by Amy Cross
She pauses, before leaning back against the wall and taking another drag.
“Oh you do, do you?” she asks with a smile.
“I'm doing some research.”
“How old are you?”
“That's not -”
“Early twenties? That's a little young to be doing research, isn't it?”
“It's complicated,” I reply, hoping to avoid going into too much detail. “I'm studying something that's... Well, it's a little off the beaten track, but it's very important to me. I've been reading into the stories about this place and I'm trying to gather evidence, maybe even prove that they're true.”
“Stories?” Again, she furrows her brow. “The only stories I've heard about this place are ghost stories, but you can't mean those, right?”
“I'm looking for the ghost in room nine.”
“Pull the other one,” she replies. “Why would -”
She stops suddenly.
“Wow,” she continues finally, “you're serious, aren't you? I thought you were trying to wind me up, but you're actually on a ghost hunt.”
“It's a scientific research project,” I reply, bristling slightly at that phrase ghost hunt. “I'm not just some idiot with a camera and a blog.”
“I never said you were,” she replies, before stepping closer as if she wants to get a better look at me. As if she thinks I'm weird. “So have you spotted anything yet?”
“It's still very early.”
She checks her watch. “It's barely gone one.”
“That's early.”
“Oh yeah?” Her smile grows. “Well, maybe I should let you get on with it. I don't wanna interrupt your fun. Good luck, and I hope you run into Casper or whoever you're looking for.”
She gives me a condescending pat on the shoulder as she slips past, and I can tell that she thinks I'm just some dumb kid.
“I already heard someone sobbing in my room,” I tell her.
Turning, I see that she's stopped a little further along the corridor, and after a moment she turns back to me. I know I should just let her go, I know it doesn't matter one jot what she thinks, but at the same time I want to make her realize that I'm actually onto something.
“I heard the ghost of Gwendoline Emmervessy,” I continue. “She's real. And soon, I'll be able to prove it.”
1:35am
“You can only stay for a couple of minutes,” I mutter as I reach the door and slip the key into the lock. “I don't want you to disturb the room too much.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I see that Gloria is watching me with that same hint of amusement that I noticed earlier. Apparently she thinks I'm some kind of kook or weirdo. Fortunately, I've got plenty of experience with this kind of situation, and I know that soon I'll have all the evidence I need to make people take my work seriously. I just have to put up with this kind of treatment for a little while longer.
“Honey,” she says cautiously, “I'm not sure that -”
“You can chicken out if you like,” I tell her. “I won't hold it against you. Some people just can't handle the idea that there are things they don't understand. It's a kind of closed-minded approach to the world.”
“It's not that. I just -”
“Maybe you're not so brave now,” I add, turning the handle and pushing the door open. I swear I can see the concern in her eyes, and after a moment I turn and look into the room, where the light on the nightstand is still burning bright. “The atmosphere in room nine,” I tell her, “is incredible.”
“It is, huh?”
“You can't miss it,” I continue, and even now I can feel something tingling in the air. A presence, or at least the promise of a presence. “It's electric, like static. But it's not static, it's something else. It must be on an atomic level, something to do with how the deceased interact with the world once they've passed. One day we'll understand the science behind ghosts, but for now it almost feels like magic. To an untrained, unsophisticated mind, at least.”
“Is that right?”
I turn to her, but she quickly pushes past me and heads into the room. She's smiling again, which I guess means she's not taking this very seriously. I'm sure she's nice enough, but she seems to be very poor and probably not well educated, so it's understandable that she can't wrap her head around the work I'm doing here. In a way, I feel sorry for her. She's naive and weak-minded. She doesn't get it.
“Yeah,” she continues, nodding slowly as she stops next to the bed and looks around some more, “you know what? I think I'm really feeling it now. There's a kind of energy here, like a kind of charge.”
“You feel it?” I ask, surprised that someone like her would be receptive. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. It's tingling.”
“That's right.” I take a step forward. “What else do you feel?”
“It's almost like the air is tickling me.”
“That's one way to put it.”
“It's like I can tell someone's nearby. Someone's close.” She turns and looks around. “I can't see anyone, but there's this sense of someone coming toward me. It's really quite strong, like at any moment someone's going to appear out of nowhere.”
She pauses. Then, suddenly, she turns to me and starts laughing.
“Oh honey,” she says, “it is so easy to get you going. You really believe all this stuff, don't you?”
“I knew you wouldn't understand,” I mutter bitterly.
“Ignore me,” she adds. “Please, don't let me put you off your great endeavor.”
“Gwendoline Emmervessy was murdered at this motel almost twenty years ago,” I reply, watching as she heads over to the door that leads into the bathroom. “She and her boyfriend checked into room nine, and the following morning Gwendoline's bloodied body was found in the bath. Her boyfriend had died a few hours earlier, in a botched robbery at a check-cashing place along the street. Her murderer was never identified.”
“I know the story,” Gloria replies, peering into the bathroom, her face bathed in the brighter light. “Everyone in town knows about that poor bitch, and about this place. You don't have to believe in ghosts to enjoy hearing about them. Gives the town an edge, you know? Frankly, I'm surprised the motel's owners don't hype it up a little more and try to make some money from the whole thing. I bet there'd be plenty of idiots who'd flock here to stay in a haunted room.” She turns to me. “No offense intended, obviously.”
“None taken,” I reply through gritted teeth.
She steps forward. “And is -”
“Stop!” I call out, hurrying toward her and grabbing her arm, quickly pulling her back into the bedroom. “Sorry, but I'd prefer it if you didn't go in there. I don't want to disturb the energy of the place.”
“Energy?”
“You might scare the spirit away,” I explain, “and I only have this one shot. I'm only here for one night.”
“Huh.”
She stares at me, and I swear I can tell that she thinks I'm nuts.
“You're really confident, aren't you?” she says finally.
“I know I can communicate with the ghost.”
“And why do you care so much?”
“I just need to know,” I tell her. “I've been studying paranormal activity for years.”
“You don't even look like you've been out of short pants for years,” she replies.
“If I can get some evidence,” I continue, ignoring her attempt to upset me, “even if it seems flimsy at first, I can open the floodgates and kick-start some serious research. I've studied events all across the country, and I've come to the conclusion that this motel, right here in room nine, is the best place for staking things out and trying to catch something on video. I've got cameras set up, I know I'm going to catch something. I just need to be patient.”
“And you've planned ahead, huh?” she asks.
I nod.
“Down to every last detail?”
Again, I nod.
“And nothing can go wrong?” As she
says those words, a very faint smile curls across her lips. “Nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all,” I say firmly. “I've been planning this night for three months, down to the last detail.”
She looks past me, toward the equipment that's resting on the bed.
“Listen,” she says finally, “I think there's something you should know about this room. It's just -”
“There!”
Realizing I can hear the sobbing sound again, I push past Gloria and hurry over toward the bath. Sure enough, I realize the sobbing seems to be coming from somewhere near the sink, and after a moment I turn and look toward Gloria.
“You hear that, don't you?” I ask, unable to hide my excitement. “Tell me you hear it.”
Hurrying past her, I rush to the bed and start rooting through my bag, quickly retrieving one of the many audio recorders I brought this evening. I fumble a little with the buttons, trying to get it running, and then finally I get back to the bathroom just as I set the machine to record. Seeing that Gloria is over by the sink, I grab her arm and pull her back, while holding the recorder up to catch as much of the sobbing sound as possible.”
“Honey -”
“Quiet!” I hiss.
She sighs.
Staying completely silent, I watch the flashing red light on the side of the recorder, which indicates that it's running. This is going to be my first proper, documented evidence of the paranormal phenomenon that occurs in room nine. I'm expecting a lot more later in the night, but even this snippet of sound will be a major breakthrough.
“Honey,” Gloria says, “I think -”
“Quiet!”
“It's a fan!”
I turn to her.
Sighing again, she pulls free of my grip and heads past the sink, and then she reaches up to remove a panel from the wall. As she does so, I see an old, stained extractor fan that looks to be rattling slightly in its frame, and I can't help but notice that the sobbing sound seems a little louder now.
“Half the rooms are like it,” Gloria continues, reaching up and sticking a finger into the fan, causing it to stop turning. At that moment, the sobbing sound stops. “Sure, it sounds like a woman crying, but that's just the universe being creepy. Honey, seriously, it's not a ghost. It's a wonky old fan that nobody ever got around to fixing.”
“That's not possible,” I stammer, even though I can feel my confidence starting to wane. Hurrying over, I look up at the fan, and a moment later Gloria takes her finger out.
Just a few seconds after the fan starts moving again, the sobbing sound returns. Now that I'm closer, and now that the panel is out of the way, I realize with a sinking feeling that the so-called sobbing actually does sound like a motor. I mean, the effect is weird and disconcerting, and the pattern is irregular, but I guess I can't really argue with what's right in front of my eyes.
Slowly, I lower the audio recorder and switch it off.
“I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Gloria says as she sets the panel on the closed toilet seat. “You wanted to know, though, didn't you? It would've been kinda mean of me not to tell you.”
“Of course,” I reply, although I know full well that I probably seem utterly crestfallen right now. “It's all part of the scientific process. I would've figured it out eventually anyway. I'd have run analysis software and...”
My voice trails off as I feel a heavy lump of disappointment in my chest.
“I'd have figured it out,” I whisper, still staring at the fan.
“Sure you would.” She places a hand on my shoulder. “You seem like a smart kid. A little over-keen and too wrapped up in stuff, but definitely smart. Still, maybe you could do with a little perspective now and again.”
“I don't need advice,” I reply, grabbing the panel and taking a moment to set it back in place, covering the fan. “I just need to be left alone so I can get on with my work. I've still got a long night ahead of me.”
“But -”
“I'm an expert on what's been going on here,” I reply, interrupting her. “I've studied the entire history of the motel, I know about the Gwendoline Emmervessy case and I know about the hauntings that took place before that. No-one in the entire world knows this place better than I do, and I really don't need people lecturing me. I shouldn't even have invited you in here, not when I've got so much work to get on with, so if you don't mind...”
Turning, I wait for her to get the message, and finally she nods.
“Well, you're the boss,” she mutters, taking one last glance into the bathroom before turning and heading toward the door that leads out into the corridor. “Far be it for little old me to offer you the benefit of my thoughts.”
“I know I'm being rude,” I reply as I hurry after her. “I'm sorry, I just need to focus.”
“Sure you do.” Reaching the corridor, she turns to me. “There's just one thing. Are you sure -”
“Thank you for your consideration,” I add, already feeling embarrassed and flustered, “but I work better alone. Thank you again. I'll get back to what I do best, and you should get back to what you do best.”
I look her up and down for a moment.
“Whatever that might be,” I add.
With that, I swing the door shut before she has a chance to say anything else, and then I wait and listen to the sound of her walking away along the corridor. I hate being an asshole like that, but at the same time I know I'm in danger of losing my focus. Whenever I encounter someone who doubts my work, I tend to get very defensive, but I need to think about the long game here. Once I have proof of what's been going on here in room nine, I'll be able to show everyone that their doubt was misplaced. I'm going to be the person who finally proves that ghosts are real.
Idiots like Gloria will just have to catch up later.
Heading back to the bathroom, I stop for a moment and listen to the sound of the fan. I can't believe I was dumb enough to get fooled, but I guess that was a good early lesson. Reaching over, I flick a switch on the wall, and the fun shuts off, leaving the room in silence.
“Okay,” I say, after taking a deep breath. “Now it's really time to get to work.”
2:59am
What are they talking about in there?
Standing at the window, holding two slats of the blinds open, I peer out across the dark parking lot and watch as Gloria continues chatting to the old guy behind the reception desk. I can't hear a word they're saying from here, of course, but I can see that Gloria seems to be going on and on, while the old man is just sitting there and offering the occasional nod. There's something slightly theatrical about the whole thing, especially the way that Gloria occasionally strides across the reception area and disappears from view, briefly reappearing in one of the other windows and turning to the old man with a melodramatic flourish.
Is it me?
Are they talking about me?
Are they making fun of me?
I guess I can't blame them. After all, if their minds are closed to the possibility of paranormal activity, I'm sure I seem like a real freak. Plenty of people look down on me, and I've been laughed out of more seminars and funding groups than I can count. Not that I'm bitter, of course, although I must admit that I'm looking forward to proving everybody wrong. When I'm on the cover of TIME magazine, and winning the Nobel Prize, and being invited to the White House to discuss my groundbreaking proof that ghosts exist...
That's when the laughs will stop.
That's when people will finally take me seriously.
Finally, realizing that Gloria and the old man seem to be settling in for an all-nighter, I turn and step away from the window, wandering back over to the bed and looking down at the various pieces of equipment I still haven't tried using yet. How many times do I need to remind myself that I have to stay focused?
And then it hits me.
This is dumb.
I'm dumb.
I'm just a stupid kid with delusions of grandeur. Why should I be able to prove this stuff i
s real, when so many smarter, more experienced and better-funded people have failed? What possessed me to come halfway across the country to stay in this pokey little motel and search for the ghost of Gwendoline Emmervessy? For a moment, staring down at the devices I painstakingly designed and built over the past few months, I suddenly feel a wave of hopelessness rush through my body. This whole thing has been a complete waste of time and -
No.
No, I'm not going to let the doubts get to me like that.
Taking a deep breath, I can already feel my confidence and determination starting to stir, pushing the fears out of my mind. Little wobbles are natural, they're always going to happen, but I have to remember that I'm on the right path. Just because I let a stupid rusty old fan trick me earlier, that doesn't mean the whole endeavor is a sham. I take another deep and very deliberate breath, before reaching down and picking up the electron spectrometer. Sure, it looks like a bunch of coat hangers welded together with a battery in the middle, but it's actually a very sophisticated item, and I'm the only person in the whole world who knows how it works.
I can do this.
If you never doubt yourself, you're not taking enough risks.
After flicking a switch on the side of the battery, I turn and hold the spectrometer up, aiming the tip toward the bathroom door. It'd be way too easy to pick up a reading right away, of course, so I take a couple of steps closer and wait in case the reader starts emitting its tell-tale buzz. That's the sign that some kind of signal has been detected, although I know that it can sometimes takes several hours for a manifestation to become strong enough. I should never have invited Gloria into the room earlier, I probably set things back by hours, but now I'm just going to be patient.
Patience should be my middle name.
Stepping all the way over to the bathroom door, I move the spectrometer's tip forward and wait again for any kind of signal. I let the tip enter the bathroom itself, and I've got to admit that a part of me – deep down – wants the dial to immediately start spinning. That's unrealistic, of course, but hope is stirring in my belly and I lean the tip even further into the room, letting it get a real good sniff of the atmosphere in there. After a moment I realize I'm holding my breath, and I can feel my chest tightening with anticipation. Any moment now, I might get the first tantalizing clue that I'm on the right track and -
