Graveyard Slot

by Michelle Schusterman

  I watched them shuffle slowly up the aisle, wondering if it would be rude to take photos of them. Mom always said this was tricky for professional photographers: You didn’t want to try and be sneaky about it, but if you asked people if it was okay, you’d never get natural-looking shots because they’d be too aware of the camera. Her rule was to only ask permission if she wanted a close-up of someone’s face. Otherwise, she took the pictures she wanted to take and stopped if people seemed uncomfortable.

  So I moved to the front near the altar, held my camera up, and waited a few seconds. The tour guide, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, glanced over his shoulder and smiled at me before turning back to the group.

  Click! Click! I got several shots of the whole group, then started focusing on individuals. Two gray-haired women wearing backpacks and sneakers. A girl with dreadlocks and a killer camera that was probably about fifty times more expensive than my Elapse. Two bored-looking girls around Hailey’s age, whose parents reacted too enthusiastically to every sentence that came out of the tour guide’s mouth. Six or seven people all wearing the same red T-shirts that said Tapaculo Adventures. And, in the back, a boy and a girl who weren’t paying attention to the guide at all.

  I studied them through my viewfinder, zooming in a little. They were both teenagers, and the girl looked like a junior or senior in high school, while the boy was probably a year older than me. Brother and sister, I guessed, seeing as they had the same sun-streaked dark brown hair, brown skin slightly lighter than mine, and noses that bent slightly to the left. No bags or cameras or any touristy stuff, either. They were whispering, heads were bowed together, and the girl kept glancing back at the entrance in a nervous sort of way.

  “Hey.”

  Startled, I lowered my camera to find Oscar at my side. “What?” It came out more clipped than I intended, and he sighed.

  “Seriously, you’re still mad at me about the Graveyard Slot thing? I said I’m sorry.”

  I stepped aside as the tour group began moving up closer to the altar. “Are you, though?”

  Oscar’s scowled. “What?”

  “Never mind.” I didn’t feel like getting into it now, especially when Oscar would just deny it. Besides, it seemed wrong to have an argument in a church. But I knew he didn’t regret anything. I said no to the web series, but he’d gone and told Jess about it anyway. Then stupid Shelly Mathers had given him the perfect opportunity to seal the deal during their interview. He knew I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone by backing out, and his plan had totally worked.

  “Kat . . .”

  “Forget it, Oscar. I’m not mad.” I zoomed in on Jamie and Hailey in the last pew, heads bowed over Oscar’s iPad, probably still researching places to feature in Graveyard Slot. But my hands were really starting to sweat, so after just a few shots, I flipped my camera off and took a deep breath. After a couple of seconds, my heartbeat started to slow.

  “Are you getting sick or something?” Oscar asked. “You’re really sweaty.”

  I shook my head, wiping my palms on my shorts. This morning when I’d logged into my blog to approve the new comments, I’d been greeted by another dozen messages from kbold04. He was getting meaner, too. If Dad knew the stuff this person was saying to me, he’d probably flip out and delete my whole blog. So I’d deleted the comments—but not before getting a screenshot of each one. Any time I had a spare second, I pulled out my phone and flipped through them. My stomach had been churning with anxiety all morning, but I couldn’t stop reading those horrible things about me.

  But I definitely did not want to discuss any of that with Mr. TV Celebrity at the moment, and the tour group had stopped at the front of the aisle, within earshot.

  “This lovely circular window,” the guide was saying as he gestured behind him, “provides a . . . a magnified focus for the exterior design, as you will soon see from the courtyard. And there was just as much focus on decorative and romantic features on the inside as the outside . . .”

  Oscar was watching one of the guys in Tapaculo Adventures shirts closest to us, his eyes narrowed. The guy’s shoulders shook with silent laughter every time the guide said focus. Probably because with his thick accent, it sounded like “fuh-kyoos.” If the guide noticed his reaction—and I was pretty sure he had, since the guy’s friend kept punching his arm to get him to stop laughing—he didn’t acknowledge it, and kept talking over the snickers.

  “Rude,” I muttered loud enough for the guy to hear. He glanced over his shoulder at me, pushing his glasses up his nose when they slipped.

  “What’s that now?”

  Before I could respond, Oscar spoke up. “We just want to know what the joke is,” he whispered eagerly, leaning closer. A few feet away, the teenage girl was also glaring at Glasses Guy, but her brother was watching Oscar.

  Glasses Guy smirked. “Just . . . you know. This dude’s kinda hard to understand.”

  “He is?” Oscar asked, his expression perfectly innocent. “So how do you know what he’s saying is so funny?” I had to chew the inside of my cheek to keep myself from smiling, and the teenage girl and her brother looked amused, too. But Glasses Guy didn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm.

  “Well, it’s more how he says it.”

  “Ah.” Oscar nodded. “Well, I’m sure you speak whatever your second language is perfectly.”

  Glasses Guy blinked. “I don’t speak a . . .” He trailed off, scowling, as he realized even his friend was now laughing at him. “Whatever, kid.” They followed the rest of the group as the guide, now talking about the courtyard and the entrance to the catacombs, led them to the exit along the left wall.

  Oscar and I headed back to Jamie and Hailey. “Nice,” I told him. “That guy was being a jerk.”

  “Yeah.” Oscar smiled a little. “My grandpa had a really thick accent. Drove him nuts when people laughed, even if they weren’t making fun of him. And especially if they called it ‘cute.’ So one day he just started calling them out. Can you say something to me in your second language? Help me understand the correct way to have an accent. That usually shut them up pretty fast.”

  The front door creaked open, and Mi Jin waved at us. She held the door as the rest of the crew filed inside, along with a man who I guessed was Professor Guzmán. Jamie and Hailey were already up and moving down the row to join us.

  “He’s so tall,” Hailey whispered loudly, and Jamie shushed her. She was right, though—it was hard not to be taken aback by Professor Guzmán’s height. He towered above everyone else, and his slightly hunched narrow shoulders, spindly frame, and pointed chin added to the effect. A girl around Mi Jin’s age, who I assumed was one of his students, trailed behind him, barely keeping pace with his long strides.

  “It’s so thrilling to meet a fellow parapsychologist!” Professor Guzmán was saying to Roland. “I’m sure you know how hard it is to find anyone in the scientific community who doesn’t scoff at psychical research. I’m afraid that Brunilda Cano’s poor spirit has been the subject of some ridicule since my students and I have reported our successful encounters.”

  We hurried to keep up with the crew, listening intently as Professor Guzmán talked about Brunilda. He couldn’t keep still when he talked, flailing his arms or wiggling his fingers as he described some of his group’s most memorable séances.

  “Last time, she elevated a table!” he was saying as we crossed the courtyard, mimicking the motion with his hands. “At least a few centimeters off the ground, maybe more!”

  The catacombs entrance looked like something right out of a fantasy book: an ancient stone arch with a thick wooden door and rusted bolts, sitting in the middle of the grass and unattached to any building. It was easy to imagine opening the door and stepping through into another world. Which was almost the case. Only it was more like the underworld.

  The door revealed a steep staircase that led straight down into
the earth. Torches hung on the wall, providing very dim light. At the bottom, a single tunnel led us in the opposite direction, directly under the church. It ended in a sort of cavern that wasn’t very big, maybe twice the size of my bedroom back in Ohio, but with a high domed ceiling. And the whole thing was made out of bones.

  They had been carefully organized: thick femurs forming the borders, pointed ribs protruding along the curve into the ceiling, and long, thin arm bones mixed with slender finger bones to create a macabre pattern. And skulls, skulls with hollow eyes and eerie grins, grouped into circles every few feet in a way that mirrored the stained glass windows up in the church.

  “One day, when I have my own apartment,” I murmured, “this is exactly how I’m going to decorate it.”

  Jamie laughed. “With real bones? Or, like, catacomb wallpaper?”

  “Real bones, obviously,” I said. “It’s got to be authentic.”

  In the center of the cavern was a large, round table with about a dozen chairs around it. Professor Guzmán led everyone over and began taking a bunch of items out of his bag. Oscar and I hung back with Jamie and Hailey as the others took their seats, with the exception of Guzmán’s student, who stood at his side, and Roland, who was walking around the room, peering closely at the bones like he was searching for something hidden between them.

  Jamie nudged me. “You guys should be over there,” he whispered. “You’re part of the cast now.”

  “Not enough chairs,” I said. “And we aren’t filming, anyway.” He shrugged and smiled. His arm kept grazing mine, and I couldn’t help wondering if it was on purpose.

  “Here it is,” Professor Guzmán said grandly, waving a thick leather notebook in the air. “Brunilda Cano’s journal. Just one of the many treasures I found last year when cleaning out my grandmother’s attic. All in Spanish, of course, but I translated an entry to give you an example.” He handed Jess a printout. On either side of her, Lidia and Dad leaned closer. Sam just closed his eyes. I pulled out my Elapse, made sure the flash was off, and started taking pictures as Jess read out loud.

  “I fear not for my safety, but for the safety of those around me. The evil that has my soul in its claws will not loosen its grip; on the contrary, the exorcism seems only to have strengthened its resolve. Every day, I feel less myself. Every day, I see unspeakable things, things no one else can see, and I know they are the work of this demon.” Jess set the paper on the table and turned to Lidia. “Voiceover narration?”

  Lidia nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “Professor Guzmán, is there any way we could make copies of all these entries?” Jess asked. “I’d like to go through them and record Lidia reading a few before Friday, if possible.”

  “Absolutely,” Guzmán replied. “Inés, can you take care of that tomorrow morning?” His student nodded, making a note in her planner. I zoomed in on her, adjusting the focus. She looked vaguely familiar, although I was too distracted to wonder why. Brunilda’s words were really creepy, but I loved stuff like this . . . so why did I suddenly feel so unsettled?

  “This is fascinating,” Dad said, flipping through a few more of the translated pages. “A first-hand account of possession. Look here, this part about seeing messages written in blood on the walls of the sacristy?” He nudged Jess. “Let’s make sure we get some footage in there. In fact . . .” Dad squinted down at the pages. “Looks like she saw lots of ‘messages’ no one else could see, both inside and outside of the church. We should write a list, make sure we cover all these places.”

  They continued talking, but blood was rushing in my ears. Dazed, I let my camera fall at my side. I kept picturing the cave behind the waterfall, I WANT OUT scratched all over in the photos.

  Looks like she saw lots of messages no one else could see.

  “Kat?” Jamie had called my name, and I realized he and Hailey were staring at me. The adults were all focused on the journal, but I saw Mi Jin watching us. My heart started pounding too loud and too fast, and I was seized with the sudden certainty that something terrible was about to happen.

  I sucked in a sharp breath when Oscar grabbed my arm. “We’re going outside for a few minutes, okay?” he said to the table in general. “It’s kind of crowded in here.”

  “Don’t go too far,” I heard Lidia say. Oscar was already guiding me out of the catacombs, down the tunnel, and up the stairs. Jamie and Hailey were right on our heels.

  “What’s wrong?” Hailey asked. I couldn’t respond. My lungs had forgotten how to take in air.

  “Kat’s sick,” Oscar said, still gripping my elbow as he pushed on the door.

  Thump. It had only opened a few inches before slamming into something on the other side. Or, judging by the resulting yelp, someone.

  “Sorry!” Oscar exclaimed, carefully pushing the door open the rest of the way. I wrenched my arm from his grasp and stumbled a few steps away from the entrance before sitting on the grass. I took deep gulps of the fresh, warm air, willing my heart to slow down. Slowly, my panic began to fade. But what had caused it? I was still trembling with fear and nothing frightening had even happened.

  It was a few seconds before I realized Jamie was kneeling next to me, his blue eyes filled with concern. Oscar and Hailey stood a few feet away, along with a familiar boy and girl—the teenagers who had been with the tour group in the church earlier. But the rest of their group was nowhere in sight.

  “Do you need some water?” Hailey asked anxiously, hovering at my side. The girl smiled down at me sympathetically.

  “Your first time in the catacombs?” she asked, her words carrying the tiniest trace of an accent. “Thiago’s claustrophobic, he almost passed out the first time we went down there.”

  “Claus-what?” Her brother’s accent was quite a bit thicker. “I did not pass out.”

  “I know, that’s why I said ‘almost.’”

  As my anxiety faded, my face grew warm with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” I mumbled. “I just got . . . hot.”

  Oscar eyed me in a way that made it clear he didn’t believe me, but thankfully, he didn’t push it. I started to stand, and the girl reached out a hand to help me up.

  “Thanks.”

  “Of course. I’m Abril, this is Thiago,” she added. “Our sister Inés is Guzmán’s teaching assistant. We saw you in the church earlier,” she added to Oscar. “Telling off that jerk for laughing at the tour guide.”

  “Aw, you told somebody off and we missed it?” Hailey made a face. “Dang.”

  “It was very good,” Thiago said to Oscar, grinning. It brought out a little dimple on the left side of his mouth. “Very funny.”

  “Oh.” Oscar blinked. “Um. Thank you.”

  I stared at him. Was he actually blushing? Like a modest human being might? That was new.

  “You’re with the TV show, right?” Abril asked. “Passport to Paranormal?”

  “Yeah,” I said, taken aback. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “I studied abroad in California last year,” Abril explained. “The family I lived with, they watched it sometimes. Professor Guzmán is very excited you’re filming an episode about Brunilda.”

  Thiago’s expression darkened when his sister mentioned the professor’s name. He started to say something, but Abril shot him a warning look.

  Hailey must have noticed it, too. “What?” she asked eagerly. “You don’t like Professor Guzmán?”

  “No, it’s . . . ,” Abril said with a sigh. “He is . . . was . . . Inés’s favorite professor. This Brunilda experiment, it was a risk for him. The university doesn’t take it very seriously.”

  “But he’s getting amazing results,” Jamie pointed out. “He said that two weeks ago, Brunilda made the table float. They still aren’t taking him seriously?”

  Abril glanced back at the entrance. “No, they aren’t. Inés thinks the university is going to
stop funding all his projects, actually. They don’t approve of what he’s doing. That’s why he’s so happy your show is here. Good publicity for the school—he thinks it might save his job.”

  Oscar and I exchanged a glance. “I don’t know about that,” Oscar said slowly. “I mean, it’s a ghost-hunting show. Half the fans don’t even believe most of it.”

  “Some of them think we fake stuff,” I added. Abril’s eyes widened.

  “Do you?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “The viewers are kind of on the lookout for it, you know? If they thought we were trying to trick them, I think a lot would just stop watching. The network’s already warned us about it.”

  Abril’s mouth was set in a thin line, but she said nothing. After a few seconds of fidgeting, Thiago turned to his sister.

  “¡Díles que Guzmán es mentiroso!” he told her, his voice low and urgent. Grimacing, Abril started to respond, but Oscar beat her to it.

  “Professor Guzmán’s lying?” he said, looking back and forth between them. “About what?”

  Thiago’s eyes widened. “¿Hablas español?” He sounded delighted, but Oscar shook his head.

  “Not really. I mean, I understand some. But I can’t, um . . .”

  “He speaks Portuguese,” I told Thiago, because Oscar looked all flustered again. “What’s Guzmán lying about?”

  “The table . . .” Thiago lifted his hands like a puppeteer. “Flotando. Floating.”

  “And everything else that happens during the séances. But we can’t prove it.” Abril cast another nervous glance at the entrance. “We went into the catacombs with the tour group, then I stayed down there when they left. Thiago waited up here to tell me when you all were coming. I searched all over, looking for evidence that he’s faking it, but . . . nothing.”

  “Why do you think he’s faking?” Jamie asked.

  “Inés thinks he is,” Abril said. “She said it started out fine, but in the last month they’ve been reading the final entries in Brunilda’s journal, the entries about her possession. That’s when things got . . . violent.” She waved her hands. “Not violent. But . . . objects flying, chairs and tables lifting, cold temperatures. That was also around the time the university told Professor Guzmán he had two months left before they stopped funding his research.”