by Terence West
Bishop and Cane walked the heavy silver trunk along the sidewalk toward the house. The rain, mixed with small pellet-sized hail, was pounding their bodies. The two pushed against the wind as they stumbled toward the house. Cane glanced behind to see Dawn trudging along with the two black bags slung over her shoulders. Her long hair was being whipped about.
Turning back around, he glanced up at the house looming in front of them. It seemed like a very ordinary house, one like he would find in any suburb, but there was something ominous about it. Cane shook his head. He knew he was letting outside factors play on his subconscious. He needed to keep his mind clear and rational. The feeling was still there, though. An odd sense of dread permeated the house. Cane imagined a huge neon sign blinking "stay out" on the door.
Reaching the front door, Bishop grabbed the handle and twisted it open. He and Cane walked slowly into the darkened house and set the trunk down. Dawn followed them into the house and set her bags down. Shutting the door behind her, she began to wring the water out of her hair.
Bishop let out a sigh of relief. "Damn, that thing's heavy. What's in there?"
"Everything a good ghost hunter needs." Cane pulled off his sopping wet coat and deposited it in a heap on the floor. Kneeling down, he popped the two metal latches on the front of the trunk and flipped open the lid revealing a plethora of electronic equipment stowed neatly in separate compartments. He grabbed a clipboard and pen out of the trunk. "Time?" he asked.
Dawn checked her watch, "One-thirty-seven pm, eastern standard time."
Cane noted the time on the clipboard, along with the names of the investigators. "All right, we're logged, let's begin." He began to pull several pieces of equipment out of the trunk one by one. He handed Bishop and Dawn two small rectangular objects, as well as a flashlight.
"What are these?" Bishop asked, looking at the odd device in his hands.
Cane pointed to the first one, "That one is an Electromagnetic Field Meter, or EMF Meter for short. It measures changes in a location's magnetic field. The second one is a Thermal Scanner. We use that to measure and catalogue ‘cold spots'."
Bishop pressed the power button on the EMF Meter. The small silver device sprung to life, the needle inside the clear plastic window began jumping wildly. "Is it supposed to do that?"
Cane leaned over and looked at his meter. "No," he responded unemotionally. He pointed at Dawn. "She's carrying a Motion Sensor as well as a small voice activated tape recorder. If there are any noises, that little baby will pick them up, and the Motion Sensor can sometimes lead us to the activity." Cane reached back into the trunk and removed three small black headsets. He placed one on Bishop's and Dawn's heads, and then adjusted their mics. Sliding the third onto his own head, he leaned over and lifted a small silver video camera out of the trunk. "Are we ready?"
Bishop and Dawn both nodded at Cane.
Slipping the camera's strap over his hand, he tapped the red record button with his thumb. "Let's start with the first floor, then move up to the second. I don't want to miss anything."
The three began to quietly fan out through the living room. Bishop walked around the large black leather couches toward the fireplace as Dawn moved toward the shattered pieces of glass in front of the stairs. Cane, looking through the viewfinder, moved carefully into the dining room.
Dawn looked over the mirror. "Seven years bad luck."
Bishop lifted the EMF Meter toward the fireplace. The thin needle jumped again. "Cane, I'm getting some wild readings in this room." He thought for a moment, "Could these be caused by the lightning storm outside?"
"It's possible," Cane answered from the dining room, "but not likely. Unless the lightning was right on top of us, we shouldn't be getting any interference."
"Then what do these readings mean?" Bishop asked.
"Could mean you're reading a ghost," Cane replied as he moved further into the dining room. "Most researchers, like myself, believe ghosts manifest themselves through energy. When they move, they let off high amounts of electromagnetic discharge. Check the spot with your Thermal Scanner."
Bishop sat the EMF on the fireplace's mantle and reached for his Scanner. After turning it on, he held it near the fireplace. "This is weird," he said, looking at the scanner's digital display.
"What've you got?" Dawn asked from across the room.
"The room is right around seventy-eight degrees, but when I sweep the scanner toward the fireplace, the temperature drops substantially." Bishop checked the readings again, "I'm getting a reading of fifty-nine point four right now."
Dawn quickly walked across the living room toward Bishop. She was careful not to disturb any of the glass on the floor around the shattered mirror. She stopped next to Bishop and read his scanner over his shoulder. "Maybe your thermal is malfunctioning."
"Possible," Bishop conceded.
"Let me check mine." Dawn lifted her scanner and swept it through the area. "I'm getting the same exact readings," she said after a moment. She dropped the scanner into the pocket of her jacket and held out her hand. "That's extraordinary," she admitted. "Put your hand over here, Bishop."
Bishop complied. "That is wild," he said with a smile. "There's a column of cold air that runs from the floor up." He pushed his other hand into the column, "It feels like it's circular." He swept his hand out of the column, then back in. "We've definitely found one of your ‘cold spots', Cane."
"Catalogue it," they heard Cane yell from across the room.
Dawn removed her hand and fished a small notebook out of her pocket. She hastily noted the place, time and type of event. "Before we leave," she said as she slid the notepad back into her pocket, "we need to check this area again." She held up her scanner, "It's strange, the temperature isn't even fluctuating… wait a minute."
Bishop ripped his hand away from the column. "Son of a bitch!" he shouted as he shook his hands. "It grew exceptionally hot very quickly."
Dawn nodded. "I watched the reading shoot up from fifty-nine to one hundred and twelve in less than a second."
"Why didn't you say something?" Bishop asked, cradling his red hand. "It felt like I had my hand in a pot of boiling water!"
"Sorry," Dawn replied as she noted the reading. "They don't usually do that. Let me take a look at your hand."
Bishop gingerly held out his hand, "Be careful."
"It looks like," Dawn started, "you have first degree burns. That's incredible." Dawn carefully turned over Bishop's hand. "We'll get you some gauze from the first-aid kit when we're finished in here."
Bishop nodded. "Thanks."
"Dawn, Bishop," they heard Cane's voice over their headsets, "Can you come into the kitchen with your equipment?"
Dawn reached up and keyed the mic, "We're on our way."
The two moved quickly through the dark dining room toward the swinging kitchen door. Bishop noticed as he passed that the door handle had been shot off. Once inside, they saw Cane standing motionless in front of the tall white refrigerator.
Dawn moved worriedly toward her partner. "What's wrong, Cane?"
Cane pointed to the pink box on the second shelf. "Open it."
Dawn knelt down in front of the pink box. Carefully grabbing the edge with her slender fingers, she pulled the top open. Her eyes suddenly widened as a gasp escaped her lips. "Good Lord!"
Bishop moved quickly around the island to get a look inside the box. He stopped cold in his tracks when he saw the contents. The pink box was filled with mashed birthday cake and a bloody human heart. One side of the cake, which was still intact, had the words "you will not escape" scrawled messily in the white frosting.
Cane lifted the camera and began to film again. "Get an EMF reading."
Dawn lifted the small silver device and held it toward the box. The needle immediately swung to the far right-hand side. "This is really hot," she said as she stood up.
"You mean the ghosts did this?" Bishop asked in horror.
"It appears that way, Mr. Bishop," Can
e responded.
"What are we dealing with?" Bishop asked, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable.
Cane hit the stop button on the camera and lowered it to his side. "At this point, I have no idea."
"A poltergeist?" Dawn suggested after regaining her composure.
"I don't think I could even hazard a guess," Cane replied. "We've seen a lot of signs of supernatural activity, but no actual events as of yet."
"Next move?" Bishop asked hesitantly. When he was training with the CIA, they had taught him how to deal with violent crime scenes, but his training was failing him now.
Cane thought for a moment. "I think we should check upstairs. I really want to get some readings from where the Grant family was killed."
"Let me bandage Bishop's hand first," Dawn said. "Plus, I think we all need to get out of this house for a minute."
Cane looked over at Bishop, "Agreed."
Chapter 8
"Sam Peters?" a woman asked.
Sam Peters spun around to see the young woman standing before him. She was tall and thin with long, straight, jet-black hair that hung past her shoulders. She couldn't be more than twenty-three, but her dark eyes held lifetimes of wisdom. Sam knew instantly she had an old soul. She was dressed in a long, black, tight-fitting gown which brushed the floor when she walked. Her complexion was very pale and looked even lighter with her dark eye shadow and lipstick highlighting her well-defined face. Jesus, I'm standing in front of Morticia Addams. "Can I help you?"
Sam was a man of medium height and build. He had a thick mustache growing on his upper lip, and wavy gray hair just past his cheeks in length. He was in his midthirties, but he looked a lot older. He was wearing a sherbet colored Henley with a pair of blue jeans and white sneakers. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, allowing a wisp of gray chest hair to peek out. He had held many professions during his life, a carpenter, a schoolteacher, a deep-sea fisherman and a writer, but he was primarily a psychic.
The two were standing in the middle of Tampa's international airport. It was mostly quiet, mainly due to the hurricane steadily moving on shore. Rumor around the airport was all flights were about to be cancelled and all traffic would be diverted to a different location. Various palm trees and pink and blue neon lights littered the walls of the terminal in an effort to give visitors that "Miami" look while still in the airport. The white tiling and stucco walls were a nice touch.
"I read your book on the ‘Brairfield Haunting'," the young woman stated. "I think that's one of the best documented hauntings I've ever heard of, and you did a fantastic job of portraying it in your book."
"Thank you," Sam said almost glowing. He loved praise, but then again, what writer doesn't? "What's your name?"
"People call me Morgan," the young woman replied. "I'm a witch."
Sam was a bit startled by her honesty. "Wiccan, I hope."
Morgan smiled devilishly, "Mostly, but you can't have the light without the dark."
"Good point," Sam said with a laugh. He wasn't sure why, but he was very at ease with this woman. "What can I do for you today, Morgan?"
"I just wanted to meet you before the others arrived," Morgan admitted. "I wanted to have a chance to talk with you before we were swept up with filming."
"How do you know about the shoot?" Sam asked.
"I'm part of it," Morgan replied with a smile.
"In what capacity?" Sam wondered.
"After I read your book, I decided to use my particular talents for more useful purposes." Morgan held out her hand with her open palm up. She quickly snapped her fingers and produced a black business card. "Neat trick, huh?"
Sam accepted the card and read the silver embossed print aloud. "Morgan LeFay, Ghost Hunter." He slipped the card into the pocket of his jeans. "It takes more to be a ghost hunter than just a snazzy business card, Morgan."
"I'm well aware of that," Morgan said with a smile. "I have investigated paranormal activity in ten states, as well as having a degree in parapsychology. I'm extremely well versed in the paranormal."
"Very good," Sam smiled.
"That's why I jumped at the chance to be on this episode of Ghost Chasers, Inc. I wanted to work with a master hunter." Morgan took a step closer to Sam. "You are a legend in our field."
"Legend," Sam said, rolling the word pleasantly around his mouth. "That's a very strong word to be tossing around."
"I mean it." Morgan ran her hand down Sam's arm softly. "For me, it's like being a composer and getting to study at the feet of Beethoven."
"I appreciate the compliment," Sam said politely, "But I'm just a man. I'm by no means comparable to Beethoven."
"Sam? Morgan?"
Both Sam and Morgan turned to see a large group approaching them. Chloe Andrews walked up with her hand extended. "My name's Chloe Andrews, and I'm the director of this segment of Ghost Chasers."
Sam reached out and shook Chloe's hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Chloe."
Chloe turned to Morgan. "Morgan?"
Morgan nodded and shook Chloe's hand. "Pleasure."
Chloe turned and motioned toward her group. "This is my crew." She waved to the left. "This is my cameraman, Trent."
Trent was a twenty-something guy with frosted brown hair wearing a black shirt with a pair of khaki cargo pants. His left ear was pierced and he had two visible black tattoos on his forearms.
"This is our sound tech, Chris," Chloe continued.
Chris was black and just a hair taller than Trent. His dark hair was shaved close to his head. He was wearing a black jacket and a pair of blue jeans. He had a large duffel bag slung over his left shoulder.
Chloe moved on, "This is our grip, Jackson."
Jackson stood just short of Chris. His long, wavy blonde hair hung in waves around his slim face. He had a better build than either Chris or Trent and was wearing a white button-up shirt with a pair of black Dockers and a clunky pair of black boots. Jackson nodded at Morgan and Sam.
Chloe pointed to a young woman behind Jackson. "This is our producer, Carrie Lang."
Carrie's long red hair was tied up in a ponytail behind her head exposing her radiant green eyes. She was wearing a gray t-shirt with a long black skirt and a pair of tall high heels. She was strikingly beautiful, and appeared to be in her midthirties. As with most redheads, her skin was a creamy white.
"This," Chloe said, pointing to the last member of her crew, "is our host, Rivers Gallows."
Rivers stepped forward and looked over Sam and Morgan. Pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket, he slid it into his mouth and lit it. After a long drag, he exhaled the smoke into their faces. "You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours." With that, he marched passed them, leaving the group behind.
Morgan turned to look at Rivers as he walked away. "What's his problem?"
Chloe laughed. "He's in a good mood today."
Sam glanced down at his watch. It was nearly two in the afternoon. "Are we going to get started today, or wait until tomorrow?"
"Weather permitting," Carrie said. "We plan on filming some background footage tomorrow morning, but we don't go live until tomorrow night. We want to have a production meeting tonight."
Sam smiled. "Wonderful. Have you booked accommodations for Morgan and me?"
Carrie nodded. She reached into her small leather bag and produced two envelopes. "I've put you both up at the Brenton. It's one of Florida's premiere hotels."
"Thank you," Sam said. "I think if it's all right with everyone, I'd like to go check-in to my room and get cleaned up."
Chloe nodded. "That was our agenda as well." She glanced down at her wristwatch. "Lets meet at the Brenton's Bar in, say, four hours?"
"Sounds good," Sam said. He turned to Morgan, "Do you need a ride?"
Morgan shook her head, "No, I drove here. I'll follow you to the hotel in my car."
"Good," Chloe said. "I better go catch up to Rivers."
Morgan turned to Sam. "I'll meet you out in the parking lot in a seco
nd, I have to use the little girls’ room."
Sam smiled. "Don't get lost."
Morgan began to walk through the empty terminal. "I won't."
Morgan's mind was brimming with excitement. Today, she had gotten a job on television and met one of her idols. This day couldn't possibly get any better. Not bad for a girl who was voted "most likely to end up a prostitute" in high school.. . She stopped for a moment as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. An odd sensation had just past through her. She felt like she was being watched. Spinning around, she glanced around the terminal. It was empty except for a few baggage handlers and a stray flight attendant or two, and none of them were paying any attention to her. She unconsciously reached up and wrapped her fingers around the clear crystal she had hanging around her neck and began to rub it with her thumb. She glanced toward the large windows to her right. She could see nothing through them except the dark gray clouds looming outside.
"My mind's playing tricks on me," she muttered to herself. Turning back around, she continued her journey to the bathroom. Walking through a small alcove, she saw the door to the women's restroom and pushed through it.
The long room was wall-to-wall white tile. The stalls were painted a lime green, while the sinks were ringed in the same color of tile. Art deco lights hung on the walls and were backlit with red. Very festive, Morgan chuckled to herself. Moving to the first sink, she lifted the handle on the silver tap. Warm water immediately began to spray out. Morgan jumped back in an effort to remain dry. Standing to one side, she pushed the handle down until the water was flowing normally from the spigot. Dipping her hands under it, she let the warm water run over them. She felt sticky from the drive here. She knew she would be at the hotel soon and that she would be able to take a shower, but she couldn't take it anymore. She hated it when her hands felt unclean. She knew she was a little obsessive-compulsive in that department. Shutting off the water, she reached for a paper towel.
She stopped. The sensation hit her again. She couldn't explain it, but she had the oddest feeling that someone was watching her. Turning around, she looked over the stalls. All the doors were closed except for the last one, which hung partially open.
