“I didn’t mean it, Trin,” I say evenly. “You know that. I’m making a fool of myself.” I wave at the screen. “Time travel? I don’t even know what I’m saying there. Lunatic fringe.”
“They love it,” she says. “Check the stats.”
I peer at the counter and frown. The episode has been up for fewer than eight hours, and it’s already gotten more views than last week’s.
“That can’t be about me babbling incoherent sci-fi references,” I say. “There must be something else.”
I zoom through the comments. I don’t get far before I find what I’m looking for, and I groan anew. Then I fast-forward the video. About halfway through our segment, a dim light appears over Trinity’s shoulder. It gradually becomes brighter until there is very clearly a translucent amorphous blob hovering there.
“Ghost,” I say.
“What?”
I point at the shape. “This is a ghostly orb. At least, it is according to our viewers.”
Trinity reads the comments and then squints at the screen. “That thing?”
“Hey, you’re the one who said this place was haunted. There’s your proof.”
She gives me a hard look. “I said this house gave me a weird feeling, and you’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
I tap the screen. “Looks like a ghost to me.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s light glare. Even I know that.”
“Well, more clicks will make Webizode happy.” I shut off the monitor. “I’ll make you a deal. I won’t bug you about ghosts again, and you won’t bug me about time travel.”
“Fair enough. You want the shower first?”
“I want coffee first. And after.” I purse my lips. “Think I can rig the brewer up to the nozzle and shower in it?”
She rolls her eyes and heads for the bathroom.
* * *
The orb is back. It’s right where it was in the last segment, hovering over Trinity’s shoulder.
I’d set my alarm to get up before Trinity could check our latest episode. I wasn’t looking for the orb. I’d forgotten all about it. I just wanted to comment-skim, make sure I hadn’t said anything else to upset her.
After the last episode, I emailed our contact at Webizode and asked whether they could delete any future comments on my geek-culture references. They refused. It’d be a game of Whack-A-Mole, really. Delete one, and another commenter would gleefully jump in, thinking they were the first to recognize it, claiming whatever cosmic cookies the universe awarded for that.
I knew Webizode would refuse. That was just my opening gambit, so they’d be more likely to agree when I asked them to instead delete comments about Trinity failing to recognize my references. While they said yes, I was still checking.
I only get through the first page before someone mentions the orb. I check, and sure enough, there it is.
It seems…brighter? No, clearer. It looks like a reflection of the moon, a pale sphere with cratered shadows. There’s only one window in this room, though, and it’s behind the camera with a permanently closed blackout blind to avoid light cast by passing cars.
I read the comments.
schrodingers_cow: I see a face in the orb. Don’t you?
jazzhands1999: Uh, no. I see the reflection of a light bulb.
kalebsmom: That’s not a light bulb. It’s an orb. And I see a face, too. Zoom in. Eyes. Mouth. Nose. It’s all there.
I blow the video up to full screen. Yes, there are dark blotches approximately where you’d find eyes and a mouth, but it’s like spotting dragon-shaped clouds. People see what they want, and apparently, they want ghosts.
I keep scrolling through comments. Some are about our episode, but more and more are about the orb, people new to our channel tuning in just for that.
I won’t argue with a little publicity, though I’d rather it were for the actual show. As our marketing team at Webizode says, it doesn’t matter why people come—just get them there, present a good product, and some will stay. Which is probably why Webizode hasn’t argued about the high heating bills that keep Trinity in tank tops year-round.
I’m popping two aspirin when Trinity comes downstairs as fresh and bright-eyed as ever.
“Your ghost has returned,” I say as I swivel the keyboard her way. “Sorry, our ghost. According to the comments, it now has a face.”
“What?” She seems genuinely startled, and I chastise myself for joking around. She believes in this stuff. I hurry on to tell her that I do not see a face in what is obviously a lighting glitch.
As she skims the comments, I say, “So the question is whether we investigate the anomaly or not.”
She pales. “Investigate a ghost? I hope you’re kidding, Hannah. You don’t mess with that sort of thing.”
“I mean investigate the real cause of the light. What’s causing the reflection. Do we embrace our scientist credo and conduct a ghost-busting investigation…or do we let people keep thinking it’s a ghost if that bumps our stats.”
She doesn’t answer. She’s stopped on a section of comments. When I turn to head into the kitchen, she says, “I thought you went through these.”
“I did.”
“And you weren’t going to mention this?” Her nail stabs the screen, making the image shudder.
I read the comments.
gonegirl5: You see me, don’t you? I know you do.
gonegirl5: Did you really think you’d get away with it?
“Yeah,” I say. “I read that. Random bullshit. I don’t know how it got through moderation. Sometimes I wonder whether there’s a real person monitoring it or just a bot looking for key words.”
“Webizode said it’s a real person. They guaranteed that in our contract.”
“Then it’s an intern looking for key words, and since those comments don’t have any, they ignored them. I’ll mention it to them.”
* * *
After the next episode, I wake to Trinity shaking me hard enough that I jolt upright with an uncharacteristic snarl.
“Could you not do that?” I mutter as I sit up, rubbing my eyes.
“You weren’t waking,” she says. “You’re still drunk.”
“Yeah, that’s what six shots of tequila will do to a girl. We need to stop accepting those damn challenges.”
I’m grumbling, but the truth is that I watered my shots, and as a result, I’m barely hungover. Trinity has been on edge. Yesterday, I made the mistake of glancing sidelong at the new clubbing dress she planned to wear on camera. I was eyeing the tiny sheath of shimmering fabric, thinking, “Damn, I wish I could wear that,” but she took my look as criticism, and we had to delay the taping while she changed. I watered down my tequila while she was gone, knowing it wouldn’t take much to set her off again.
I glance at our stats. Fifty percent more views. Double the comments. Triple the link shares.
“Ugh,” I say. “Casper must be back.”
“I’m glad you find this amusing. How about this?” She points at two comments.
gonegirl5: You thought I was gone, didn’t you? You thought you got away with it.
gonegirl5: I’m dead, and it’s your fault, and I’m going to make sure everyone knows.
I snicker.
Trinity slowly turns on me. “You think everything’s funny, don’t you, Hannah?”
“No. I do, however, think this is funny.” I intone the comments in an ominous voice. “It’s B-movie dialogue. I know what you did last summer. I’m actually surprised it doesn’t say that. Maybe it’d be too on the nose.”
“Someone is accusing me of being responsible for their death, Hannah. That is not, in any way, amusing.”
“You?” I read the comments again. “I don’t see anything saying these are about you, Trin.”
<
br /> She points at the orb. Is it clearer now? It seems clearer. I definitely see what looks like eyes and a—
I shake that off. The power of suggestion.
“Still not seeing why this is about you,” I say.
“It’s over my shoulder. The ghost is always right there, next to me.”
“Trinity,” I say, as carefully as I can. “That is not a ghost. It’s a lighting anomaly. One person decides it’s an orb, and suddenly everyone sees spooks, and then someone’s gotta take it to the next level and accuse us of murder.”
“It doesn’t say ‘murder.’ It just says we’re responsible.”
“Maybe that’s why the comment moderation didn’t pick it up. It lacks whatever words are on the intern’s watch list. I’ll report it.” I hit a few keys. “And now we’ll prove this is not a ghostly orb. It isn’t worth a bump in stats if it upsets you.”
“You think I’m overreacting.”
“No, I think it’s understandably unsettling,” I say evenly as I pull up the original video. “I’ll find out what’s going on, and our next show will be spook-free.”
* * *
“It’s not there,” Trinity whispers.
In front of us, the screen is divided into two panels. One shows the online show from two weeks ago, paused where the orb is clearest. The other window is a direct feed from the camera, stopped at the same spot.
There is no orb on the original video.
I’d started with last night’s show. When I didn’t find the orb there, I went back to the previous show. Same thing. Now I’m at the first one. There is undeniably an orb in the online version and not even a hint of stray light in the original.
At a noise, I look over to see Trinity gripping the mouse, her hand trembling so much it chitters against the desktop.
“Hey,” I say, squeezing her arm. “This is good news. It means the orb didn’t originate at our end. There’s definitely no ghost. Someone tampered with the online version.”
She glances at me, her eyes blank.
“Someone tampered with the episodes,” I say again, slower. “It’s happening on the back end. At Webizode. They’re screwing with our uploaded video.”
“Why would they do that?”
“For the views,” I say, stopping myself before I add “obviously.” “It’s someone’s idea of a marketing ploy. They’re probably also responsible for the original comments, identifying the orb as a ghost. Interns, right? Some sixteen-year-old marketing exec wannabe who’s trying to wow the boss with a creative scheme.”
Trinity nods dully. “Okay.”
“We have to—” My phone rings. Webizode’s number fills the screen. “Perfect timing. Let me handle this. An intern is about to be sacked.”
* * *
I’m not nearly as badass on the phone call. I’m polite and calm. Our contact—Oscar—is touching base about the comment I flagged, but I want to talk about the video first. I explain that I’ve examined the original video, and there’s no sign of an orb. Then I pause to let that sink in.
He’s quiet long enough that I’m about to prod, when he speaks in that way of his that I’m sure he thinks is gentle but is patronizing as hell. Is that what Trinity hears when I address her concerns? Shit. I’ll need to be more careful. There’s a fine line between “gentle” and “patronizing,” and I might be straying as far over it as Oscar is.
“I know you girls are very invested in the success of your show, Hannah,” he says. “We all are. But I might suggest that if you have marketing ideas, you run them past our team first. That’s what we’re here for.”
“Marketing ideas?”
“Your brand is science,” he says in that same slow, patronizing way. “You are both brilliant girls, and even while inebriated, you explain complex concepts in a way that’s both enlightening and entertaining. You have a great package, and you don’t need to muddy it with…” He pauses, as if struggling for words. “Off-brand theatrics.”
“You think we’re doing this? I just said it’s not on our uploaded—”
“I know you’ve seen a jump in stats, but you’re attracting the wrong kind of viewers, ones who will dilute your brand.”
“We aren’t—”
“We’ve noticed you girls haven’t discussed the orb on camera, and we weren’t sure you realized it was there. We were debating whether to tell you to adjust your lighting. If it’s a marketing ploy, though? That would be a violation of your contract.”
“We didn’t put it there. We don’t want it there. The fact that it’s not on the original means it’s coming from the other end of the process.”
A long pause. “You think we’re doing this?”
“I don’t actually care. Just make it stop. It’s upsetting—” I glance at Trinity, who’s listening in. “Upsetting us. Now, what I originally messaged about is something else that’s upsetting us. Those comments. I’m presuming the fact that they don’t actually say ‘murder’ gets them past comment moderation. Your moderator needs to be more careful.”
“That’s why I was calling, Hannah. To discuss the comments. They’re bypassing moderation.”
“Exactly. Whoever is moderating is letting them—”
“No, I mean they’re bypassing moderation. And the only account that can do that is the one you two share.”
“Sure, our account isn’t moderated but…Wait. Are you suggesting—?”
Trinity hits the Speaker button. “Oscar? Trinity here. Are you saying someone posted those comments from our computer?”
“Yes,” he says.
“The call is coming from inside the house,” I intone.
She glares at me.
“That means someone’s hacked our account,” I say.
Oscar doesn’t reply.
“Track the IP address,” I say. “Find out where exactly those comments came from.”
More silence.
“You already have, haven’t you?” I say carefully.
“Yes.”
And I don’t need to ask what he found.
The call really did come from inside the house.
* * *
After I end the call with Oscar, I text Rory. Thirty minutes later, he’s at our place, dissecting the videos and the comments for signs of tampering. Rory might be a physics postgrad, but his area of expertise is quantum computing…and he did his share of hacking in his misspent youth.
If Trinity doesn’t match anyone’s idea of a physics doctoral student, Rory is a walking stereotype, effortlessly managing to convey both computer geek and science nerd wound in a double helix. He’s not much taller than me, slight and reedy. His saving grace is his hair, which is an adorable boy-band mop of dark curls. Today he’s wearing a “Super Jew” T-shirt and blue jeans that I’m pretty sure he irons—he might even starch them. That sounds less than complimentary, but to me, guys like Rory really are superheroes in disguise—sweet, funny, smart as hell, packaged in a way that lets them pass under the radar of girls like Trinity. I do not fail to notice how fast Rory replied to my SOS, even on a Sunday morning, and I won’t pretend I’m not pleased by that.
After an hour of work, Rory leans back in the swivel chair and adjusts his glasses. “I don’t know what to tell you, Hannah.”
“The truth?”
“That I can’t find any sign of outside tampering. I don’t know how those orbs are getting on the video, but it seems to be the same one you’ve uploaded. No one is taking it down, tweaking it and putting it up again. As for the comments, everything indicates that they really did come from this computer.”
I swear under my breath. Then I say, “It’s not me.”
“You’d hardly call me in to investigate if it was. The real culprit must be…” His eyes cut toward the back of the hous
e.
“I don’t think it’s Trin, either. She’s really freaked out by all this.”
“Hmm.” He eyes the closed door again and lowers his voice. “Trin likes attention, and since you guys switched to Webizode, you’re the one getting it. You’re the cool, quirky science geek. Trin is the window dressing. The straight man to your comedian.” He lowers his voice even more. “Does she know you’ve been fielding offers for solo projects?”
“I delete those as soon as they come in. Trin and I were having trouble even before this. She thinks I’m mocking her with my geek-culture references and…” I sigh. “Managing her moods is harder than I expected.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I turn back to the computer. “She’s going to think I’m doing this. How do I convince her I’m not?”
“By ending the show.”
When I stiffen, he says, “It started as a lark. But between Trinity’s bullshit and the weekly hangovers, you’re not having fun anymore. You already have job offers—real job offers in your field just waiting for you to graduate. You don’t need this show, Hannah.”
“Trinity does. It means a lot to her. Both the exposure and the money.”
“Which is not a good reason for you to continue, when she’s the reason you’re miserable.”
“We’re fine,” I say, taking the keyboard and busying myself checking comments.
“You said Trinity is really freaked out by those comments,” he says. “Does that seem like an overreaction?” He leans in, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement. “Maybe our Trin is a secret killer, tormented by her guilty conscience.”
I groan.
“You did say she believes in ghosts,” he says. “Maybe she’s convinced her past has literally come back to haunt her.”
Final Cuts Page 4
