The Writing Log – The Novel

A Few Opening Notes

• White House of Darkness is a novel written during the month of November 2025. Things will change from one day to the next. It’s not polished, refined or meant to be. If you want a really good horror novel set in the White House, get Andrew Pyper’s The Residence. If not… read on.
• Read the writing log for more details about the intent and making of the novel.
• This novel, if it was a movie, would be rated R for horror, gory violence, sexual references and mature themes. It’s a horror thriller with political intent.
• While this is the second novel in my “February 2027” thematic series after Mayhem on the Potomac, it is meant to be a standalone story. While readers of On Guard for Weird and Mayhem on the Potomac will spot references to those novels in the prologue and second chapter, they’re meant as in-jokes rather than affirmations that it’s all happening in the same universe. At best, White House of Darkness is an alter-quel to Mayhem on the Potomac.
• This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
• This being said… this novel is obviously and unrepentantly about the forty-fifth-and-forty-seventh President of the United States. (Honni soit son nom.) Still, names and a few details have been modified to give me some creative room. As you’re going to see, considerable liberties have been taken.

 

Prologue — In the Hall of the Mad King

February 2027—Washington, DC

No nation can continue to exist for long under conditions of intent delusion; even iron-fisted regimes and rogue states have occasional moments of clarity. The United States, not sane, stood by itself between coasts, holding darkness within; it had stood for two hundred and fifty years but it would not stand for two hundred and fifty more. Across the land, evidence was ignored, fraud was celebrated, and reality was dismissed as irrelevant. The truth was silenced by power, and whoever stood for decency stood alone.

“I fucking hate Canada. It’s a shitty country,” said the President of the United States to the reporters gathered in the Oval Office, while standing next to the Canadian Prime Minister.

“Shitty country… yeah… so shitty. Shittiest,” repeated the president, not for emphasis as much as if he had discovered the expression for the first time and got fixated on it. His gaze was unfocused and went downward as he repeated himself.

Standing three metres away, Katia Bouchard kept her game face on and wondered, What does the word presidential even mean these days? And more importantly, why am I not even surprised?

“Shitty… shitty… shitty…”, mumbled the president again, looking at the floor.

As the Canadian Ambassador to the United States, she was used to the way the Blunt administration worked. She had weathered the trade spats, the puerile temper tantrums, and the unseriousness of the people in charge. But what was surprising about Blunt’s latest statement wasn’t the statement itself. It was how everyone reacted to it.

Rather than ignite a firestorm of questions about presidential language and intent, rather than lead to pointed questions about the president’s mental fitness, the press corps collectively shrugged—another day in the Oval Office.

“Prime Minister Varney! Any comments?” asked one of the journalists.

“Well, obviously, President Blunt is a man of many strong convictions,” smoothly handled the Canadian. “We will disagree in this case, albeit from a better-informed position. But let’s not let this distract us from the power of President Blunt’s office.”

And there it was—the subtle knife sandwiched in between superficial praise. Enough to make it sound as if Blunt was right, and yet a jab that would make social media happy.

If Blunt caught anything from the statement, it was the part that directly concerned him.

“Yes, powerful and strong…” he said, his attention snapping back. “But the way Canada has treated us during those negotiations… so shitty… never has a country treated us so badly.”

Tabarnac, I suppose Pearl Harbor never happened?, thought Katia. 

She’d been extensively briefed on the negotiations: At every turn, the Canadian team had outskated the team of junior interns and C-minus graduates that the US had sent, extracting concessions from the Americans for every meaningless compromise Canada gave up. Don’t bring your backbenchers to the Stanley Cup finals.

At least the ink was drying on the trade agreement—if agreements counted for anything in the Blunt administration.

“If I can add something,” said Varney, “Canada would like to provide a token of our gratitude to President Blunt given his incredible leadership of these negotiations.”

He looked to his side and nodded. Two White House interns grunted as they rolled a heavy cart to the middle of the Oval Office. A sheet of thick golden fabric had been draped over what was on the cart. The wheels of the cart squeaked from the load.

“We wanted to thank President Blunt for his unwavering support during this prolonged process.”

Katia almost frowned. This encounter had been stage-managed to the smallest details between the delegations of both countries, but she had been expecting a plaque, not whatever this was. It looked as if the drape was covering a pumpkin or something like that.

But Varney clearly knew what was underneath, and with understated theatrical flair, he removed the fabric. There was a small gasp from the normally-jaded press corps.

“We melted down fifty pounds of pure Canadian gold in order to produce this likeness of President Blunt. We hope that it symbolizes his leadership in these difficult times.”

As the clicks of the camera shutters filled the small Oval Office like a drone of locusts, Katia took in the bust. It was… well crafted, as those things went. It portrayed a younger Blunt in imperial fashion—hard defiant stare forward, not unlike Karsh’s Churchill photo.

“Oh, well, that is nice,” said Blunt, a flicker of interest suddenly in his eye. “Very nice… so nice… you Canadians are so nice…”

Trying hard not to heave at the blatant bribe and manipulation, Katia barely paid attention while Varney highlighted the four-million-dollar value of the near-solid bust. Blunt, almost happy, said that the bust would stay in the Oval Office, and, for a moment, she swore she saw the hint of a smile on the Prime Minister’s normally stoic face.

After that, it was all over, except for the last few questions, empty answers and final handshake. Katia and Varney were ushered out of the office together, efficiently led from the Oval Office to the motorcade next to the West Wing. The two of them were the only passengers in the black SUV ferrying them back to the Canadian Embassy.

After the three-car convoy drove south and turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, Katia couldn’t hold it any longer. 

“What was that?” she asked as the White House dwindled in the distance.

Varney shook his head and touched his lips, where there once was another hint of a smile.

Katia took the cue. Varney—Jack—was an old friend of hers. They had studied law together, and while her career took her from law to diplomatic postings, his had diverged to policy think-tanks, a few very visible public policy books and a reputation as the intellectual to call whenever governments had a tough problem to solve. Improbably enough, he’d won party leadership based on his appeal as a deep thinker and then, weeks later, a general election.

But, as their motorcade fought through late-afternoon Washington traffic, she knew that this latest performance in the Oval Office was not like him. Giving a golden bust as if it was a cheap trinket to a tinpot dictator? 

The problem was: it worked. Blunt was left with a happy feeling, and that would be enough until the next crisis, hopefully not aimed at Canada. But then again, this is what they had to deal with. The American people had chosen an egomaniac, visibly declining, perpetually angry blowhard who did not surround himself with competence. No one was even asking about the man’s obvious sundowning these days. Katia had seen the American media cower during the past two years, and the landslide results of the midterm elections only affirmed that the Americans wanted even more of that.

The car finally made its way to the embassy parking. Katia and Jack were led to the lobby of the building. An assistant came up to them.

“Prime Minister, I have what you asked for,” said the assistant while handing him a heavy box wrapped in a dark bag. He looked puzzled.

“Thank you. We’ll be in the skiff,” said the Prime Minister.

The Embassy’s Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF) was a box-in-a-box hidden underneath the Canadian Embassy. While it took up a volume that could have been dedicated to several precious parking spaces, it was only accessible from within the secure area of the embassy. Katia and Jack had to climb down stairs, make their way through two sets of doors (considering the box-within-a-box design) and once inside she was immediately struck again by the usual feeling of claustrophobia caused by the place.

SCIFs were not meant for long-term occupation: they were highly secure areas meant for discussions that absolutely could not be overheard by others. In Washington, this meant outwitting the NSA, which, despite the Blunt administration’s cutbacks, was still the planet’s top eavesdropper.

Katia knew the specs of the room—Thick layers of concrete lining with air gaps to prevent any stray vibrations and two nestled Faraday cages to keep out electronic signals (which meant her cell phone would not have worked down here, even if she hadn’t surrendered it at the first door). The room itself was square and surprisingly tiny considering the outside size of the SCIF. A table, four chairs and a cheap carpet were the only concessions to human comfort. Up to four people could have a chat, as long as they liked each other. 

The door was shut behind them, and Katia’s ears felt the change in pressure. 

“So, you’re going to tell me what this was about?” she asked.

“Just a minute,” said Jack. 

He took the chairs and put them on the table.

Then he opened the heavy bag that the assistant had given him and took out two boxes of plain non-iodized salt. 

Katia blinked and frowned, but what Jack did next confused her even more: He rolled back the carpet to reveal a small built-in circular indentation in the SCIF’s floor. 

Then he poured salt in the recessed indentation.

“Help me out,” he said while getting to his knees and making sure the salt filled the indentation without any gaps.

“You’re scaring me, Jack,” she said as she poured the salt in her section of the circle.

“One moment, please,” he said noncommittally.

He inspected their work and, satisfied that the circle on the floor had been filled with salt to his specifications, rolled back the carpet, put down the chairs and sat at the table as if nothing particularly strange had happened.

Katia noticed that everything—the table, the chairs, them—were inside the salt circle. Her scalp prickled.

“Jack, you’re the most rational person I know. Why did we just do a pagan ritual in a SCIF?”

“Witchcraft ritual,” he corrected, finally breaking out in a smile.

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“A circle salt wards off magical energies.”

“I don’t believe this,” she said, shaking her head. “You despised supernatural shit back then. Who are you?”

“Same person you knew back then,” he said, “except better informed.”

“Well, it’s time to tell me what’s going on.”

Jack’s face quickly lost his smile.

“What I’m about to tell you is classified at the highest level.”

“I’ve got NATO COSMIC Top-Secret clearance.”

“Higher than that.”

“Higher?”

“Higher. There’s no clearance for what I’m about to tell you.”

“Should you, then?”

“Probably not, but I need you to do something, and you won’t if you don’t understand how serious I am.”

She sighed. “This is stupid, but fine.”

“You may not believe in magic or the supernatural,” he said as seriously as in discussing matters of state. “I didn’t. But then I learned better.”

“As prime minister?”

“Yes. The Canadian public service has a small organization dedicated to studying, identifying and neutralizing supernatural threats against the nation. It’s a division of Library and Archives Canada, but that’s not important right now.”

“Um.”

“That incident in Toronto a few years ago—“’The movie publicity stunt?”

“No, that wasn’t a stunt. Look, just trust me. I’ve seen things that should not exist. I’ve seen the results of their interventions.”

She leaned back in her chair. “And we’re talking about this why?”

“Because you’re dying to know why we just gave a solid-gold bust to the Oval Office like this was the most obvious bribe to a banana republic.”

“Yes.”

“About fifty years ago, the RCMP was called to a residential school.”

Katia frowned at the abrupt change of topic, already not liking where this was going.

“When they arrived on-site, all the students were huddled in a garage at the periphery of the school, the farthest they could get away from the school building. When the police entered that building, they found the teaching staff in pieces.”

“In pieces?”

“Torn apart. Dead. All of them. All the first-nation students lived; all the white Caucasian adults died.”

“Geez. Did they…?”

“Not them. Not directly. But as our supernatural investigations unit took over the case, they realized something crucial. A girl had died in the school a few weeks earlier. Abused by the staff for months. They cut the hair off the corpse and burned her in the school’s backyard.”

“Fuck.”

“The school staff kept the hair as a sick souvenir. I won’t go through the details, but the hair was so… imbued by suffering that it acts as a catalyst for dark forces. For revenge. Our specialists isolated the hair after a few unpleasant incidents. Fatal incidents.”

“I’m still not sure how this relates to what just happened.”

“The bust is not solid gold. There’s a cavity inside.”

“Oh no. Did we just…”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

Varney gestured as if to take in everything.

“Do I need to spell it out? That administration is dangerous. I know where this is going. You know where this is going. Anyone knows where this is going. The midterms were no salvation. And I took Villetta’s death personally.”

As did every Canadian—Villetta Brooke was an Ontarian studying in Chicago, who followed her friends to a peaceful protest. She was young, cute and harmless. Then the peaceful protest was ended by a hail of gunfire from ICE agents, leading to fifteen deaths—one of them Canadian. Not that it had been the first or the last protest death in a country increasingly prone to violent law enforcement.

“So, what will this do?”

“The White House is a building with a long and dark history. Built by slaves. Home of many bad decisions. Playground of high-level power games. It will wake up.”

“And then?”

“No one knows for sure.”

Katia looked at him.

“That’s bullshit. You haven’t spent four million dollars on a harmless prank. Your supernatural team can foresee what’s going to happen, right?”

“I guess I just don’t know about that,” he said disingenuously.

“Do better.”

She took a deep breath.

“We cannot predict what will happen, but let’s put it this way. I take full responsibility for dragging that Trojan bust inside the White House. The last time a member of the British Commonwealth entered that building with such destructive intent was in 1814.”

She shook her head, then stopped as a thought struck her.

“Wait—if we have supernatural specialists, the Americans must have them too. This is why we’re talking in a circle of salt, but surely someone outside is wise to this trick.”

“Blunt will insist on keeping the bust near him. He’s volatile, but predictable.”

“Of course, but surely someone else will see this threat for what it is and neutralize it. Blunt aside, there are competent people out there. Their supernatural team must be ten times the size of ours. We must be in contact with them. Why are we even attempting this?”

She looked at Jack, who revealed nothing.

“Either they’re fine with this, or they’re no longer there,” she realized.

Jack smiled, as if a teacher whose pupil figured out a difficult problem.

“National supernatural agencies usually work at arm’s length from their government. On one side, threats can come from within the government and on the other, most politicians want deniability in case they’re asked questions. But the national agencies do collaborate with each other. They draw up plans in case they are no longer able to take care of their own business.”

“This was their idea?”

“A few months ago, our agency completely lost contact with their American counterparts. From what we heard beforehand, there was a struggle inside their agency, and then nothing.”

“Failsafe if things got out of hand.”

“Then our agency received a very detailed plan to be implemented in case something like this happened. Updated only a few weeks earlier.”

“And this was the best plan.”

“Maybe not the only plan.”

“Oh God,” said Katia while holding her face. “What are we doing?”

Then, after a pause, “You said you wanted me to do something.”

“Effective immediately, you and the entire embassy staff are recalled to Ottawa for consultations.”

“Everyone?”

“You are to shut down the embassy and instruct all Canadians to go back to Canada. Local staff will keep being paid for the duration of the closure. May they have enough sense to take holidays far from here.”

“On what pretext are we shutting down this place? You think the AI bubble crash is going to happen?”

Jack waved his hand. “Pest infestation. Come up with something.”

Katia nodded as she realized the magnitude of it all.

“We’re going to look like idiots,” she said, clinging to a semblance of the reality she knew.

“I thought I had convinced you, Katia.”

“Oh, I’m onboard. Not because I believe you, but because I believe in you.”

“Thank you.”

“But there’s still a chance we’ll look like idiots.”

“On the contrary, I think that…”

He drew a deep breath.

“…that once this is over, they’re going to look at us in fear, wondering how we knew what was going to happen.”

 

Section 1 — The Gathering

 

Chapter 1—Portents Ignored

Dave looked at the eye of the camera as if it was his best friend, took a deep breath and began his recap.

“So, dear debunkers, what’s left? We’ve spent our first day here at the Trammel House seeing how it appears to be haunted—a strange feeling of dread when entering the basement, people tripping over the stairs, weird noises, strange smells, and a door shutting by itself.”

Pause for effect, skeptical eyebrow raised. Then, as agreed with Gabrielle, he moved left so that she could follow and capture the refurbished furnace.

“Then we’ve spent our second day at the Trammel House finding all sorts of explanations for those things. We came in this basement and found out that the furnace fan was vibrating at nineteen hertz, a frequency known to produce headaches and unease in many people. We poked around the walls of this hundred-year house and found mummified mice, which get fragrant in hot humid temperatures. We discovered that the previous owners were deep smokers, and that smell never goes away.”

Steadily moving toward the stairs leading to the first floor, he kept his speech measured, conscious that he’d later add footage already seen earlier in the episode to illustrate his summary. 

“We also took measures and found that some of the rooms of the house had an incline of a few degrees—you remember the marble test. But that’s enough to get people tripping in stairs and have this almost subconscious feeling that something is off in this place.”

He stopped for effect at the bottom of the stairs.

“There’s really one mystery left to solve, right? The door that shuts itself.”

He paused and pointed up. Perfectly synchronized, Gabrielle kneeled and panned up to take in his silhouette set against the white rectangle of daylight. It would cut perfectly.

“Cut!” said Gabrielle.

The camera light went out and they hustled upstairs. If they kept at it, they could be done and out in an hour. Not that the Trammel House was unpleasant, as far as these things went, but time was money and if they got a headstart, they could edit a few minutes of footage in their hotel room before retiring for the night.

As expected, the widow Trammel was expecting them in the living room up the stairs. A charming woman of about sixty with affirmed white hair. Someone who was going to put the house up for sale within three months. Superstitious enough to believe her house was maybe haunted, but not so much that she didn’t accept explanations. After all, she had agreed to have them spend a few days here, right? Even though it was her son who had actually contacted them, most likely worried about the resale value of the house.

“Is everything all right?” she asked as Dave and Gabrielle prepared their next set up.

“Everything is according to plan,” said Dave. “As we’ve discussed, the next bit is going to involve you.”

She smiled—being on camera wasn’t her thing, but Dave knew photogenic people, and she had this cute-grandma thing going for her. So far, her camera instincts had been impeccable.

“Ready when you are,” said Gabrielle. 

She had framed them both against the open basement door. Dave knew that the camera would stay on him and the door, uninterrupted, for the next minutes.

He nodded to the widow Trammel, and she nodded back.

“Go!” said Gabrielle.

Dave turned to the camera.

“So here we are, at the last mystery unsolved. The door that shuts itself.”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled with a twinkle. I know something you don’t…

“Ma’am Trammel, I’m going to ask you to go start the shower upstairs. As hot as you can make it. Then please come back here. If I’m right, you’re going to want to see this.”

As the widow went upstairs, David turned back to the camera.

“Most of what we’ve seen here so far is pretty ordinary for so-called haunted houses. If you’ve been through our archives, you’ve seen it all—a mixture of old construction, poor maintenance, and quirks of human psychology meant to protect us during a more primitive age that are now fuelling our paranoia.”

As if on cue, because he had timed his speech, the shower upstairs started. Hopefully, she’d remembered to make it as hot as she could—that would speed things up.

He blinked intently and acknowledged the shower noise by silently pointing upwards. They’d probably need to edit in some sound effects here if the audio capture wasn’t good enough. Might as well stay silent during this part.

“But the closing door is something more unusual. I’ll admit it; it had me stumped.”

Well, not really, but sometimes you have to play dumb.

“Then I remembered helping my dad on home renovation projects, especially in older houses like this one. As I often say, a house is not a box we live in: it’s a living combination of several different systems—plumbing, heat, electrical, ventilation, even telecommunications—and some of those systems don’t always play nice with each other. The house itself is not to blame—it’s usually the little shortcuts and compromises taken by people eager to get their day’s work done and go back home.”

The widow Trammel entered the room. If Dave was right—and if not, they’d edit around it—they had a few more moments before something happened.

“Now let’s keep an eye on this door.”

It took only a few seconds, but Dave’s mind raced through those seconds. Aside from the door, the Trammell house had been ordinary—sure, the widow was going to be a plus, and Gabrielle’s skill with the camera meant that every few episodes were more cinematic. But for a channel based on rational debunking of supernatural phenomena, they had to introduce new things. He’d resisted the cheap thrills of open-ended shows so far, but their subscriber numbers weren’t rising as fast as they’d like. Now, would that door provide?

Then, as if to oblige, the door creaked and shut itself. The widow Trammell made a very pleasant little start as the door closed shut.

“Did you see that?” she said, wide-eyed without the least trace of a contrivance. Bless her.

“Oh yeah, we all saw that.”

Behind the camera, Gabrille gave a thumbs-up—they wouldn’t have to re-shoot this.

“So, what’s the explanation?” asked the widow, almost too conveniently stepping in as the audience surrogate.

“Let’s open the door and I’ll show you. In fact, I think I can even get it to do it again.”

He opened the door and stepped down a stair. Then he pointed at the left side of the door in the unfinished basement. In his mind, he already saw the inset shots they’d film the previous day.

“See this metal pipe? That’s the drain from the shower upstairs. Now see these copper ties attaching the pipe to the door frame? It’s so tight, and with time warping the door still, when hot water pours down the drain, it expands the pipe ever so slightly that it creates pressure against those ties. The wood contracts from the heat and pressure and—if you wouldn’t mind stepping back, please…”

He let the door go, and it shut itself off again. He looked at the widow.

“There we go. A good plumber can fix this in half an hour by either replacing the ties, or switching the pipe from metal to code-compliant PVC.”

He turned back to the camera.

“And there goes the last mystery of Trammel House.”

“Cut,” said Gabrielle.

They had already filmed the wrap-up earlier, but maybe they would tag another epilogue from outside the house—the sun was setting and Gabrielle would be drawn to the better colours than this morning.

“I’ll go take a few insert shots of the house,” said Gabrielle.

“And I’m going to shut down that shower,” said the widow.

As both women left the living room, they also left Dave with the usual hollowness that followed a thorough debunking. Another swing at the bat, another home run for the rationalists. The episode would be pretty good, he anticipated—the widow was likable, the house was interesting, and the door was a great capper to the episode. If they could explain the usual phenomena in an interesting way—maybe by playing with custom animations—the episode could be a calling card of sorts for the kind of stuff they usually did. Maybe the kind of thing that would attract new viewers.

On the other hand, Dave knew this wouldn’t be the viral hit they needed. On their way back to their cramped apartment “somewhere within driving distance of Toronto,” he and Gabrielle would probably have another round of micro-arguments about whether to keep doing this or not. Thanks to merch sales and sponsorships, they weren’t starving from their channel—but they weren’t getting anywhere, and certainly weren’t saving for a real house, let alone a baby.

“So, I guess I’m not the owner of a haunted house,” said the widow Trammell when she came back into the room.

“I guess not. I’ll send you instructions for a handyman to fix what we’ve found.”

He had fixed the infrasound problem himself by cutting away part of the fan, but things like the pipe, the drafty windows, and the leaning floors would take more attention.

“Thanks, I’ll do that. At least we can put the house for sale without having to declare that it’s haunted.”

“You can even put in the link to our episode.”

She smiled, but she sounded like Dave felt—satisfied, but disappointed. This was a common-enough reaction at the end of his shoots: people said they didn’t want to own haunted houses, but, in the end, a haunted house was cooler than a regular house. Debunking it took something away. Sure, the house resale price would be higher—and his video would help make the house a local celebrity—but it would no longer be whispered about.

He chit-chatted some more with the widow, but he understood that he was done here—he had removed the magic and was no longer welcome much longer.

Gabrielle was done within fifteen minutes. She knew what she was doing, and one of their points of pride was their shooting ratio—they shot roughly eight minutes for each minute used, which was pretty good for the kind of show they produced and that helped keep their costs low. She’d often shoot things that wouldn’t make sense to Dave, and then she’d pull that exact shot while editing.

They said their goodbyes to the widow, promising that she’d get a chance to watch the episode first and send them notes. Then they hopped into the rental car.

To keep costs low, their hotel was a cheaper one on the outskirts of Minneapolis. It would take twenty minutes to get there—enough to catch up on email while she drove.

She put on the radio. The economic news wasn’t good—Dave got lost in most of it, but the gist was that a few big companies were pulling back on their AI investments, and that had the market spooked. It had been a third day of negative closings.

Not that the other news was any better—anti-government protests, arrests, even a food riot in Pensacola. Another airplane crash, blamed on the overworked air traffic controllers. 

Davd shook his head. He turned out the news quickly these days. He focused on the emails that had accumulated while they were shooting.

One title held his attention. The subject matter seemed too good to be true, but it had come through their verified web site tip line.

He read the message and his eyebrows went up. Chief engineer of the… really? Was this a prank?

But no—the accompanying documents looked genuine. He’d call back, of course, but if this was true…

“Gabi, I think we’re going to have to change our flight.”

She glanced at him briefly, wary.

“How so?”

“We’re going to Washington, DC.”

This time, she took her eyes off the road and looked at him longer. 

They had another of their micro-arguments.

In five years of marriage, some of their ongoing arguments had become so familiar that they didn’t even need to be rehashed out loud. A glance took them through the entire checklist, and this one was “the Canadian Way of Life” argument. It roughly went like this:  Dave was American-born and Gabrielle was a proud Canadian. They’d met while he was studying at the University of Toronto and while their channel began in the US, they had moved north. He now had dual citizenship. On those facts they both agreed. 

Where things were still in flux was what to do next. There were enough opportunities in the Toronto area for two skilled filmmakers that they could probably close down their channel and take on staff jobs at one of the many production houses in the area. They would almost certainly make more money, enough to settle down, purchase a house and start planning for a family.

But Dave wasn’t ready for it yet. They were still in their twenties, after all, and their channel took them on tax-deductible trips throughout North America. 

The Blunt administration’s policies had pitched up the urgency of the argument. Born of Haitian parents, Gabrielle was dark-skinned enough that she didn’t feel safe in the US, and with the tension between both countries, her Canadian passport was no longer as innocuous as it had been. Meanwhile, Dave had never told his subscribers that he was now a naturalized Canadian citizen living in Canada. Sure, influencers like him often obscured their residence for security reasons—but that was taking it too far, said Gabrielle.

Lately, the argument was metastasizing into “Dave, become a Canadian” and that’s the part he liked least.

He looked away before she did, which was both a relief since she was driving, and a micro-defeat that meant she would extract some sort of concession from her victory.

“I don’t like changing plans either,” he said to smooth things over. “But this is going to be out big-ticket episode. Sacrifices have to be made, Gabi.”

“Washington, DC,” she said flatly. “Dave, you heard the news earlier today. They just asked all Canadians in the US to return home. The embassy itself is closed. They’re saying this isn’t a safe country.”

“Gabi, we’re been invited to do a show at the White House.”

🏛️

No one in the world hated the White House as much as Harry Newson. 

But he had a good reason for it: as the chief engineer for the building, he was responsible for its maintenance.

“Morning, Harry,” said the security guard as he swiped his access card to the building.

“Morning, let’s hope the furnace doesn’t blow up today.”

It hadn’t exactly blown up the week before, but it had gone out—leaving the staff to feel the seeping February chill. Harry and his team had duct-taped a solution together within three hours, but the top guy’s tolerance for heroics was non-existent, and before the day was through, the threats had come down that he’d get a crew from one of his real estate properties to fix everything. 

This would have had more impact had this not been the third time it had been threatened, or the disaster of what had happened when Blunt did exactly that, and fired the chief engineer that had been in place when he moved back into the White House. Blaming “DEI” because the engineer had been black, the administration had put a square-jawed white guy in charge… and that guy had lasted three weeks before being fired for water pressure issues.

The previous engineer had flat-out refused to be hired back (his email reply had simply been a self-portrait of him with two extended middle fingers—Harry had been put in BCC), which led the administration to promote Harry from within. At least Harry knew the nuts and bolts of the temperamental machine that was the White House—within hours, the water pressure was back to its normal level and he would never tell anyone what role he may have played in the lowered pressure in the first place.

But now, the job was his headache to manage. Even with the preventive maintenance he managed to put on the schedule, there were still issues left and right. The botched reconstruction of the East Wing was a constant diversion away from more serious issues, and sometimes the furnace acted out for attention.

Unlike the public occupants of the White House, Harry trekked downstairs to find his office.

Well, “office”—it was where he put his lunch box and coat, then grabbed his overalls and tool belt. It was a cramped space in the White House basement, filled with more tools and building materials than people. His crew of two was overworked and he knew it—Blunt loved to cheap out on the logistics in order to blow their budget on fancy trash, and it showed in the backlog of things they had to do. His old position hadn’t even been backfilled, which meant that he was effectively doing both jobs at once.

Two more years of this, Harry thought, and then maybe we’ll get someone better. Although with the midterm results, he wasn’t optimistic. Oh well; if all became too much, he could always go live near his parents in Georgia. After twenty years in DC, he’d been thrifty enough to accumulate a tidy saving account, and houses were cheaper down south and getting cheaper by the month given the recession.

In the meantime, there were things to do.

His two assistants were clearly on their way out when he entered their office-maintenance-shack.

“We’re scheduled to replace the furnace filters this morning, guys.”

“Sorry, boss,” said his first assistant, “upstairs just called and there’s a networking issue in the West Wing.”

Harry sighed. The weak connection in the Roosevelt Room, again.

“All get, get it done.”

“At least we’ve got the new switch this time.”

“Let’s try to keep it working more than three days in a row, all right?”

Both of them left, carrying the spare part that should take care of the issue.

Hary sighed when he opened his emails. Sure, he had a cell to be on call, but he limited his off-shift job intake to emergency texts only—emails were for the office. What sort of new problem would have accumulated since yesterday?

But he grinned when he saw one of the messages that had came in overnight. There was the reply from that Dave Bunker influencer, saying he was interested in touring the White House for ghost stories. Three of them would come in for the shoot—Dave, his wife-and-cameraman, and an invited guest academic to talk about the history of the White House. He didn’t recognize the name—who was Samantha Sheer?—, but she was billed as an American History expert. In a few clicks, Harry sent their security pass requests to the central system—the people upstairs would do the security checks over the next week. The academic was unexpected, and Harry wondered what else that Sheer lady could say that he didn’t already know about the building, but at least that meant he wouldn’t have to appear on camera. Plus, she’d further light the fire that Harry was expecting to create.

Harry liked to think of himself as a straight-arrow engineer, uninterested in politics and power plays. But that was a lie—he had a strong scheming streak, whether it was plotting the firing of an incompetent chief engineer, or putting in place the justification he needed for a bigger maintenance budget. He’d found the D.Bunker video channel a few weeks ago while idly surfing for stuff to watch while eating late suppers. That white kid seemed straight to him—he didn’t seem interested in spooky tricks-for-clicks and, even after a few years of episodes, still wasn’t nudging toward supernatural doubts. He thought like a building engineer, his explanations were clear and his shots were clean. His insistence that houses were collection of systems directly spoke to Harry. In other words, Dave Bunker was the right kind of guy to make a good video on the White House’s issues so that Harry could get the extra resources he needed to keep this place together.

Plus, they’d have a laugh at some of the ghost stories about this place.

Harry picked up a few filters. The furnace was pumping all day long while the windows were closed and that meant that the ducts were getting clogged with people’s dust. He was changing the filters every three weeks during the winter, and he was already a few days overdue. 

The facts were: The White House was old. Really old. Built in the early 1800s by slaves, burned down by the British in 1814, rebuilt a few years later by another group of slaves, badly maintained throughout the decades, rebuilt from the outside-in around 1950 and inconsistently maintained since then. Unlike your usual suburban home or midtown office, the White House was in use day and night by dozens of people, which meant it wore out faster than most buildings. Minor renovations took place every few years, but that only added to the problems, since every adjustment and new equipment had to be crammed into an existing patchwork of technical debt.

Harry hefted the filters as he made his way further down to the beating heart of the building: the boiler room from which the furnace currently pumped heat throughout the White House.

He knew the place well enough to know which pipes served no purposes any more—were kept there simply because removing them would cause problems. He knew the maintenance passageways that wormed their way in between the walls of the building and tried to use this knowledge for good. He understood the load-bearing layers of paint that had accumulated over the decades and why it was a better idea not to touch anything unless strictly necessary.

Unlike most, he had watched the destruction of the East Wing for that idiotic ballroom project with mixed feelings: More than anyone else, he understood the place and what had been destroyed without planning. On the other hand, part of him had been overjoyed at beginning anew somewhere in this building. Unfortunately, the farce that had been that project kept on going: Blunt had apparently pocketed the contributions and hired the cheapest contractors he could find, resulting in a shell of a ballroom that was more steel warehouse with a marble face than anything that would stay up for even a decade.

But anyway—that East Wing wasn’t much of a problem. It was cheap, tacky and had an expiration date shorter than most domestic pets, but at least it was new and didn’t require much maintenance other than patching the subpar-construction left by the contractors.

Harry’s more immediate concern was the boiler room. It was sweltering, the furnace having run constantly since its outage the previous week. He was alone, but this was the kind of job he could do alone. It would just take more time. 

He removed his overalls, otherwise he’d sweat himself out of energy halfway through. It would be easier to shut down the furnace for the fifteen minutes it would take to replace the filters, but he didn’t dare mess with something that was working. He opened the first panel, feeling the blast of the heat coursing through the duct. His fingers pried out the filter.

It was almost black with accumulated particles—winter was murder on the filters due to the accumulated dust, and dirty filters prevented good air circulation. Which would lead to a furnace breakdown and so on and so forth. Clearly, his sweat wouldn’t be wasted. Sacrifices had to be made.

He replaced the filter with a new one, then went on to the next. There were eight of them feeding the ducts heading to the three main areas of the building (plus two other ducts heading to the bunkers, one of them never mentioned in the news). While the heat was an issue, Harry’s calloused hands and well-oiled method made short work of the task. Fifteen minutes later, he was panting slightly from the effort but at least the filters wouldn’t be a problem for the next three weeks.

Pausing to catch his breath before bundling the dirty filters for disposal, he rested against the wall.

And that’s when he saw the burned man emerge from the furnace.

The door was open—had it been open for long? And there was no place for the man to have been in there. But there was the charred figure, emerging from the open door, pulling itself out of the flames, leaving a scorched handprint on the floor, heaving himself out, rising, closing the furnace door behind them.

Horrifyingly, he turned its heard toward Harry. He could tell that this was a man, but nothing else—black or white, the man’s skin was a carbonized mass crackling as he moved. Black fragments fell to the floor as he approached Harry. His hair had been burned away, and two hollowed sockets were left in lieu of his eyes. Not that the man seemed blind—it moved slowly but surely toward Harry, clearly looking in his direction. His nose was a charred stump. His mouth was scorched away, revealing black teeth.

This shit can’t be real, thought Harry. He wasn’t going to run away like a spooked wimp. This was a hallucination, something caused by gas leaks!

Then the man’s arm shot out and grabbed Harry’s head by the jaw. He pushed Harry backwards. Harry felt the back of his head hit the concrete wall behind him. He smelled the burned flesh of the arm under his nose. The harsh blackened surface of the man’s charred fingers pressed against Harry’s short white beard. This was real. THIS WAS REAL.

Looking down, he saw that blood was starting to seep through the cracks in between the charred flesh fragments of the man’s arm. 

Then the man spoke.

“Those who did nothing condemned us.”

How could the man speak? There were no lips to articulate. There was no tongue behind those black teeth. The man pushed Harry upwards with surprising force so that his entire body weight rested on his jaw and the wall behind his skull. His feet dangled above ground. He could not have spoken even if he had tried.

“We died because of lies and silence.”

Harry didn’t hear those words—he felt them echoing through his skull. 

“The firestorm is coming, but it will take out the righteous along with the guilty.”

The blood seeping through the cracks in the man’s charred face was starting to flow down.

“You’re still alive. DO SOMETHING.”

Harry abruptly fell to the ground, the hand no longer holding him up by his jaw. On his way down, his head hit a steel pipe.

Maybe seconds later, maybe minutes later, he opened his eyes. 

There was no man here. The furnace door was closed. The floor was clean of any prints. There was no smell of scorched flesh.

Harry felt his face. No charred fragments in his beard. No blood on his clothes. His jaw felt perfectly fine.

His head did hurt, though. 

And he had pissed himself, either before or during his unconsciousness. Probably before. Fuck.

He got up, concerned about any gas buildup near the floor.

Clearly…

Yes, clearly, he had fallen and knocked himself out. The rest was a vision. Vivid, but still a vision.

Now he had to check this place for any gas buildup.

But change himself first.

The next few minutes were a drag. Back to the office—fortunately empty—to grab a change of clothing he kept for when the job got messy. Stuffed the urine-soaked clothes in a garbage bag to clean at home. Rushed back to the furnace with a gas-leak detector, only to find that everything was well under any acceptable level. Double-checked. Triple-checked. Nothing.

Normally, the rational part of Harry’s brain would have stuffed the incident as unworthy of further consideration. He was an engineer. He had partied hard in college. He knew how weird the brain got when you pumped it full of chemicals.

But later, as he got a meal from the White House Mess, failing to even flirt with the very cute Delilah along the way, it didn’t sit right. He knew what hallucinations felt like, and this wasn’t the fluttery confusion at the edges of perception—this was a full-on vision the likes of which could not be achieved even with heroic quantities of mind-altering chemicals. He couldn’t shake the intense feeling of dread that the event left behind. Even his skeptical ass felt that this was about something about to happen. A warning.

But about what?

🏛️

When Peggy Carlyle moved through the West Wing, people moved out of the way. As the White House Chief of Staff, her authority inside the building was near-absolute. While the President supposedly controlled the nation, she definitely controlled the building, and she absolutely controlled who could see the President.

A demanding job most of the time, it was downright impossible on days of crises, and today was shaping up to be one of those—the only good thing about her twenty-minute commute through Washington, DC streets was hearing the news as they were communicated to the public, and today’s impression felt like barely repressed hysteria. People were scared, and all the jackals were looking at the White House rather than taking responsibility for their actions.

Still, she had her game face on as she strolled through the offices of the West Wing. The place was hustling even early in the morning—the deputy assistants had called in the troops. The day would be a never-ending carnival of requests to see the President or the Cabinet members, and if they were lucky, it could taper off at around midnight. If things broke their way during the day.

Peggy was about to get back to her office when she was almost tackled by a weeping administrative staff member. One of the girls from the Records Management Office, maybe. A tiny thing—and so young.

“Oh, I’m so happy to see you,” she bawled in between sobs.

Who was this? She wondered. She looked around, but people were either away or not paying attention.

“I’m so scared.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” asked Peggy using her best grandma voice.

“So many things going badly.”

She would need to be more specific. Even Peggy’s short commute news update had no dearth of alarming topics:  Fifth day in a row of stock-market losses; food riots in Houston; another bunch of ICE agents firing into a peaceful crowd; a second plane crash in as many days. The AI bubble was showing signs of bursting, and it wasn’t going to go like a cute rainbow-hued pop—it looked like a messy bubble-gum-in-the-hair kind of thing. Mass firings in the tech industry weren’t going to do much to bring unemployment back under ten percent.

“My brother’s job was cut back and my mom’s worried about the riots,” said the girl in-between sobs.

“There, there,” said Peggy while wondering how to extricate herself from this. “This is the White House. We’re the solution.”

That seemed to get the girl’s spirits up.

About thirty seconds too late, a supervisor from the Record Unit made his way to the girl.

“Hey, Amelia, let’s let Peggy go back to taking care of business, all right?” he said, gently leading the girl away.

Off they went, leaving some tears on Peggy’s clothes.

Jesus fucking Christ, she thought, another thing to do. At least this wouldn’t take a lot of time.

She aimed straight for the Staff Secretary’s Office.

“Jed,” she said with her command voice as she entered his office.

“Peggy!” he said, standing up straighter.

“That Amelia girl, I want her fired and gone in thirty minutes.”

“Uh, sure, what did—“’She just bawled in my shirt. She’s weak and she’s a burden to this place and I want her away.”

She turned on her flat heels and left to get back to her office. That felt good—one strong decision early in the morning, and the rest would follow. There was no time for niceties, nor weakness. 

At least that was the advantage of looking like a sheep. Peggy deliberately cultivated the appearance of niceness. Her old-fashioned curly hair, her outdated clothes not meant to flatter her stocky figure, her soft voice, even her name—Her given name was Margaret, for Christ’s sake, not Peggy. 

But if she could make anyone underestimate her for thirty seconds, that was all the time she needed to slash their throat. 

Anyone she was in regular contact with was not fooled, of course, and knew what she stood for—but throughout her career, she had been amazed at how choices she made in her appearance lulled even longtime colleagues into a false sense of security. Look at Peggy, they must have said, she’s really harmless.

Aha, but: You’ll never see me coming as I stab you in the eye.

She had a nasty surprise awaiting in her office—the toady Glenn Hiller, already sitting down with his laptop and, no doubt, a long series of requests.

She tolerated Hiller better than anyone else in the White House—and still she fucking hated Hiller with unbridled rage. She would have personally arranged for his assassination, dismemberment and dissolution in acid if it wasn’t that Hiller got results. Things she didn’t want to think about. And he could speak to the President in ways she didn’t understand.

Still, he was repulsive. Balding at thirty-five, he had bulging eyes, a weak chin, an expanding gut and a psychopath’s blank stare. But this was nothing compared to the content of his brain. 

Even by the standards of the Blunt administration, Hiller was a frightening ideologue. He believed in white supremacy without qualifications; he was an unrepentant male chauvinist; he palled around with the tech oligarchs who advocated for neo-feudalism and if he ever showed empathy, she’d never seen in any of his statements or actions. She had him investigated and found that, as a child, he had a passion of pyromania, mistreating small animals and bedwetting well into his teen years. His parents had told all of this to the investigators without reservations—they had disowned Hiller more than a decade earlier.

Less tangibly, he also carried around an uncomfortable aura—Peggy didn’t like that word, but she supposed it was a combination of his affectless speech, awkward physical posture and unnerving ideas. She always felt better after he left.

“We’ve got issues with the Boss,” he said.

“Yeah, we do,” she said, not learning anything new. “I thought he was on his meds yesterday.”

Blunt had never been particularly smart, but his decline over the past few years was obvious to everyone. Dementia overlaid over weak cognitive faculties wasn’t a good mixture, and managing the situation was getting tougher. Sure, they talked so much shit about the mental decline of Blunt’s predecessor that they had effectively cowed the entire press corps into shutting up about his own issues, but now even official footage was getting harder to deny. The Canadian press briefing had been embarrassing enough (not that anyone had really paid any attention to that outside Canada), but the previous day he had simply blanked out in front of a crowd, and swayed wordlessly for a few minutes before barking out a few non sequiturs and calling it a speech.

Peggy and everyone else knew perfectly well what this was, and the medical reports never released to the public confirmed as such: Call it Alzheimer or dementia, but Blunt was fast losing whatever marbles he still had.

Which was not always a disadvantage. Blunt loved to portray himself as a strong man, but he was strikingly inept as a president. He lets advisors slip pieces of paper under his sharpie and blustered his way in front of the camera. He was the ideal of what the real powers wished in a president: someone barely functional enough to sign what others decided.

The problem is that Blunt’s decline was now eating into the image he was supposed to project. Questions emerged that they weren’t able to control using the media. They pulled off the midterm trick, but even control over technology had its limits when it came to showing how the President behaved. 

“The meds will need to be adjusted,” said Hiller.

“Obviously. You don’t need to come here for that, though.”

“No, but I need you to eclipse him for a few days.”

Fancy-talk for saying “get him golfing,” which was itself media-speak for “put grandpa in a closet until the new meds kick in.”  They’d done that a few times, including a dicey week of no media contact during which he recovered from a mini-stroke. The AI-generated blips worked well enough to confuse the issue, but if the working journalists were effectively muzzled, social media wasn’t so easy to intimidate. Although things were looking up there too.

“You realize we’re staring down the barrel of a major crisis in the next few days, right?” she said. “People will ask where’s the President. They will expect a few empty statements.”

“I thought the markets were under control,” he said.

“We’re trying, but we may be reaching the limits of what we can do.”

Ugh, there would be meetings about this. The billionaires had made out like bandits during the second Blunt term so far—helped along by regular hints about upcoming federal decisions—but now that it was time to contribute back, they all got skittish all of a sudden. Whips would be cracked.

“Well, having a blank-staring president won’t help anything.”

“I’m already pulling back on appearances. We’ll just point at the AI bubble crisis as justification—say he’s working day and night.”

He barked a small expression of amusement—too robotic to qualify as a chuckle, though. She knew what he was thinking: Blunt slept through most mornings while advisors worked their asses off, wandered in the Oval Office shortly before noon, actively refused any briefing, went out for lunch and looked forward to his next public appearance. Working was not his thing.

“I’m worried about the cabinet twenty-fifthing him, though.”

Now that was a problem. Real enough to have verbed it.

“We’ve discussed that, though. We’ve got levers.”

“On most of them, not all of them.”

“They’ll never go through it.”

“I want to be sure. I want a cabinet dinner in the next week. Blame it on the crisis.”

She thought about it. Maybe. It would show the cabinet working together and reinforce the appearance of a strong man at the commands. Behind closed doors, allow any new bad takes to come out so that they could be neutralized.

“Why limit it to the cabinet? Invite a few stakeholders as well.”

They spoke in code even deep in the White House. Force of habit. The only stakeholders that meant anything to this White House were the new oligarchs who backed up Blunt’s administration. They made billions off the government’s decisions, while they were only asked for a few favours in return. 

“Hmm.”

Now it was Hiller’s turn to think. What dark gears were turning in that head Peggy didn’t want to explore, but she had an idea. Inviting the stakeholders would be a way to crack the whip, both for those invited and those left out. Pressure could be applied. The subbasement could come into play.

“Yes, I like it. Fifty seats. East room. Within the next week.”

She nodded. It would be done.

“Which reminds me,” she said, “what about those foreign assassins going around town?”

“Neutralized. Our friend Jury took care of them. Nabbed them all at Pentagon City Mall.”

“Good. One less thing to worry about.”

“There’s something else,” he said.

“I don’t have time.”

“Yes, you do.”

He showed the screen of his laptop. Peggy saw three pictures—a young white man, a young black woman, and an old white woman.

“Just say it, Glenn,” she finally sighed.

“The Chief Engineer just invited those three characters for a tour of the White House. Those two have a video channel debunking haunted houses.”

“Why are you bothering me with this? This is Press relations.”

“He’s a nonentity, but he’s got dual citizenship. The black bitch’s a Canadian. The old hag is the one behind the kakistocracy video.”

Oof—that video had not gone over well at the White House.

“Oh. Well, we just deny their application. Again, why are you bothering me with this?”

“You know what’s going on and what’s likely to happen. If your methods won’t work… Sacrifices must be made.”

OH SHIT OH FUCK OH YOU MOTHERFUCKING COCKSUCKING MONSTER WHY DID YOU—

“I see,” she simply said.

“How about we coordinate their visit with the cabinet dinner?”

With a hollow feeling churning in her guts, she nodded.

After-dinner entertainment.

🏛️

The chauffeur opened her door, and Miranda Drayton slid her long legs out of the black SUV. Her heels clacking on the concrete floor of the parking, she made her way past the automatic doors to the executive elevator and swiped her card. The doors opened, and she stepped in without looking back.

She was quickly whisked up to the top floor of the building, where a short walk past her executive and administrative staff took her to her office as Secretary of Agriculture. Ever the southern belle, she kept her head high, her posture dignified and didn’t make eye contact along the way—what possible use would that be? Otherwise, she’d be up in meaningless chit-chat all morning.

The computer recognized her and showed her schedule for the day—none of that password nonsense. She scanned her appointments—the day was, as usual, booked solid. Worse than usual considering the unfolding crisis. While Agriculture wasn’t directly concerned by the ongoing AI bubble crash, there was talk of contagion and—ah, there it was: the first meeting would be a briefing on the situation by the USDA’s top analyst.

She had about five minutes to prepare. She looked outside the window, once again taking in the view. Her office was right next to the National Mall, and without stretching her neck she could see the Smithsonian museums and the Washington monument. She couldn’t see the White House, though—it stood behind the new Southern Heritage National Museum that took over the grounds of the former National Museum of African American History and Culture. Maybe that was for the best: distancing herself from the White House had become an increasing temptation since the beginning of her term.

She hadn’t expected to care so much. Being nominated as Secretary of Agriculture was meant as a sinecure. The Blunt administration didn’t care all that much about the position, so they had handed it over as a favour, and her name bubbled to the top of the list. She wasn’t blind or delusional—she wasn’t qualified, but she had contributed enough to the Party that this put her on the short list. For the rest, she knew her resumé and how she looked. She was the daughter of an old-south aristocratic family, and she had married well. Everyone knew her story: Her much-older husband had dropped dead years ago, leaving her the reins of his agribusiness empire. She’d done well for someone without formal business education, largely by listening to the right people. 

But she knew the real reason she’d floated to the top, and that was because she looked the part. Blunt had a fixation for beautiful people—media personalities were legion in the new administration despite their nonexistent qualifications, as long as they looked good. She did look good, and she knew it because she worked at it. Daily exercise, meticulously planned diet and near-daily hair touch-ups with occasional cosmetic adjustment ensured that the looks matched the poise she learned as a debutante. A former college boyfriend had said that, with her thin face, white complexion and angular features, she looked like a princess. But then he’d also said she looked like a witch when they broke up, so what did he really know? The point was: She made other cabinet members think about their chances with her, and that got her the job.

Not that they ever had a chance—she’d learned long ago, even during her marriage, that only stupid boys were good to relax with. Looking the part of a widow—the long straight dark hair giving the appearance of a veil—was important, and so was the lack of attachment. Some very discreet establishments, in Washington or in Omaha, catered to her kinds of need—and she paid the stupid boys to leave, not for what they did with her.

But anyway, the past two years had not turned out as she expected. She thought that the Cabinet posting would be easier. She knew the Blunt administration didn’t really care about Agriculture, and their preoccupations were usually about other areas. But then the dumb tariffs got farmers in a rage, and she’d gotten into shouting matches with the idiots over at Commerce. These people voted for you, she’d said to Blunt, surprised at her own passion. She had gradually been drawn into the machinery of the department, enjoyed learning more about what it did, and even derived some satisfaction from what she could do. Small victories, most of the time, but at least she took her job seriously—unlike some of the jerks around the cabinet table.

She suspected sabotage from time to time, and, of course, she didn’t have the resources to fight back. So, she marshalled what she did have. And her first meeting of the day was with one of those secret weapons.

Logan Ewing was the smartest person in the department. She’d noticed his presence and his influence the first day on the job as she looked at the office org chart. There was an Executive Level 3 report to her chief of staff. No team. Vague title: “Advisor to the Secretary.”  Weird.

Then she had met the guy and understood. Within minutes, he showed that he understood the department inside and out. He showed no fear about her looks, her position or her behaviour. He spat out facts and opinions with fearlessness. At some point, Ewing outright said, “I don’t care about making nice with the regime. You want me out, I will go. You keep me, I will tell you the truth.”

She had kept him. His sympathies were not with the Blunt admin, but he had been with the department long enough to know everything. Even his opinions were as solid as facts. Ewing mapped out the impact of the Blunt tariffs long before everyone else, all the way down to the soybean spat with China. So, when she had a question, she knew the right person to ask—even if that meant having him disappear for a week while we accumulated facts and analyzed options. 

Truth-tellers were rare in Washington, but if she had one skill, it was knowing who to listen to. 

Ewing had given her what was necessary to outwit the chuckleheads at Commerce at three different times. His advice proved invaluable in keeping the staff with her—at a time when people quit the federal government in droves, she had kept a functioning unit, even casting off the idiotic “efficiency” shit that the short-lived Central Administrative Taskforce Service (CATS) had tried to pull off.

A few days ago, she’d asked Ewing to take a look at the possibility of the AI bubble crash. He hadn’t blinked, simply said that he’d be ready for this morning.

At exactly the appointed time, he entered the room and sat in front of her desk. He had a folder in his hands, no doubt filled with the facts and figures supporting his argument. Besides him, her Chief of Staff took another place, looking worried.

In one look, she understood that the news would not be good. He looked terrible, and that was even by his own undemanding standards. Had he slept over the past few days? No, it looked worse—not fatigue. Anxiety. Fear. Doom.

“All right, let’s hear it,” she said.

She knew how it would go—Ewin was a fan of top-down briefings, and so was she: State the conclusion, then work your way through the supporting evidence as the time allows. It was ideal for top-level briefings when no one knew how much time could be allocated to the discussion without further interruption.

“We’re fucked,” he said.

She blinked and took in the news, more for what it meant than what it was. His statement was really this: there would be considerable misery in the days, weeks and months ahead. The world would be unpleasant, maybe dangerous. For a while, she would wake up and be briefly happy until she remembered everything she had to face. The details were unimportant: she could simply thank him for his conclusion and close the meeting, and she would still get about ninety percent of what she would learn in the next few minutes.

But, of course, she didn’t. She would get the details.

“Please explain,” she said.

“The AI bubble is real,” he said with precise cadence. “It’s popping and it’s not going to be limited to the tech field. Even if the Fed intervenes, it’s going to splash the rest of the economy. No way around it. No safe place to go. No one will be spared.”

“Impact?”

“We’re talking depression-era statistics. April 2020 numbers for a decade, maybe more. If we’re lucky.”

“What’s happening?”

“What should have happened at least a year ago. Everyone finally understood that Generative AI is just a fancy toy. Sometimes useful, but not something indispensable. Not enough to pay for. Certainly not the harbinger of Artificial General Intelligence.”

She shrugged. “We knew that.”

“Yes, but what’s happening is that investors are finally realizing that they will never make back the hundreds of billions of dollars they’ve invested in AI projects. So, the smartest of them already took out their chips. Now the second-smartests are pulling out and the third-smartests are noticing. You see where this is going?”

“It can be reversed, or stop tomorrow morning.”

“No. Wecredit is cashing back their stake in FreedomAI. All of it. This means they’re not solvent any more. They never made a profit out of Generative AI. Let alone anyone else. If they go, no more data centre rentals. It also means the entire AI hardware market gets a massive discount as leftover cards flood the market and no one’s buying. Since every AI company owes money to each other, it’s going to get ugly.”

“Still seems limited,” she said weakly.

“Tell that to the non-tech stocks that just lost a quarter of their value. Contagion will touch everything. Banks going under, pension funds running short, countries unable to refinance their debts—for years, AI was the only thing propping up growth, and now that’s being knocked away. Now that everyone’s playing musical chairs, someone’s going to fall on their asses.”

“How much time?”

He shrugged.

“If the Fed makes reassuring noises, it may delay things by a day or two. Otherwise, meltdown in four days.”

“Meltdown?”

“Bank runs. Investment withdrawals on a massive scale. The AI bubble kept our economy afloat, and it was a sham all along. Portrait of an era. And we didn’t even get any useful infrastructure out of it. What do you think will happen to AI data centres when no one’s paying the bills?”

“This won’t happen for months.”

“No, but the market is not going to wait.”

“All of this because of AI? Something that doesn’t even work well?”

“Smoke and mirrors and people who were willing to be deceived. Hell, this has already stopped being about AI. This is now about everyone’s worst fears becoming true and stampeding toward the exit.”

“Is there anything anyone can do?”

“No. Normally, bailouts and money injection could work, but the coffers are empty. The entire government is underwater. There are already riots in the streets. How do you think they’ll react if the government hands out billions to their tech bros?”

“Maybe the other central banks?”

“Really? After the shit that Blunt’s been pulling over the past two years? They’ll dance on our graves.”

She leaned back in her chair.

“Okay, let’s focus on what we can do to minimize the damage. I’m going to have you focus on a plan for the agribusiness sector—“No, not me.’

“What?”

He took a sheet from his folder and slid it toward her.

“This is my resignation, effective yesterday. You got this briefing for free.”

“You can’t leave!”

“Already did. I cleaned out my office. Apartment keys handed back to the landlord. My car is packed, fuelled and ready to go.”

He took out his cell phone and keycard and left them on her desk.

“You said there’s no safe place.”

“I did, but there are places where this is going to be easier to weather.”

“Where are you going?”

He smiled and shook his head. Then he chuckled and got up, clearly intent on leaving.

“Goodbye, Miranda. For what it’s worth, I think there’s still hope for you.”

The Chief of Staff looked at her in distress as he left, but she shook her head. Let him go. If Logan Ewing came back to Agriculture, he would do so on his own.

Miranda absently went through her Chief of Staff’s rattled overview of her day, but her mind kept going back to Ewing. A doomsday briefing was one thing, but quitting at the end of it was something else. She could probably track him and eventually try to get him back. 

Or maybe he was wrong, for once, and things would look normal and silly next week.

She was left alone when her chief of staff went out to take care of business. Her next meeting got cancelled, so she was left to catch up on accumulated email. Still, the briefing still gnawed at her as her personal phone rang. Not the usual ringtone—the one for emergencies.

She fumbled the phone, but finally looked at it:  ANTLER, she read with a chill. That wasn’t a call she could ignore.

“Yes,” she said, acquiescing that she would listen to the instructions she would now receive.

“You are about to get an invitation to a cabinet dinner at the White House in three days from now. You will accept.”

The voice at the other end of the line was from one of the most powerful men on the planet. One who did not tolerate foolishness, and who was not to be questioned.

“Yes,” she said.

“You will go to the dinner. There will be a discussion about the fate of the republic. You will support Vice-President Kean in his suggestions.”

She stayed silent. That was the wrong choice.

“You were nominated for a very specific purpose. Do not forget your place. Sacrifices need to be made. Do you understand?”

This time she did not miss her cue.

“Yes, I understand.”

 

Chapter 2—Inside the Gates

Dave smiled and held Gabrielle’s hand. They walked toward the White House by way of the President’s Park, the iconic columns and triangular façade of the historic building in front of them. The lawn was green, it was warm and the sun was shining straight down on them.

“Let’s go to the White House!” laughed Gabrielle.

“Yes!” he said.

Then a man appeared in front of them. Serious. Shades. Walkie-talkie and earbuds.

“This is not a good idea,” the serious man said. “Go back and forget about this.”

Dave shrugged.

“Okay!”  There had to be a good reason for this. They could come back later. 

“Yeah, let’s go back to Canada!” said Gabrielle.

That sounded like a great idea!

“We can ride all the way there!” said Gabrielle.

Dave looked down, and there were bicycles on the lawn. What fun it would be to ride back to Toronto!

But as they were getting on the bicycles, the air shook with the sound of an explosion.

They turned back. 

There was a hole in the White House’s main building. Thick black smoke spewed into the air. They could see pieces of the building blown high up in the sky.

“Watch out!” he said, shielding Gabrielle with his arm.

All around them, chunks of white marble landed on the lawn with thuds, embedding themselves into the soft ground like broken teeth.

“Are you OK?” he asked, panicked. He ran his tongue around his mouth. All his teeth were there.

“I’m fine,” she said. “But they’re not.”

She pointed and he looked. 

Shambling figures staggered out of the dust from the explosion. They barely looked alive. The fire from the explosion had charred their skin, burned off their hair and clothes. They advanced with difficulty, moaning at every step.

Dave looked up. The explosion from the White House was now a pillar of fire and smoke rising like a gray-and-orange mushroom cloud.

The figures were all moaning something. He listened and approached them.

“This is your fault, Dave. This is your fault.”

He froze as they approached him. They did not have eyes. Their faces were barely recognizable as human. But they all came toward him. Gabrielle was nowhere to be seen as they encircled him, pointing hands with missing fingers at him.

“You’re still alive. DO SOMETHING.”

Dave gasped, curled in a ball, opened his eyes and found himself in a hotel room. The thin February sunlight was barely visible around the blackout curtains. Gabrielle wasn’t in the bed, but he heard the shower running. 

Heartbeat still pounding, he came back to reality. Just a bad dream. Just nerves. Just his brain playing tricks on the morning of his biggest show to date. They were going to the White House! 

He got up and, to drown out the fading memories of his nightmare, turned on the TV. It was tuned to a news channel, and, as usual, it was all bad. Top of the hour was the stock market—an eighth straight day of losses, down fifty percent from the top, and the overnight trading indicators were not looking any better. Two banks were looking at bankruptcy due to AI bubble losses. Pressure was building on the White House to do something, and some kind of emergency cabinet meeting was taking place that night. 

Things didn’t get any better once the news took a break from the economy. Overnight riots in five cities as ICE officers were asked to protect banks against protestors. A fourth plane crash in a week, this time into an Atlanta residential neighbourhood. Toxic cloud in Idaho from a train derailment—thirteen dead. More countries were telling their citizens to get out of the United States, following in the footsteps of Canada. A democratic congressman has been assaulted during one of his townhall meetings by three guys wearing camouflage masks.

Dave turned off the TV. There was a reason why he didn’t pay attention to politics. It was all the same. They were all corrupt. Whatever the problem, they were not the solution. Sure, Blunt was bad, but was anyone really any better? Whatever. He’d focus on buildings—that, at least, he’d understand.

Which led to another mental micro-argument with Gabi. This one was familiar enough that she didn’t even need to be there for it to happen. This was the “you don’t care about politics but politics cares about you, Dave” argument.

One of the things that had attracted him to Gabrielle was her passion for everything. She didn’t follow politics—she marched at demonstrations and signed petitions. She didn’t take up South Korean cuisine—she’d spend weeks perfecting a recipe. She didn’t just take up filmmaking—she became a pro-level camera operator. 

But that came with drawbacks, and his lack of interest in politics was one of the things that she really disliked about him. No matter how he tried to explain that they couldn’t possibly make any difference, that politics was like pro wrestling with ugly people, she wouldn’t accept it—and the argument often mutated into the “how can a smart guy like you can be so stupid” variant that he didn’t like.

Ugh. And now they were walking into the White House with that academic that Gabrielle insisted they drag along for expert commentary—someone he didn’t know, but knew the history of the building and had scored some kind of viral hit with the weird name—Kiwi crazy, or something. At least the academic was doing it for free and paid for her own travel, which would keep their costs down.

He opened the blackout drapes. Speaking of cutting costs… here they were, technically in Washington, DC but about as far from the White House as it was possible while still being within District limits. At least it was cheaper for the stay. They’d need to take a taxi, though—they weren’t even close to a metro line.

As he took in the dismal view, Gabrielle stepped out of the bathroom and approached him. She opened her robe and wrapped her arms around him for a big hug. He could feel her nipples on his back, and that made him smile in remembrance of the previous night—one of the reasons they’d insisted on a hotel technically located in the District was that they could add another city to their list of “places Dave and Gabi had sex”—twenty-six states and counting. And yesterday had been great.

He turned to kiss her and she almost purred.

“Hey there,” she said, “keep some energy for today. Or tonight.”

She smiled and drew back to get dressed. He, as usual, enjoyed the nudity. 

But that was also his cue to get ready. Showering effectively, not forgetting a quick shave to look presentable, he was in and out of the bathroom in fifteen minutes, by which time Gabi was already putting together the day’s equipment pack. 

Their audiovisual equipment was spread on the hastily made bedsheets. She looked things over one last time, made a last-minute substitution for one of the fill-in lights and packed everything in three carrying cases. Meanwhile, he called up a taxi.

Moments later, they were in the lobby, then in the taxi.

“Where too, boss?” said the driver.

“The White House,” couldn’t resist Dave.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Why go there?” wondered the driver before falling silent.

After that chilly start, Dave had worked overtime to warm up the guy a little. Throughout their drive down the highway, he explained that they had a video channel about debunking haunted houses, and that seemed to cheer the driver.

“Not political?”

“Not at all!” laughed Dave, trying to ignore the daggers that Gabrielle was undoubtedly staring his way.

By mid-trip, the driver was friendly again. If Dave knew anything, it was charming people.

“You’re lucky duckies! Morning traffic is just dying down!”

Indeed, their transit time had been pretty good so far.

But then things slowed to a standstill four blocks away from their destination.

“I’m not sure what’s going on, boss,” said the driver. “Things have been weird around the White House this week. Accidents, arrests, all the crackpots going crazy! Could be a protest.”

“Does that take a long time?”

The driver hesitated.

“Look, you’re good people and I don’t want to scam you. We could be here for half an hour if you really want the drive, or you can pay me now. I turn at the next right, and you walk three blocks with your equipment. Your choice.”

Dave thanked him, paid, and hurriedly got their cases from the trunk. Gabi, who was in a better shape than him, didn’t object—and as usual he carried two of the three cases.

As predicted by the driver, the traffic wasn’t going anywhere. Emergency flashes announced something serious up ahead, but the exact nature of it only became obvious once they couldn’t avoid going past on the other side of the street. Nor avoiding a ghoulish look at the ongoing work.

There had been a serious accident during the morning—a small car had crashed into a truck carrying construction supplies, and emergency personnel were surrounding the car. Someone was wailing. Dave saw that some construction supplies—a steel pipe, among other things—had smashed through the windshield.

As they walked past on the other side of the street, he stopped, looked closer and regretted it.

The passenger had been decapitated. Blood had splashed the inside of the car, and some of it was dripping on the street as they extracted the corpse.

They were working on extracting the driver, but the woman looked unresponsive. When they placed her on a gurney, Dave saw that the entire side of her face had been ripped away.

At the back of the car, two kids were bawling.

“Come on, Dave,” nudged Gabrielle.

He shook his head and resumed his walk.

“I thought building supplies had to be fastened down,” he said weakly.

“They’re barely enforcing regulations these days,” she said. “As above, so below.”

Uh-oh—was this the start of the “United States is a failed state” rant? 

Apparently not: Gabrielle didn’t add anything more as they kept walking.

They were supposed to meet their expert in Lafayette Park, then to walk down south to register at the White House Visitor Center. Gabi hoped she’d get a few shots of the building along the way to maximize their shooting time. The chief engineer would meet them at the centre, but both of them knew that they would only get less than a day’s worth of shooting inside the building.

Finally, they saw the white building as they walked closer. The straps of the cases were starting to dig in Dave’s shoulders, so he was looking forward to a brief stop. Fortunately, Lafayette Park was right there.

“I hope you can recognize her,” he said, not quite puffing.

“You haven’t watched her videos?”

“No time.”

“Hmph. Well, I said I’d meet her at Lafayette’s statue, and we’re still a few minutes early.”

But as it turned out, the woman was there before they were. Even while not knowing what she looked like, Dave somehow knew exactly who she was.

For one thing, she was standing at the base of the Marquis de LaFayette statues, not busy scrolling on her phone, no headphones in, no pacing or showing any sign of impatience—she was just there, looking around in curiosity, taking in the sights of early-morning Washington.

But what struck him most was just how at ease she looked. A woman in her fifties, she wore her long graying hair with pride. She wore a comfortable shawl, smart rimless glasses, and sensible shoes. None of it matched, but somehow it all fit together. Most of all, she seemed completely comfortable, without any hint of self-consciousness. She was plain-looking, yet attractive in her own way.

Gabrielle quickened her pace to be the first to meet her.

“Samantha Sheer!” she said. “I’m a big fan!”

“Well, thank you. And you are Dave Bunker. ‘De-bunked!’” she said while imitating his familiar sign-off hand gesture.

Well, that was embarrassing. He hadn’t seen a single one of her videos, and here she was, having already binged a few of them.

“Thank you so much for the invitation! I mean, you’re the channel star, but,” she turned toward Gabrielle, “she must be your better half if she invited me!”

Smiling, he nodded. Now he had a better idea why she was going viral.

“As I wrote,” said Gabrielle, “we were hoping you’d fill us in on the history of the building.”

“I can do that! Look, the White House is such a rich place for spooky stories—I mean, people were born then, married there, died there—“‘Wait, wait!” said Gabrielle, “I want to shoot that!”

As Gabrielle unpacked the essential equipment for outdoors shooting, Dave knew what to do—he reached out into one of the cases and took out two Lavalier mikes—one for him and one for Sheer. 

Sheer took a microphone and its pack from his hands and efficiently installed it by herself. He hefted the recording device.

“One of those fifty-hour devices? Leave it running all day long?”

“We’ll swap in the audio if the camera sound isn’t good enough.”

“I’ve been wondering about those. Of course, I usually record at my computer. But when it comes to the microphones, I’ve done enough TV interviews to know the drill.”

Always a pleasure to deal with a professional.

“I’m really surprised that the White House approved my clearance, though,” she said. “After the Kakistocracy video, I thought I’d be on a list or something.”

“We just submitted the names, and we got through.”

“You must have a sponsor inside.”

“The Chief Engineer called us. Wrote in to say that he wanted someone to reassure the kitchen and housekeeping staff that there wasn’t anything spooky going on.”

“Well, the White House does have a long history of ghosts and supernatural spooks.”

“Hold it for the camera!” said Gabrielle, now fully decked out with camera and headphones. “How about we move close to the building for a shot?”

They quickly crossed the blocked-off Pennsylvania Avenue and moved toward the front of the White House. This early in the morning, not many people were around and they could get a great shot of the White House’s north façade. The fence would be in the way, but that added to the forbidden thrill of being allowed inside. Gabrielle quickly explained the camera move she wanted as an introduction, told them to stay near their marks and framed Dave from the East, taking advantage of the sun at their back for better colours and contrast.

“Go when you are,” she said, turning on the camera.

“Hello, Debunkers! This is Dave, and we’ve got a monster show for you today. Here we are in Washington, DC<about to get inside and investigate the creepiest, scariest, spookiest building in the entire nation. I’m talking, of course, about…”

Gabrielle moved the camera to reveal the building, perfectly framing Dave’s pointing index.

“…the White House.”

A knowing nod.

“With us today, we have a very special guest. Some of you may already know her, and if you don’t, please go and watch her videos. She’s an academic, an expert in American history and the creator behind the viral Kakistocracy video-“Whew—good thing Gabrielle had just mentioned it again.

“—I’m, of course, talking about the lovely and talented Samatha Sheer. Such an honour! Welcome to De-Bunked, Samantha!”

“De-Bunked !” she imitated with enthusiasm.

“Now, you’re here to tell us all sorts of things about what we don’t know about the White House—is that correct?”

“I hope so, Dave! You have to understand that the White House is one of the oldest buildings in the entire nation. It was built two hundred and thirty-five years ago, burned down by the British, rebuilt a few times, and renovated every few years. It’s been the home for every single president of the United States except for George Washington, and interestingly enough, it took more than a decade after its construction before people started calling it the White House.”

“But it’s not only one building, right?”

“Right! Everyone knows the Executive Residence, which is the central building we all see on TV as is behind us right now. But that building is only one of three, and it’s dedicated to being the residence of the President and his family, plus a place to host dignitaries and, of course, tourists. Fun fact—the Executive Residence has third-five bathrooms!”

“Well, that’s a relief!”

They both shared a laugh.

“Then there’s the West Wing, which is the workplace of the president and his closest staff. That is where, contrary to what many think, the Oval Office is actually located—not in the central building. Finally, there’s the East Wing—formerly a visitor’s centre and the offices of the First Lady, but recently rebuilt as a ballroom.”

“All right!”

He turned to the camera.

“Guess what, debunkers? We’ve been invited to go take a look inside the White House—and not the usual tourist tour either. We are going deep inside the place to take a look behind the curtains, at the ghosts and gremlins that could be inside.”

He stopped.

“Perfect!” said Gabrielle.

“No pick-ups?”

“Do you want one?”

He thought about it. Gabi’s take was perfect, but still a one-shot. 

“How about a few longer shots of us talking? Then we’ll head to the visitors’ centre.”

“Got it!”

She stepped back, enjoying the space while no one else was crowding the place. It would be otherwise soon—already, he could see people with banners clustering at the edge of the blocked-off area, negotiating with the police.

“We’ll just talk a little bit,” he said, “while she shoots coverage. Same position.”

“I know how it works. Did you get an ambient tone, at least?”

“Um—‘

“I’m kidding! Of course she did!’

“So, you’re saying the White House is haunted?”

She took a deep breath.

“There are many ways to answer that question. On the dumbest level, sure, there have been many reports of the White House being haunted over the years. I’ll bring it up during our tour—The Thing said to touch visitors on the shoulders, the ghost of Lincoln, or the haunting by William Henry Harrison, who was the first president to die in the White House—‘“The first?’

“Two Presidents and three first ladies have died inside the House. One child of a president, too—one of Lincoln’s sons. Then the father of a first lady, a mother of another first lady, a congressman and a press secretary who died at his desk. A total of ten people in all.”

“Jesus.”

“Of course, tales of haunting are most likely bullshit. A combination of an old building, tall tales and impressionable people—not to mention those old building issues you usually find out.”

“Right.”

“But on another register, the White House is literally haunted by the past. It was built by slaves. For decades, it was staffed by the slaves of the serving presidents. Every single bad decision that has affected this country was taken here. Native genocide, foreign invasions, internment camps, deportations, nuclear bomb launches—all hatched and decided here. When Truman decided to drop the first atomic bombs, he reported hearing scratches coming from the office. He was convinced the place was haunted by Lincoln.”

“But by that time, the White House was so old that it was entirely rebuilt after he left office. It creaked because it was about to fall apart.”

“Right. But in a sense, the White House is overwhelmed by its history. It has been in non-stop use for centuries. Every president who steps inside has to contend with the legacy of his predecessors, who have all stepped more or less in the same place. This is powerful stuff.”

🏛️

It wasn’t even ten in the morning and the evening was already falling apart.

“NO!” screamed Peggy in her phone. “The President is busy working and he’s not giving any interviews! Stop calling, and go fuck yourself with an electric knife!”

As she ended the call, she once again missed the old bulky telephones, where you could just not end the call, but slam the receiver in its cradle. More than once, if necessary, just to be sure you passed on the message. Now it was a finger on glass.   Sure, you could throw the phone at the wall, but she knew from experience that it was a pain to set up a new phone. And until you did, you had to walk around with a cracked screen like one of the poors.

But that wasn’t the problem. The problem is that Blunt had tweeted something stupid again, and a few hours would need to be wasted trying to damage control everything. In a single squirt, he had managed to claim at once that that the crisis WASN’T REAL, that it was a DELIBERATE PLAN BY HIS ENEMIES TO DESTROY HIM, that ANTIFA INCOMPETENTS HAD CAUSED IT, that it was a TERRIBLE THREAT TO THE NATION and that it would DISAPPEAR BY ITSELF in two weeks. The few journalists who had managed to get her phone number were calling one after another to ask what the president’s true position was—knowing he did not have one. Meanwhile, all of this was going against their plan of showing a united Cabinet taking the issue seriously enough to have a dinner about it.

Speaking of which…

“No!” she screamed at the chief usher, “not the blue covers! The white-and-gold ones!”

Setting up the East room for the cabinet dinner was trickier than expected—it was a working supper and the optics of the thing required giving the impression that it was a cabinet working together. This meant a setup halfway between a working room and a dinner. The usual arrangement of having several small round tables wasn’t good: it gave the impression of disconnected groups. So it had to be a single square-table arrangement, with multiple tables linked together into an empty square cable of sitting thirty.

“And the president’s place is at the top of the room!” she pointed. “Why is this so hard? Aren’t you supposed to take care of those things?”

“Yes ma’am,” he had enough sense to mumble in between what was nearly a bow.

“Now what’s the service situation tonight?”

“Minimal staff,” he repeated from previous instructions, “but enough to serve the dinner.”

“That’s right. How many is that?”

“The food is being prepared during the day. Come six o’clock, we’ll be down to two chefs in the kitchen and six serving staff. One for every five guests.”

Good. Great. Fewer people around. She quickly added everyone else who would be on hand—twenty-five cabinet members, plus a handful of stakeholders. That was thirty people around the table. The rest of the White House would not be empty, but they could be told to stick to the West Wing for the duration of the event. Add to that a photographer, videographer, and that unremovable stain-weasel Hiller. They could keep it under forty for the main event. Less than fifty with the secret service.

She circled the room, picturing the evening’s dinner in her mind. Form followed purpose, but the purpose here was something else that promised. An evening dinner, pitched as a problem-solving summit between the cabinet members and a few of the most powerful billionaires. As long as they got some good pictures and clips out of it, that would go over with the base and the credulous—See, the president’s doing something so why don’t you calm down and keep your money in the bank?

The timing of it was trickier, though. Dinner at seven, work session until nine. Getting Blunt to stay on meds for two hours would be the challenge, although the recent re-dosing seemed to have stabilized him, even against the usual sundowning. Still, two hours would be the limit. After that, depending on the discussions, most of the junior flunkies unaware of the subbasement would be sent home with a pat on the back—who needed people like the Secretary of Agriculture anyway? —, and the real work would begin. The inner circle would then take care of things. 

Which reminded her—where were the aperitifs?

She called her secret service contact over at the Visitor’s Centre.

🏛️

No one can just show up at the White House and step right in, knew Dave. Their contact had told them to go where the other visitors to the White House usually went—the Visitors’ Centre two blocks south-east of the Executive Residence, where the visitors to the building went for security screening before being allowed within the gates of the grounds.

“I hope we don’t have too much trouble with the screening,” mumbled Gabrielle.

It wasn’t so much about her Canadian passport, Dave knew—they’d sent in their information for prescreening a few days ago, and ad apparently been cleared. It was for the equipment that they lugged around: While it was standard audiovisual equipment for a small channel like them, there was often one lunkheaded security guard who thought everything was a bomb. Dave supposed that it wasn’t a good idea to snap back at them that everything was heavy enough as it was.

Still, they were on time even after trekking down Fifteenth Street, and the lineup to the screening booth wasn’t that long.

While they were waiting, Samantha (who had volunteered to take the third case) leaned toward Dave and Gabrielle.

“So, did you ever see something spooky in those haunted houses that you weren’t able to explain?”

Gabi laughed. He knew why.

“It’s not as if we can identify absolutely everything,” said Dave. “But I’m satisfied with the explanations that I find.”

Unfortunately.

“Dave is never wrong,” said Gabrielle.

“I could be, I suppose, but most of the haunted house characteristics fall into only a few categories of explanation. Of course, that excludes anything that’s solely in the head of the owners.”

“You have many of those?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Well, at least before we learned how to spot them and reject their application.”

“A lot of people enjoy thinking they’re in a haunted house. You can’t convince them of a rational explanation. Or people with obvious issues—they’re the haunted ones.”

“Or that guy who went out of his way to play tricks on Dave.”

“Good thing you had set up backup cameras for that one,” Dave laughed.

Their trip down memory lane was cut short by arriving at the security kiosk. Gabi went first, dropping the equipment case on the conveyor belt next to the full-body scanner. Hopefully, those stickers about AUDIOVISUAL EQUIPMENT INSIDE and their channel logo would do the trick. She handed over her passport before walking through the scanner.

No alarms. The security guards weren’t in a mood to take things easy, and they started at Dave so that he could move through. He dropped the cases, handed over his papers and walked through.

Again, no alarm. Samantha was familiar with the procedure—again, case, paper, scanner.

They were now through the scanner, but the security officers weren’t giving back either their papers or their equipment cases. Three of them conferred next to the computer telling them all about them.

I wonder what level of detail is included, though Dave. Hey, I have a Wikipedia page!

One of the guards made a call on his walkie-talkie. Out of a side door, a man with khaki pants and a SECRET SERVICE protective vest came to see them, looked at the papers, the computer, his own cell phone and had a quick conversation.

Then one of the agents waved them through.

“All clear,” he said. “Someone will be with you in a minute.”

Amazingly, they were handed their equipment cases without further inspection, and herded off the sides of the security screening line—inside the secured zone, but not in the way.

“Hm,” said Dave.

Gabi nodded. This was shared speak for “Let’s talk about this later once we’re out of earshot.”  It’s not because they were inside the perimeter that they would stay outside, especially if they started trash-talking the security service in their faces.

Samantha got the message as well, and stayed silent.

They had to wait five minutes, but someone did show up: An older black man with coveralls, a short gray beard and a buzz cut. 

“Dave!” he called out. “De-bunked!”

Dave smiled. That catchphrase was the dumbest thing about their show, but when it worked, it worked.

“You’ve got to be Harry Newson,” he said, shaking his hand.

“That I am! And you all are…”

“My lovely wife and camerawoman Gabrielle.”

Harry stopped and turned toward Dave.

“You married a sista? My man!”

Harry gave him a fist bump, which Dave met out of instinct. Then they both laughed.

“I mean, I never saw you on-screen.”

“Part of our prenup,” said Gabi, “I handle the camera, and I never show up on screen.”

“Yeah, it works for us.”

He turned to introduce the third member of their group.

“And that’s our American History expert, Samantha Sheer—“

‘Oh yeah!”

Harry lowered his voice and brought his head closer to theirs.

“I watched that Kakistocracy video a few nights ago. So good.”

Had everyone watched that video?

Samantha leaned in further. 

“Thank you. But let’s not mention it too loud.”

They all chuckled.

“So, are you ready to go hunt some presidential ghosts?”

🏛️

Miranda was being driven to an industry luncheon—a meat-packing industry event in which she was expected to show up, although not speak—when her phone rang. 

It was Gordon Stassen, Secretary of Labor. One of the few members of the cabinet with whom she got along. He wasn’t obviously crazy; he was happily married and never hit on her; and just like her, he tried to do as good of a job as he could under the circumstances. Of course, being the Secretary of Labor in this cabinet was asking to be marginalized. If she had anyone she could share frustrations with, it was with him.

Not that she trusted him completely. Washington being Washington.

“Hey, Miranda. Going to tonight’s dinner.”

“We don’t get to choose, Gord.”

“Right. So, ah, you got a call from ANTLER?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m thinking it’s going to happen tonight.”

Miranda inhaled. It being the thing that had been hush-hush discussed ever since the beginning of Blunt’s second term. The Conspiracy to Save America, they’d called it.

“I’m not so sure it will happen tonight, but I think someone’s going to decide whether to get it in motion tonight.”

“Do you think we have the votes?”

“I’m thinking we’re at seven votes. I’d say eight, but you heard Hoegh last night?”

“Yeah. Could be misdirection, but he’s not that good of an actor.”

Both of them stayed silent.

“There’s going to be a push tonight,” he said. “It’s now or never. You saw the news?”

She was glued to the news. A third major bank had announced insolvency. FreedomAI was declaring bankruptcy to avoid debt repayment and suddenly the tech giants had no money left. Microsoft and Amazon were each slashing tens of thousands of jobs. Two of the three credit rating agencies had downgraded the US standing at A, with a negative outlook. The Dow had lost three thousand points, triggering the circuit breakers for the third time that week. Even the quick analysis from The Economist sounded hysterical.

“I’ve seen the news.”

She thought about it. Thought about Ewing leaving for parts unknown.

“Shit. It has to happen tonight.”

🏛️

“I’m going to ask you to turn off your cameras here, please.”

Gabrielle obeyed, lowering the camera and turning off the power.

Dave could understand why – they were about to step into the new East Wing ballroom.  Harry was using his own staff access to get in. 

“Thank you.  New construction,” said Harry, “not unveiled to the public yet, so don’t get me in trouble.”

“Right!  Is it nearly done?”

“Well, see for yourself,” he said opening the door.

The New East Wing had been endlessly hyped by Blunt himself, in his characteristic understated style, as AN ESSENTIAL LEGACY FOR THE AMERICAN PEOPLE, as a HISTORIC ADDITION BRINGING CLASS TO A SHITHOLE BUILDING, as the CLASSIEST, MOST BEST BALLROOM IN THE WORLD and a THE MOST CONSEQUENTIAL ADDITION TO THE WHITE HOUSE IN A CENTURY REFLECTING THE GREATNESS THAT IS ME, although that last one was disputed due to no one believing that Blunt knew the word “consequential” – either figuratively or literally. 

The ballroom has been delivered in record time, albeit not under budget.  The official unveiling was set a few weeks from now, in time for the start of the spring ball season.  Blunt often fixated on the addition during the rambling that passed as a speech these days – hyping its design, construction, decoration and purpose.

A hush fell on the visiting group as they entered the massive space.  If it was to be classy and historic, they were running out of time to do so.

It looking like a Costco Warehouse crudely decorated with tacky faux-marble columns and plastic-gold trim.  The floor was bottom-grade tiling.  The steel columns’ marble paneling ended well before their final height.  The panels on the ceiling looked uneven.  Tapping on the wall, Dave heard a hollow sound – tell-tale sign of a too-thin partition.  He stomped on the floor like he used to and was rewarded by a slight creaking noise.

Dave understood what had happened – a tale as old as time when it came to overambitious plans, incompetent owners, profit-seeking general contractors, insane schedules and overworked sub-contractors.  So many corners had been gleefully cut that the result was a big ball of junk.

He looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow.  Harry raised an eyebrow and nodded back.

“Can I see the bathroom?”

Harry chuckled.  “Of course.”

“Got to go, Dave?” asked Gabi playfully.

“Just want to check something.  You can come along and be amazed at a men’s bathroom.”

Harry led them to the nearest bathroom.  Inside, Dave kneeled down and looked at the plumbing.  All cheap components – lowest-bidder stuff that you could pick up at the nearest home depot.  He touched one of the golden pipes, and tapped on it.  His eyes widened.  The noise he heard back was plastic – PVC painted as gold.  He scratched and some gold pain remained under his fingernail.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” repeated Harry behind him.  Too polite to tell Dave what he really thought, but happy that Dave was coming to the same conclusions.

Dav tssk-ed and washed his hands, scrubbing the gold flakes.  Unfortunately, we went too vigorously at his and his hand scratched the underneath of the faux-marble countertop over the sink.

“Aah!” he gasped.

“Dave!” said Gabrielle. “Are you OK?”

He wasn’t – there was an un polished burr in the countertop and it had just scratched a gash in the back of his hand, opposite the thumb.  Only an inch long and shallow enough that it wouldn’t require stiches or , but dark-red blood quickly pooled in the scratch, dripping into the sink.

“First aid kit”, he said simply as Harry and Smantha made concerned noises – but Gabi was already on it. 

“Hey, I can get help.”

“No need, we’re got it,” said Gabrielle.

In their third equipment case, there was a small container of plasters, bandages and field disinfectants.  Exactly the kind of thing you might need when poking around dark basements and inside old constructions.  After the second time it happened and the embarrassment of seeking first-aid supplies from the house owners, they had made the kit an essential part of their loadout.  Not that they ever expected to use in in the White House.

She handed him glue and a bandaid.  Efficiently, he washed his hand – so much blood from such a small scratch –, then poured glue over the wound and pressed a first band-aid on it.  This would close the wound enough that he wouldn’t need to worry about it. 

Although it would nag at him.  As with all shallow cuts, it exposed the nerves under the skin without severing them, so it hurt like a son of a bitch and would keep hurting like a son of a bitch for a few hours, then sting dully for a day or two. 

Satisfied that the glue was taking hold, he put a second bandage on top of it.  It was close enough to the tone of his skin to be almost-imperceptible at first glance, and easily erasable from footage.

“Wow, you guys are professional,” said Samantha, clearly put off by the sight of blood.

“Good job.  I wish I could say that this is the East Wing’s first blood, but there’s a been a few accidents over here already.  You know –”

“—late schedules, overworked contractors, dodgy safety procedures?” answered Dave, lightly flexing his hand to check motricity.

“I’m glad you were the one saying it.”

“Well, I think we’ve seen everything we needed already.”

“The thing is,” said Smantha while walking through the ballroom to the colonnade leading to the executive residence, “the destruction of the East Wing had a strong symbolic value.  For decades, it was the softer third of the White House – where the visitors were greeted, where the first lady had her offices, where the movie theater was installed, where the correspondence and communication staff did business.  It wasn’t the diplomatic suite of the executive residence, nor the hard-edged political battlefield of the west wing.  It was the closest that the White House was to the people.”

Dave was startled as the older woman made a noise – her foot had caught in a small uneven tile on the floor.

“It’s a symbol of this administration that it would be simply destroyed on a whim and replaced by something only of interest to donors and party bagmen.”

Yeah, they had seen enough.

“This place hasn’t had time to accumulate ghosts, yet,” said Harry.  “I think you’ll find the basements of the Executive Residence more interesting when it comes to chills and thrills.”

🏛️

Mid-afternoon was pure madness. Peggy was this close to blowing a casket.

She wasn’t answering her phone any more, unless it was from one of the half-dozen people she absolutely had to.  In-between managing the cabinet dinner and the ongoing AI bubble crisis, she barely had thirty second in-between firefighting.  Items were piling up and every fifteen minutes brought some fresh new shit to manage.

“A third person just set themselves on fire on Pennsylvania avenue,” said the Press Secretary. “barely half an hour after the previous one’s corpse was taken away.”

“Good fucking riddance.”

“Must have been some woke snowflake!”

They both laughed.  One less voter to deal with!

“They closed down Pennsylvania.”

“We should sell tickets and cans of gasoline.  Matches are on us.  At least we’d make some money out of it.”

“And get to see some of them burn.”

They laughed again.  It was good to have a moment of fun in the middle of such a shitty day.”

The Press Secretary left, and Peggy go the Chief Usher on the line.

“How are we doing on the dinner?”

“The entire cabinet has confirmed they’d be there.  The billionaires are flying in.  We’ve got the pool photographer and cameraman on standby.”

“Kitchen and support staff?”

“All the prep will be done by six.  The cleaning crew is leaving by five, will pick up tomorrow morning.”

“Great.  The fewer the people, the better.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That includes you.”

“Of course.”

She ended the call.  He didn’t even had time to put the phone in her packet that it rang again.  She checked the caller ID:  Veep-Veep.

She sighed.  Vice-President Kean wasn’t one of her favourite people.  She’d been critical of his selection – he was a political opportunist of the first order who had done considerable mileage criticizing Blunt as one of the “moderates” before flipping his tune entirely once Blunt took the lead again in the polls.  But she understood that he’d been part of a package deal with the billionaires – pick our boy, they’d said in smoke-filled backrooms, and we’ll help you.  And help them they had. 

The help hadn’t stopped at the election: Blunt was so uninterested in running government that he let the billionaires set the entire political agenda.  While Blunt enjoyed the pageantry of being the president and lording his victory over his enemies, the billionaire-financed think-tanks prepared the executive orders, and the media speaking points.  Norms, traditions and laws mattered little when there were regulations to dismantle, tax rates to be cut, legal threats to neutralize and money to be made.  Peggy had seen how some people got previews of federal announcements and made money out of knowing which way the market was going to blow.  But that was small potatoes compared to setting an agenda that strictly favoured the rich as long as a side-order of cultural war kept the masses occupied.

Peggy could live with all of this, and that wasn’t her beef with Kean.  She was herself getting richer, and that was the sweetest revenge over every single person who had belittled her along the way. 

But Kean – ugh.  Initially known for an autobiography that took a steaming shit over the underprivileged corner of Oregon he came from, Kean had started believing his own hype.  His relish at Blunt’s decline was too obvious – he was practically trying out the chair in the Oval Office.  It wasn’t clear to Peggy whether he was forgetting that he was a puppet of the billionaires, or if he was enthusiastic about it.  Someone at the NSA had sent Peggy a really interesting package of intercepted communications between Kean and other parties that had led to the early foiling of an assassination plot against the President, and Peggy was still mulling on how to make use of this.

All of this to say that she wasn’t Kean’s biggest fan.  In fact, let her never be alone in an isolated place with Kean, because only one of them would get out of the room – and she was confident about her chances against veep-veep tubby-boy.

“Chief of staff, make it quick.”

“Yeah, it’s about that cabinet dinner.”

“You’re invited.  Isn’t that enough?  See you there.”

“Wait!  I’ve got one more guest to put on the list.  Thursk is coming to town.”

Peggy bit down on her lip.  She could invite Kean to go suck her dick, except that the request probably wouldn’t bother him nor would it make much of a difference long-term: she served at the pleasure of the president and if he took over, she was going to be fired within thirty seconds no matter what.  Instead, she chose to waste a few minutes in an attempt to make nice.

“You are aware that there’s a limited number of seats.”

“Just add a chair.”

Yeah, on top of the President’s seat no doubt.

“The meal prep is almost over.”

“Yes, but Thursk doesn’t eat.”

No, he drinks blood from virgin boys, she thought.  Allegedly.

“He did tell us he wasn’t coming.”

“He changed his mind.”

“And why am I learning this from you?”

“We tried calling, but you’re not answering.”

She winced.  Of course, this was power-play bullshit:  Thursk was doing this to keep people off-guard, avoid any mention of his name being included in the list of attendees, or simply to piss her off. 

Not that she had any choice.  Fine, then, Thursk could barge into the country’s most exclusive dinner and get his chair.  He had paid for the privilege, after all.  The Chief Usher would scream, but that was his job.  And she would enjoy passing on and inflicting some misery on such a terrible day. 

🏛️

Late-afternoon, and Dave was feeling pretty good about the day so far.  Harry had taken them on a complete tour of the White House, occasionally passing on a section of the tour so someone on his staff so that he could attend to some business, but otherwise being a very knowledgeable guide.  Samantha provided the on-air commentary with Dave, and Gabrielle looked as if she was having a ball filming the White House. 

Their tour hadn’t been ghost-oriented so far, though: They’d stuck to the above-ground floors, and the areas that weren’t off-limit to visitors.  They’d steered clear of the ground floor of the West Wing because, as the constant flurry of people walking quickly constantly reminded them, this was a day of crisis and the White House was at work.  They’d also stayed away from the Executive Residence’s State Dinner Room because a fancy dinner of some sort was going to happen there – but as Harry had said, if they were up to the long hours they would probably be able to visit the West Wing and the Oval Office while the dinner would take place.

So, in order to recharge their batteries (an expression Gabi was taking seriously, considering how she was plugging a power bar into the wall socket), they’d decided to drop by the White House Mess and have a short meal.  Dave offered to pay, but Harry wasn’t having any of it – “This is one of the best day I’ve had in months, so that’s part of my thank you.”

Dave noticed that Harry’s intentions in getting here may go slightly beyond eating and providing a meal to his visitors – he left them alone to have a quick chat with the chef, and it was obviously from the blushing, furtive gazes and laughing that something was going on there.