Ghost Trackers

by Grant Wilson Jason Hawes

  “Then let’s open the doors,” she said, “and get this party started.”

  Greg’s smile widened into a grin, and a dark glint came into his eyes. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  FOURTEEN

  Drew, Amber, and Trevor were among the first to enter the banquet-room-turned-dance-hall when the doors reopened. They’d visited the bar for a bit, mostly so Amber could have a glass of wine.

  “Just need a little something to take the edge off,” she’d said.

  Something else was going on with her, beyond a reaction to the general events they’d experienced so far. The way she’d reacted to Greg during the banquet when he’d approached their table . . . Drew wondered if Greg had spoken to her alone and, if so, what he’d said to her that might have upset her so. He wanted to ask her, but he also didn’t want to pry too much. The therapist in him told him to wait until she was ready to volunteer the information. But as her friend, he chafed with frustration. He wanted to be able to help her now. And if he were to be honest with himself, he wasn’t just frustrated. He was jealous, too. It was obvious that Greg was attracted to her, the slimy bastard, and that his attentions made her uncomfortable. He wanted to confront Greg and tell him to back the hell off and leave her alone. And while he knew he was being an overprotective, possessive male, he couldn’t help himself. He’d just have to do the best he could to control his feelings and not let them get the better of him.

  But he still intended to keep a close eye on Amber, especially when Greg was around.

  So when the three of them entered the dance, the first thing he did was look around for Greg. He stood over by the riser where the DJ had set up, talking with Sherri Wackler. He saw them walk in and nodded in their direction, then went back to his conversation with Sherri. That suited Drew just fine. Intellectually, he wanted to finally talk with Greg and discover what, if anything, he knew about the night the Lowry House burned down, but emotionally, he didn’t mind waiting a bit longer.

  The lights in the room had been dimmed, and the DJ’s equipment was rigged with flashing lights, including a mini disco ball, to help foster a party atmosphere. Drew found the lights annoying and hoped none of his former classmates suffered from epilepsy. If so, they’d probably end up having a seizure after the first five minutes. There were about a dozen people in the room already, the alumni committee and a handful of others, and more continued to filter in as the DJ started his spiel.

  “Hey, how’s everybody doin’ tonight?”

  This elicited a few tepid cheers, a couple of woo-hoos, and a smattering of applause.

  “Awesome!” the DJ shouted with false enthusiasm. He was a skinny guy in his forties, with wire-framed glasses, a salt-and-pepper beard, and a shaved head. He wore a brown suit jacket over a white T-shirt with jeans in an obvious attempt to look hip. But the jacket was the wrong style, fabric too thick and with pads in the shoulders, making him look like a little kid who’d stolen one of his father’s old jackets in a vain attempt to play grown-up. “Everyone ready to have a blast?”

  A few more cheers, only a little louder this time. People were starting to get drinks from the cash bar, but the alcohol hadn’t had time yet to start hitting their systems and artificially bolster their enthusiasm.

  The DJ soldiered on, undeterred. “Well, let’s get things hoppin’ with a little Dave Matthews!” He flipped a switch on his console and “Ants Marching” began to play. Even though it wasn’t the most danceable of tunes, a few adventurous souls headed for the middle of the room—drinks in hand, of course—and did their best to move to the music.

  “Now, that’s just wrong,” Trevor said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Drew said. “If ants grew to human size and started dancing, it might look a little like that.”

  Amber giggled.

  They picked out one of the tables close to the door so they’d be as far away from the DJ’s speakers as possible and sat down.

  “I’m going to get something to drink,” Trevor said, raising his voice so he could be heard over the music. “Can I bring back anything for the two of you?”

  Drew resisted an urge to glance at Amber. “I think it might be a good idea for us to keep our heads clear tonight.”

  Trevor did look at her before returning his attention to Drew. “Maybe you don’t want a drink, but I quit smoking a couple weeks ago. I still get cravings for cigarettes, and they hit worst right after meals and when I’m sitting at a bar.”

  “This isn’t a bar,” he said.

  “It’s like a bar,” Trevor said. “It’s got bad music, bad dancing, and overpriced booze. So, I’m going to go get a beer and hope it blunts the craving for a smoke. At the very least, it’ll give me something to do with my hands instead of imagining I’m holding a cigarette. Do you two want anything? My treat.”

  “I didn’t realize haunted hotel books paid so well,” Drew said.

  Trevor grinned. “They don’t. This is a basic bar survival skill. Buy the first round, and you won’t have to buy another the rest of the night.”

  “I’ll take another glass of wine,” Amber said.

  “I’ll take whatever you’re having,” Drew said to Trevor, who nodded and headed off toward the bar.

  When Trevor was gone, Amber turned to Drew. “I know I shouldn’t have another, but I’m just so nervous. All of these people, gathered in the same place . . . if anything should happen . . .” She shivered.

  “Do you feel that something bad is going to happen?” he asked.

  She looked at him as if he’d grown a second head and it had begun singing opera. “Are you asking if I’m having a premonition?”

  Drew smiled. “Don’t tell Trevor. He’d never let me hear the end of it. I’m not asking if you’ve had some kind of psychic warning that something bad is going to happen here tonight, but the subconscious mind is often more observant than our conscious minds are. The feelings of foreboding we sometimes experience are often the subconscious’s way of trying to get our attention and pass along a warning. So, if you want to call that a premonition, I’m fine with that.”

  She thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I am. I feel like an animal that senses a natural disaster coming, like a tornado or an earthquake, hours before it happens.”

  He noted the way her gaze fell on Greg. He was still hanging out by the DJ’s station, only now he was talking with Sam Knapp, who’d played goalie on the varsity soccer team in high school.

  “You think Greg’s connected to your premonition somehow.” It wasn’t a question.

  She nodded. “There’s something not right with him. All three of us sense it. We’re just not sure what to make of it.”

  He had no reason to agree with what she had said—no rational reason, that is. But he couldn’t deny that he sensed the very thing she was talking about. And hadn’t he been the one who’d said that the subconscious mind sometimes knew more than the conscious one?

  The DJ had switched to “Better Man” by Pearl Jam by the time Trevor returned with their drinks.

  “Great song,” he said as he set their drinks down on the table, “but it’s not any easier to dance to than the last one.”

  As if to illustrate his words, people cleared the dance floor as swiftly as if someone had lobbed a grenade into their midst. Some went off in search of drinks, some found tables to sit at, while others formed conversation groups and stood around talking, presumably waiting for the DJ to put on a more danceable song. Greg finished gabbing with Sam Knapp, and, although Drew managed to catch his eye, he didn’t head over to their table. Instead, he joined a group of four people whom Drew recognized as having been in the Drama Club in high school.

  He had the sense that Greg was toying with them, that he knew they were waiting to see him and was delaying doing so just to mess with them. Part of him was getting fed up with Greg’s petty games and wanted to go over there, take hold of his arm, and drag him back to the table. But he knew better than to give in to his frustration. It might ma
ke him feel good to force Greg to talk to them, but he doubted that it would put him in the most cooperative frame of mind. Better to be patient and wait a little longer. Besides, it wasn’t as if they would lose track of him. They were sitting by the door, and Greg couldn’t attempt to leave without them seeing him. One way or another, they’d get to talk to him before the night was over.

  They sat for a bit, working on their drinks, listening to the music, and watching the people around them. And while part of their scrutiny derived from simple curiosity to see how their former classmates would act as adults, Drew knew that they were, in fact, standing guard, keeping a close eye on the crowd, alert for any sign that something bad—something like what happened to Sean and Jerry—might occur here tonight. His professional radar was operating at full strength, and he picked up on the crowd’s mood.

  During the banquet, people had seemed subdued, but now, the festive atmosphere—aided by the liberal ingestion of alcohol—appeared to be raising everyone’s spirits. People hadn’t completely shed their emotional reactions to Sean’s and Jerry’s deaths, but they were well on their way. Drew recognized that a natural process was taking place, that his former classmates sought to release their negative emotions and were going to use the party atmosphere to purge them. That meant they’d drink too much and get a little rowdy, maybe a lot rowdy—all in the name of catharsis.

  Everything seemed normal enough, given the circumstances, but he glanced at Amber and Trevor to see if either of them had picked up on anything he’d missed. He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head, and both shook their heads to indicate that so far, they hadn’t detected anything wrong. He nodded, thinking that it was a wonderful thing to have friends so close that even after not having been together for the last fifteen years, they could communicate through simple body language.

  He noticed that Trevor was paying close attention to Sherri Wackler, who was over at the cash bar.

  Amber noticed, too, for she said, “Thinking about doing a little one-on-one investigating, Trevor?”

  At first, he looked embarrassed at having been caught staring at Sherri, but then he grinned. “Why not?” He downed the rest of his beer in a gulp, as if looking for a last boost of courage, and then he got up and headed for the bar.

  Drew figured that Trevor needed a little catharsis himself. Considering what the three of them had experienced since returning to town, Drew didn’t blame him.

  Pearl Jam ended, and the DJ leaned in close to his mic. “All right, looks like we got this party off to a good start, people. So, what say we slow things down a bit and give you a chance to get up close and personal? Any old boyfriends or girlfriends out there you’d like to hook up with again or maybe an old crush you never had the courage to ask out? Now’s your chance to get ’em out on the dance floor.”

  The DJ flipped a switch on his console and the dreamlike tones of “Fade into You” by Mazzy Star started playing.

  “I love this song!” Amber said. Before Drew could react, she stood, reached over and grabbed his hand, and pulled him out of his seat. The next thing he knew, they were in the middle of the dance floor, and she had her hands on his shoulders. He hesitated only a moment before placing his hands on her waist. He’d never touched her before, not like this, anyway, and he was surprised by how natural it felt, as if his hands belonged there. They began swaying in time to the music, and when she stepped closer and rested her head on his shoulder, that felt natural, too.

  “Look at that.”

  Trevor inclined his head, and when Sherri turned to glance in the direction he indicated, she saw Drew Pearson and Amber Lozier dancing together. When she turned back to Trevor and gave him a questioning look, he said, “Those two have been in love forever. They’ve just been too dumb to realize it.”

  “Good for them,” she said. She took a sip of her Kahlúa and cream. She and Trevor stood near the bar, watching people filter back onto the dance floor. Her feet were still killing her, but she hadn’t kicked off her high heels yet. So far, no one had asked her to dance, but the night was still young, and the DJ hadn’t been playing the most danceable of tunes. One of the paradoxes of being a beautiful woman was that while some guys hit on her because she was so attractive, a lot of guys—maybe more—were intimidated by her looks, figured she was out of their league, and never approached her. It wasn’t uncommon for her to end up alone for long stretches of time at a party or a bar, especially if she was by herself. If she had a girlfriend with her, for some reason, guys seemed to feel more comfortable coming up to talk to her, maybe because they figured that if she shot them down, they could always play it off as if they’d come over because they were more interested in her friend. And tonight she had another factor working against her: as the Eternal Cheerleader, she was viewed as out of reach by her former classmates, especially those guys who’d gained a few pounds and lost some hair since high school.

  So, she was glad when Trevor Ward had come over to chat with her, and she’d been a little surprised. He’d never shown interest in her during high school—at least, no more interest than any of the other boys had, which meant that he’d probably lusted after her from afar—and he definitely fell into the “more weight, less hair” category. But while some people’s glory years ended when they graduated from high school, other people blossomed later, and it seemed he fell into the latter camp. Despite her physical appearance and near-mystical status as Eternal Cheerleader, he didn’t seem intimidated by her. He came off as calm and confident, and best of all, he talked to her as if she was a person instead of a pair of big boobs that happened to be attached to a woman. So what if he’d been a bit of a geek in high school, running around with his two friends investigating ghost stories as if they were Scooby-Doo and the gang? All she cared about was who he was right now: a nice guy who had the balls to talk to her and the intelligence to see beyond her beauty, which put him way ahead of most guys she met.

  She was glad that he hadn’t asked her to dance right away. A lot of guys would have used slow dancing as an excuse to touch her before getting a chance to know her. But he seemed content to talk, which was fine by her.

  “What do you do these days, Trevor?”

  He’d already asked her what sort of work she did, and he hadn’t batted an eye when she’d told him she was a vet. Most people, women included, acted amazed and more than a little surprised when they learned about her profession, as if it were some sort of miracle that a beautiful woman could also have a brain.

  “I’m a writer,” he said. “I do nonfiction books and articles dealing with paranormal events and places associated with supernatural activity.”

  That caught her off guard, but she recovered. “So, you still deal with ghost stories, only now you tell them instead of investigate them.”

  He grinned. “Something like that.”

  He didn’t seem at all self-conscious about his work, even though he had to know that a lot of people would have cut the conversation short as soon as he said paranormal and supernatural. Another point in his favor. She found confidence—true confidence, not arrogance or bravado masquerading as confidence—attractive.

  She had no special interest in the paranormal or, for that matter, in anything related to spirituality. Her family hadn’t been religious, although her mother read the Bible from time to time, and while some people turned to religion after experiencing a tragedy like the early loss of a spouse, or in some cases turned away from religion, she had done neither. After Brad’s death, she’d gone on with her life the best she could. If anything, she found the idea of an unseen world of ghosts and psychic phenomena to be morbid and a bit creepy. Not to mention a little too close to her zombie dreams for comfort. Still, she wanted to be polite, and if she wasn’t interested in Trevor’s work itself, she was interested in getting to know him better, so she said, “What’s the scariest thing you ever experienced?”

  He kept smiling, but not quite as widely as he had a moment ago. “You don’t want to know.” H
e said it as if it was a joke, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice, and she feared she’d raised a sore subject without meaning to. She decided to change the topic, but before she could do so, she heard a voice whisper close by.

  I know what the scariest thing you’ve ever experienced is, Sherri. And you keep on experiencing it. That’s why you hate closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep each night, isn’t it? Because you never know which night will be one of those nights.

  She recognized the voice as Greg’s, but when she turned to look, he wasn’t anywhere nearby. He was standing over by the DJ, talking to some other people. And even if he had been standing right next to her, how could she have heard him whisper, as loud as the music was? But then, the whisper hadn’t been something she’d heard, exactly, not with her ears, anyway. Greg’s words had sounded within her mind, as if they were her own thoughts but “spoken” in his voice. Weird.

  She glanced in his direction once more, and this time, he was looking at her and grinning. He seemed amused, as if he was enjoying a private joke. And his eyes . . .

  She frowned. His eyes were gone, or rather concealed, covered by dark shadowlike smudges. She told herself it was a trick of the light. It had to be! She continued staring at his shadow eyes, felt them pulling at her. She was aware of Trevor calling her name as a wave of dizziness gripped her. She swayed and feared she might fall, but he grabbed hold of her arm and steadied her. The dizziness passed, and she turned to face him.

  “Sorry about that. I think the bartender made my drink stronger than I’m used to. I . . .” She trailed off. Trevor had changed. His skin had become a grayish-green color, and his eyes had sunken into the sockets, the irises and pupils clouded over as if by thick cataracts. His mouth hung open, desiccated lips as dry as two strips of leather, his tongue black and swollen. His hair was shaggy, matted, as coarse as straw, and his suit was ripped in numerous places, the fabric dirty and stained with dark patches that looked like dried blood.