoyed the challenge and the creative rewards of the profession. Besides, she enjoyed the little perks that went along with the new job, such as a corner office with a view, an extra week of vacation and the use of a company car.
Marilyn Blanchard, who was no longer spending her lunch hours with Max at the Hawthorne Hotel, had been reassigned to the advertising department. Sweet-talking businessmen into buying airtime was much more suited to her limited talents.
* * *
"Excuse me, Cassie," Cassandra's secretary called to her.
"Yes, what it is?" she asked.
"It's Mr. Ackerman on the phone," she replied as though she were announcing royalty. "Mr. Ackerman, Senior."
"I wonder what he wants," Cassandra mumbled to herself as she reached for the phone.
In all her time with SML, she had never met or spoken to the owner.
"Good morning, Mr. Ackerman, what can I do for you?"
"I wanted to invite you to attend the board of directors meeting next week in L.A. Several of our board members want to congratulate you in person on your recent success."
"Next week? But I can't possibly ...."
Ackerman was not one to take no for an answer.
"I know it's short notice. I apologize. I'll make it up to you for any inconvenience this may cause. My secretary will handle all the travel arrangements. You'll fly first class, stay in a private suite at the Hilton, gourmet meals—you name it."
"It's not that, sir. Next week we start shooting the Titanic episode."
"What's that got to do with you? You're in the idea department; your job is done. The rest should be left up to the production crew."
"But, I had hoped...."
Mr. Ackerman was not a man to listen to arguments either.
"I'll have my secretary fax over a copy of the itinerary and the flight information. I'll see you in L.A, Miss Sykes," he announced and hung up.
Cassandra's shoulders slumped. She leaned forward and laid her head on the desk, defeated. The Titanic episode had been more than an idea; it had been a dream, and now the dream was shattered. After wallowing in self-pity for several minutes, Cassie did just what Mr. Ackerman thought she did best: she came up with an idea. She picked up her phone and dialed Max.
When he answered, Cassie announced sweetly, "I want to invite you to lunch today."
"I'm sorry, I already have plans. Perhaps some other time."
"Sorry, Max, but it can't wait. You'll just have to tell that pretty new secretary that you can't see her today. I'm sure she'll understand, or maybe it would be more convincing if your wife told her?"
After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Max agreed to meet her for lunch. Two hours later, he walked into the restaurant.
"This had better be good, Miss Sykes," he said through clenched teeth after the maître d' seated them.
Cassandra immediately told him about the phone conversation she'd had with his father.
"You must be pleased with yourself. Being invited to the director's meeting is a mark of success. So why are you trying to blackmail me?"
"I'm not trying to blackmail you. I resorted to drastic measures because I had to see you."
"Okay, I'm here. What is it you want?"
"I want you to talk to your father. I don't want to go to L.A. next week."
"Tell him yourself."
"I tried. He doesn't want to listen."
"Sounds like Dad. What makes you think he'll listen to me?"
"You'll have to convince him."
"Or what? You'll tell my wife about Linda?"
"Don't be silly, Max. You know me better than that."
"I suppose I can make up some story that my father will buy."
"There's more," she said simply.
"Oh?" he asked suspiciously.
"I want to go with the film crew to the wreck of the Titanic."
"What?" he cried.
The diners at the nearby tables turned at the sound of his raised voice.
"The show was my idea. I want to go along."
"Do you have any idea how much money my father is shelling out for that particular episode? The cost to rent the submersible alone is astronomical."
"But I'll pay for my own airfare and lodging. Hell, I'll even use my vacation time if necessary."
"I don't know, Cassie," he said, shaking his head.
"Please!"
She did all but get on her knees and beg. Frankly, she wouldn't have hesitated to take that drastic step if it got her what she wanted.
"I just don't think he'll go for it."
"You know, I've had several offers from other stations ...."
She let the threat hang in the air.
"Oh really? What have they offered you?"
"The usual: more money, a chance for advancement."
"And why haven't you accepted one of the offers?"
"Because they never offered me the Titanic."
* * *
Cassandra Sykes stood on the deck of the Sea Wind along with the pilot of the submersible, a cameraman and two psychics.
"Why didn't Dane McGregor come with us?" the young, female psychic, Sage Youngblood, asked.
"It seems our intrepid soap opera doctor is afraid of the water. Besides, we don't need him down there. He can do his narration as a voice-over."
"It's just the four of us then?" Hoyt Aldrin, the other psychic, inquired.
Cassandra almost asked him why, if he was a true psychic, he hadn't already known that, but she didn't want to create any bad feelings or negative vibes as the mediums liked to say.
"Yes, just us."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
"We'll lower the submersible in a few minutes," the captain of the Sea Wind informed them.
Cassandra had wanted this opportunity so badly that she risked her career by blackmailing Max and giving him an ultimatum. As she stared out at the wide expanse of water that surrounded her, she found it hard to believe she was actually there. Suddenly, she started to shiver, a reaction to both her growing excitement and the cold air of the North Atlantic. It was unsettling. Somewhere underneath the choppy waves, lying at the bottom of the ocean, was the wreckage of the Titanic.
Cassandra felt the lurching movements of the submersible as it was lowered into the water. Fascinated, she stared out the porthole at the wide variety of sea life that swam past. But as the submersible inched to lower depths, the view grew progressively darker. The inside temperature also got colder as the submersible descended. The two-man crew and four passengers sat quietly shivering. It seemed an eternity to make the 12,500-foot trip.
Finally, the pilot turned to the cameraman and announced, "We'll be coming up on the bow of Titanic shortly."
Sage took out a gadget that looked like a handheld video game.
"What's that?" Cassandra asked.
"An EMF meter. It measures the electromagnetic field. It will tell us the level of psychic activity down here."
As if on cue, Hoyt went into his routine.
"I can feel it," he moaned.
"Feel what?" the cameraman asked.
"The terror. All those people. No way out."
He swayed from side to side and spoke in short, choppy fragments rather than complete sentences.
The other psychic remained silent, although her eyes made a silent plea to Cassandra: Don't judge me by this clown.
The cameraman whistled as he leaned forward with his video camera. There was the Titanic straight ahead. The passengers of the submersible were speechless, even the aging psychic. The crew, too, kept their silence in respect for the tragic ship as they made their way past the forward deck where they could see the booms still intact. The sheer size of the wreck sent an eerie chill down Cassandra's spine.
After several minutes, Sage said, "It looks just like it did in the movie. I swear I wouldn't be surprised if Leonard DiCaprio floated past us."
"No," Cassandra said. "The movie doesn't do it justice. This is incredible!"
There was not an adjective in her vocabulary that could sufficiently describe the awe she felt in the presence of the most famous ship since Noah built the ark.
"Sit back and enjoy the tour," the pilot told them. "I'll circle around so you can get some good shots. Then we'll head over toward the stern."
As the cameraman filmed the sunken wreck from all sides, Hoyt went back to his act.
"The water is rising. People are crying and screaming. There are gunshots."
Cassandra looked from him to Sage. The woman shook her head, signifying that she neither felt nor heard a disturbance on the supernatural plane.
"Anything on your meter yet?" Cassandra asked.
"No, nothing."
Hoyt calmed down, probably since he realized that the cameraman was intent on filming the sunken luxury liner and was virtually ignoring the psychic's alleged trance.
"We'll see the stern and take one last look at the bow," the pilot declared. "Then we'll head up."
Cassandra, whose eyes were firmly fixed on the porthole, was startled by a sudden disturbance near the main deck. It resembled a cloud of dust, or in this case, sand.
"Don't worry," the pilot said. "There are frequent minor rock slides and seaquakes down here that cause disturbances in the ocean floor."
Sage suddenly announced, "I'm getting a definite reading on the EMF meter. I think it ...."
She dropped the meter and grabbed her forehead with both hands.
"Please stop," she cried. "There are too many of you."
"What's wrong?" Cassandra asked Hoyt.
"It looks as though several entities are trying to communicate at one time," he replied.
"There were hundreds," the stricken psychic moaned, finally regaining her composure. "They were all trying to speak to me at once, and I couldn't distinguish one voice from another. What about you?" she asked her colleague. "Did you hear them?"
"Yes. I did."
The man was clearly a phony who had never experienced a genuine psychic occurrence.
"But I can sort them out in my mind," Hoyt continued. "Right now, I can sense a brave crewman. He's trying to help, but ...."
He was cut off by a blaring alarm that sounded inside the submersible.
The pilot, his attention on the controls, pronounced gravely, "We're going up, NOW."
"What's wrong?" the cameraman asked.
"The pressure on the outside of the ship has risen drastically."
"What caused that?" Cassandra asked.
"I don't know. That's why I want to get us out of here."
The pilot looked worried. He threw one switch after another, but the ship wouldn't ascend.
"Look!" Cassandra cried, pointing to another cloud-like disturbance.
Before the bewildered eyes of the crew and passengers, the mysterious cloud grew in size and moved directly toward them.
"It looks like an underwater cyclone. Have you ever encountered anything like this?" she asked the pilot.
"No, I haven't. But it might be related to whatever phenomenon is holding the ship down."
"It's them," the Sage explained. "It's the life force of all those people who were locked in the lower decks of the Titanic when it sank. They're begging to be set free."
The cameraman was skeptical.
"Did any of the previous expeditions down here report problems?" he asked, as he continued to point the camera outside the porthole.
"Nothing of this nature."
"But they never had a psychic aboard, did they?" Cassandra asked.
The strange cloud approached and seemed to surround the submersible. Sage let out a cry of pain and clamped her hands over her ears.
"You're in no danger," she screamed.
"I don't think she's talking to us," Cassandra whispered to the cameraman.
"You're safe. You've been safe for nearly a century. The ship sank and you died. You're free now. The gates can't hold you back."
The submersible lurched to the side as if it had been struck by a heavy object.
"I don't think the hull can take much more of this pressure," the worried pilot said.
Cassandra looked at the psychic. Pain and fear distorted her pretty, young face. Then she turned away and looked out the porthole again. She peered through the strange cloud-like entity at the bow of the Titanic. This had indeed been the opportunity of a lifetime she thought sadly.
* * *
"Ackerman here," Max announced as he answered his phone.
"Turn on CNN," a feminine voice said softly on the other end of the line.
"Cassie, is that you?"
"No. It's me, Marilyn. Turn on the TV."
The line went dead. Max took the remote control from his desk drawer and pressed the power button. Then he turned to the all-news network. When he saw a young reporter shivering on the deck of a ship, a premonition swept over him. He swallowed his apprehension and forced himself to listen to the live broadcast.
"... have yet to determine the cause of the implosion. When the wreckage of the submersible is recovered it will be taken to the Oceanographic Institute in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, for analysis. As for the crew and passengers, no bodies have been recovered. I'm Joyce Collins live for CNN news. Back to you, Anderson."
As the anchorman jumped into the lead for the next feature, Max turned off the TV and picked up the phone to call his father.
"Dad, did you hear the news? ... I know. We'll definitely miss her around here. She had a lot of good ideas ... Eventually, she'd have gone over to TBS or ... Dad, I've got an idea of my own. Why don't we do a show about Cassie, about the events leading up to her death? We can call it Ghost in the Making."
Cassandra Sykes, it appeared, had yet one more contribution to make to SML Broadcasting.
Guess who is starring in "Ghost Cat," a new reality show on the Ghost Channel?
