by Drew Hayes
“Settle down,” Clinton suggested. “We’re trying to figure out what the weird cloud is.”
“Who cares what it is? Who cares about any of this shit? Unless it’s going to finally let me out of here, I don’t give a dead polar bear’s asshole what the cloud is, mostly because it’s just fog!” Had Irwin possessed a body, he would have worked himself in to a sweat and been breathing heavily. As it was, he just stood there, glaring at his fellow inmates.
None of them knew why, but Camp Tekonichia was a prison for spirits. They could get no more than half a mile into the forest before it felt like they were walking through molasses, and soon after even that was impossible. Clinton and Art had always assumed it was because they had died on the grounds and were stuck haunting it, but Irwin’s arrival had cast some serious doubts on that theory. Technically, he should be stuck haunting his plane, at least from the way they figured. But death, like life, didn’t come with any sort of instruction manual.
“It’s different,” Art said at last, looking away from Irwin and toward the fog on the island. “Different don’t happen round here much, ‘specially since the camp got closed. Different is interestin’, and we like that when we can find it.”
“You know what would be different? Getting out of here; how about that?”
“We’ve tried, Irwin, and so have you,” Clinton reminded him. “Art and I covered every inch of the border looking for a way out, and we’re still here. Try and find some happiness in the little joys of your time here, or else you’re likely to lose yourself.”
“That might be fine for you two burnouts, but I wasn’t supposed to end up here. I was a government agent; I was important. There’s probably a special section of heaven waiting for people like me, I’ve just got to get to it.”
“Good luck with that,” Art said, his voice surprisingly sincere. “Clinton and I are going to watch the island fog, see if we can figure anything out.”
“You two are insufferable,” Irwin said, storming off in a manner that would have been stomping if he had the ability to stomp.
Clinton and Art sat in silence as Irwin left, idly watching the slight swirls and shifts in the mist creeping over the landmass.
“You know, I thought he’d be a little more curious, considering the weird thing about the island,” Clinton ventured.
“Yeah, me too,” Art agreed.
None of them had any clue what it meant, but none of the three ghosts had actually come to consciousness anywhere near their bodies when they passed. Despite dying in different locations across the camp, each one had awoken on the island that was now covered in fog. It was their private mystery, the wrinkle in their brains that each puzzled over when feeling intellectually adventurous.
But soon, it would be neither a mystery, nor private.
* * *
Half a mile up the road, just at the corners of Camp Tekonichia’s eastern border, a beat-up sedan pulled off to the side of the road. From the passenger’s side emerged a single person draped in a large, purple coat and carrying a black duffel bag. From the short, copper-colored hair and gently rounded face, it was clear the figure was female, even though the coat obscured most of her body.
She leaned back in through the window and said a few words to the driver, who nodded in agreement. That done, she slapped the hood once and the car pulled back onto the dusty road. The woman moved carefully through the overgrown, neglected brush at the road’s edge, thick boots easily pressing down the wild vegetation.
After a few moments of walking, she encountered a chain-link fence with a very prominent “No Trespassing” sign. This was hardly surprising, as similar signs were posted at intervals every few hundred feet. The woman reacted to this sign as she would have any of the others: by ignoring the warning and producing a pair of bolt-cutters from her duffel bag.
A bit of effort and a few minutes later, the chain-link fence boasted a sizable hole in its defenses and Camp Tekonichia had its first living visitor in over twenty years.
Chapter 2
Topher scanned the equipment bag one last time, making certain that everything they needed was accounted for. Auggie handled what he called the “real” tech, like cameras and microphones and whatnot, but Topher always did a double-check on the ghost-tracking equipment. He refused to be caught in a paranormal hotbed and not have the proper tech to capture spiritual activity.
“Electromagnetic Frequency Detectors, check.” He mumbled this to himself as he ticked off the set of four devices meant to measure the electromagnetic spikes caused by ghosts. These were the real deal, not the trick ones with gauges that would move up or down with a flick of a switch on the back.
After three years in this business, Topher had realized that a lot of his colleagues were charlatans and hucksters, intent on putting on an entertaining show, regardless of the authenticity of the phenomena they depicted. He didn’t have the power to stop them; most real scientists lumped everyone in this field together with the fakers, anyway. All he could do was put on a better show with honest results and non-edited footage, which he strived to do every day. Topher took pride not only in his viewership, which had grown to triple that of the fakers’ in the past year, but also in the fact that every debunker the Internet could throw at him had failed to uncover a single iota of proof that he altered any images or sounds in his work. No one would, either. Topher was looking for the real deal; he refused to sully his reputation by holding up fakes. Of course, almost no one truly believed; they just couldn’t say he was lying about what he posted.
“Spectral Voice Recorders, check.” These were specifically calibrated to capture spirit noise that other listening devices might miss. After dealing with several subpar models, Topher had finally convinced Auggie to put something together. They worked amazingly, just like all of Auggie’s inventions, capturing minute audible anomalies while filtering out background noise. He had tried to convince his friend to sell them to other researchers; however, Auggie had refused on the basis of not wanting to bother with more production.
Despite being friends since grade school, Topher had never truly understood August Parrish. He claimed to have no interest in parties, the paranormal, or really anything outside his bubble of learning and inventing; yet every time Topher came up with a crazy idea, Auggie was invariably by his side. Sure, sometimes he’d have to coax him out, but often, it took only the slightest push and Auggie was in, grumbling the whole time while never falling behind. It had been that way for years, and, to an extent, seemed like a family trait: Auggie’s sister also hated socializing and therefore didn’t do it, whereas Auggie always seemed more like he just felt like he should protest.
“Ectoplasmic Motion Sensor, check.” In truth, Topher had no idea if this piece of tech was actually attuned to the movements of spirits like it claimed, or if it was just a regular motion detector. If it was the real deal, that was great, and if not . . . well, he needed a motion detector. Might as well roll the dice on one supposedly designed for the purpose. Researching ghosts meant taking risks: sometimes on the equipment, sometimes on the safety of the location.
Topher considered it unfortunate that the work had become so glamorous over the last decade. It attracted the wrong kind of people to the industry. He had never wanted to become a quasi-celebrity, though he did enjoy the funding and investigation opportunities such status afforded him. No, all Topher Nightshade had ever wanted to do was prove to the world what he already knew: ghosts were real.
He had learned that firsthand in the basement of his neighborhood Fast Gas Dash at the age of seven; when he saw a ghost walk right through a busted slushy drink machine. Though countless people had tried to convince him otherwise, Topher refused to budge in his certainty. He might not be as smart as Auggie, or all that savvy about anything that wasn’t ghosts, but Topher was not the sort of man to doubt the truth when he saw it. He wasn’t the one who was wrong, and sooner or later, he’d capture something on video that would prove that to everyone.
&nbs
p; “Protein bars, check.” Sometimes shoots ran long and there wasn’t time for a full meal. With the last of his checklist completed, Topher shut the final case he’d been inventorying and rose from the floor. His back and legs let out a series of pops as he did a full-body stretch. A quick glance at the clock told him it was nearly one in the morning. They’d be sleeping in tomorrow in preparation for an all-night shoot and then catching a plane to New Mexico.
“Hope I can sleep this time,” Topher muttered as he headed out the office door, remembering to lock up behind him. Even after all this time, he could barely settle down enough to fall asleep on nights before big shoots. That excitement, the tingle of anticipation over what was to come, refused to let his mind pass from the waking world to the dreaming one.
Oh well; if he found sleep unwilling to come, he could always squeeze in some time at the gym.
* * *
“Ready to admit it’s not just fog?” Clinton asked.
The island, small though it was, could normally be seen from any vantage point on the lake. That was before, of course, because now it and the waters surrounding it were completely shrouded in swirling mist. Clinton and Art had realized days ago that the mist was paranormal in nature, and not just due to the fact that it refused to dissipate, regardless of the weather.
No, the faces appearing and vanishing in the shifting fog had been their first solid clue that this was being caused by something other than crazy humidity or temperature. Once the fog changed color, going from a nondescript white to a half sunset, half blood-red, it was really just the final nail in the coffin.
“I’ll concede that it’s weird,” Irwin said begrudgingly. Art had brought him down from the woods, where the newest spirit had been trying once again to push through the forces that kept him bound to the camp. Even though they didn’t know what was going on, it seemed outright cruel to let Irwin miss the most interesting thing to happen in years. “But maybe it’s a natural phenomenon. Our earth is dealing with global warming and climate change and all kinds of complex stuff that you two wouldn’t know about since you’ve been dead so long.”
The fog swirled and a dozen faces manifested in plain view. Their mouths hung open at disjointed and horrifying angles, their mist eye sockets pulled wide. If they weren’t screaming, they were doing an award-worthy pantomime of it.
“If you tell me that’s regular weather nowadays, I’m gonna have to call bullshit,” Art warned. “’Cause I’m pretty sure if I was still alive and wearing pants, I’da just shit ‘em. And I’m used to creepy dead stuff.”
“Okay . . . that probably wasn’t normal,” Irwin agreed. It was strange how he felt as though his pulse had sped up, even though he no longer had one. He was waiting for the tingle of adrenaline and a thin layer of sweat to manifest like it had every time he’d gotten scared. After a few moments, he remembered his condition and let the expectation cease.
“Which brings us back to our question from the other day: what do you think it is?” Clinton asked.
“Have either of you . . . did anyone go touch it?”
“Sweet fuckin’ hell no,” Art replied immediately. “The ghosts in there look like they’re having a cocaine orgy? We ain’t goin’ near that thing, and neither should you. Whatever it is, it don’t look ghost friendly.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” Irwin pointed out. “We’re already dead and stuck in this prison of a summer camp with no way out. Maybe that thing at least comes with an exit.”
“That could be true,” Clinton agreed. “However, you should also consider the possibility that it leads to far worse places than this. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re looking at a doorway to the Devil’s own front door.”
“Oh jeez, here we go with the religion again,” Irwin said.
“I realize you and I do not share similar faiths, but you must concede that our mere presence here, after death, speaks to the fact that there are things beyond the mortal plane. Whether you believe in hell as the Bible defines it or just as an awful place where the dead go, it may very well exist.”
“At least in hell there’s probably a means of escape,” Irwin muttered. “That’s more than we’ve got here.”
“Still think it’s a bad idea to go near it,” Art reminded him. “All religion and Hell and whatnot aside, damn thing just looks painful, least judging by the expression on them weird mist faces. Course, you’re a grown dead-man, ain’t our place to tell you what to do. Me and Clinton are just going to watch, though, seeing as the show’s still going on.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s growing,” Clinton explained. “Started out over just the center of the island, but over the past few days, it’s swallowed the whole thing. We thought it would end there, but it just kept getting wider. As near as we can tell—seeing as we’re judging distance based on featureless open water—it’s grown by about half the size of the island over again.”
“So, what? You two are just going to sit here watching until it expands and covers the whole camp?”
“First off, if you’ve got a way to stop a mysterious face-fog, I’d love to listen to it,” Art said. “And second, it ain’t gonna come to that. Clinton says it’s slowing down.”
Irwin looked over to the other ghost, who gave a nod. “If it keeps losing speed at its current rate, the whole thing will have stopped by sunset tonight.”
“Don’t suppose you know what happens then,” Irwin probed.
“Maybe nothing,” Clinton replied. “Maybe it starts dissipating. Maybe it rises into the air. Hell, maybe it begins the end of the world. Any guess is as good as the next right now. We have literally nothing but weird, red fog and occasional faces to go on.”
“Anything could happen.” Irwin didn’t mean to let the generous dollop of hope slip into his voice, but as he stared up at the first rays of sunshine peeking into the sky from the east, he couldn’t help it. Anything, anything would be better than being stuck in this damn camp with moldy old ghosts for company. Irwin didn’t care if the mist did signal the end of the world, honestly, as long as it provided him with a way out.
After all, he was already dead. What did he care if the rest of the world followed?
* * *
The New Mexico sun beat down on the SUV with such intensity that in spite of the late-winter season, the air-conditioning had to be run at full blast. This thankfully kept the inside of the car cooled, even if the tempers weren’t quite as sedate.
“You should have let me drive. We’d be there already,” Kay complained. She was sprawled out on the rear seat while Topher rode shotgun and Auggie steered. Between the two, a GPS device chirped infrequently, losing signal and gaining it back exactly long enough to tell them they were way off track, and losing it again before it could offer any helpful assistance.
“I watched you down five drinks in a flight that lasted less than an hour. There is no way on earth I’d let you behind a wheel. Where did you even get that many drink coupons?” Auggie asked.
“Fuck if I know, just found them in my purse a few weeks ago.” Kay moved in her seat, bringing herself to a diagonal position so that she was propped against the window. “Besides, I’m fine to drive. That much booze isn’t going to affect me.”
“Tell that to the policeman who makes you do a breathalyzer.”
“No cop would bother breathalyzing me,” she retorted. “For one thing, I know how to work my flirt like a pro when I need to. Plus, I don’t have a license, so they’d be waaaaay more pissed about that.”
“We’ve let you drive on jobs before,” Topher recalled, a small shiver racing up his spine at the realization. “Dozens of times.”
“I don’t need ‘The Man’ to tell me I know how to drive. That’s fascism.”
Auggie’s eyes went wide and he began sputtering. “That is not . . . you are . . . I—”
“Turn!” Kay barreled forward, grabbing his shoulder and pointing to a small, nearly imperceptible break in the trees that sig
naled the existence of a small dirt road.
On instinct, Auggie jerked the wheel to the side, nearly flipping the vehicle, but putting them on the new course. He stomped on the brakes almost as soon as he turned, suddenly aware of a gigantic obstacle in their way. Immediately before them was a set of locked gates under an arched sign reading “Camp Tekonichia: Where memories live forever.” There was a sharp electronic ding as the GPS fired up its speakers one last time.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
Auggie tightened his grip on the steering wheel and tried to convince himself that the machine wasn’t capable of being a sarcastic asshole. The same could not be said for Kay.
“Told you I’d get us there.” Her arms were crossed and a smug expression rested on her smirking face.
Before Auggie could react, Topher’s joy overpowered Auggie’s frustration. He leapt from the car and ran forward in excitement. He darted ahead, taking in the scents and sense of nature as only a boy raised in suburbia could. They’d gone to a lot of remote locations over the years, but Topher found each one to have a unique aura that radiated off it. Here, he was almost bowled over by the spiritual energy in the air. It could have been bottled and sold, it was so thick.
“Auggie, come check this place out. The whole area is full of energy, and it’s not even dusk yet.” Topher stood in the road, hands outstretched as he turned in small circles.
Auggie killed the engine and he and Kay emerged from the rented vehicle. He had to admit, it did seem a bit extra creepy around here, though that easily could be from the late-afternoon sun filtering through the treetops. It surrounded them with shadows, long and black against the red-brown dirt of the country road.
“We’re going to get stabbed to death, aren’t we?” Kay asked. She lowered her over-sized sunglasses, this time worn for appropriate lighting conditions, and surveyed the scene over the tops of the frames. “Like, some dude in an umpire’s mask with a machete for a hand is going to come barreling into my tent and carve me in to pieces.”
