by Lily Diamond
I wink at the camera. “Stick around. I’m sure that this night will have a whole lot of surprises in store for all of us!”
Chapter Two
Drake
The motorcycle roars under me as I open the throttle up. It's a cool, crisp Atlanta night, and the highway into town is almost clear. The chance for a burst of speed does me good; it reminds me that I am free.
I’m dressed like any late-twenties guy you’d expect to find on a motorcycle—head to toe black leather, boots, gloves, jeans, and an unmarked jacket. I’m not flying our club colors tonight. I’m flying under the radar.
I told the boys to stay back in Baton Rouge where we’ve got a secure hideout and plenty of money and pot. They need a break after six heists in a row, jumping from city to city to intercept jewel shipments and steal from collections. If we push too far and too hard, especially right now, we’re more likely to make a mistake that will cost us.
I don’t go for reckless excess. Neither does my team. We’re subtle, careful, and thanks to me, we always go in disguised and knowing exactly what part each of us will play. Zero casualties, zero arrests, zero betrayals. That’s the tight ship I have always kept.
Between heists, our usual cover is a small motorcycle club, perpetually “just passing through,” calling ourselves the Wanderers. Friendly, selling a little pot for travel money, not asking for trouble from anyone—especially other clubs. On the roads, especially in spring and summer, we can pass for any such group of nomads.
It’s all a means to an end. I play any role that’s going to get us the money, freedom, and security that we need. Drunk tourist, cat burglar, parkourist, biker, cutter and setter of fake gems, cruise passenger, and just recently, jailbird.
We’ve gotten our routine down to the point where it’s comfortable and easy to follow. After a jewel theft, we stash whatever it is we stole, grab our ready cash, and move on to the next town. We wait for things to cool down—usually six months or so—and then circle back to the cities where we have our stashes and commit no crimes at all while we retrieve them. Outside of a little trespassing, of course.
Six months on, five months off, and we leave one stash every year squirreled away long term in case something goes wrong. We end up fencing bits as we go, but keep the really choice stuff for a black market gem sale in Rio that happens every January.
Five years in a row, we have gone down the coast on an enormous cruise ship, pretending to be five brothers on our annual vacation together. Our stopover in Rio is three days, and we arrive with gems sewn into the linings of our luggage and our outer clothes. On the way back, those seams are stuffed with cash.
It’s a good life, and we make bank. And for the most part, outside of a punched-out guard or something like that, we do it without any violence at all. It’s so much better than what the boys and I left behind that maybe I’ve gotten a little complacent while I enjoyed my new life.
Maybe that’s how I got caught—either that or someone didn’t drop the damn dime on me. I don’t know. I may never know. But I can’t help but feel like I slipped up somehow.
They were waiting for us when I got back to New Orleans. I barely got to check on my houseboat before the goddamned cops were all over me. They had popped me on a gun charge for a weapon I had never seen before in my life, but had supposedly been found back in my stateroom by the maid.
I went without a fight so everyone else could take the chance to get away. Everyone else in our club has no record at all; I snapped them up before they could get into the sort of low-level crap that gets kids into trouble. I was the one the cops had something on, so I took a dive. One for all.
Maybe I’m dumb and sentimental, but after ending up in juvie for stealing to survive, I couldn’t risk my boys going down too. I just don’t see imprisonment as anything but hell on earth. There’s no rehabilitation behind bars; just a cage you share with monsters.
I was jailed for five-and-a-half months for a crime I did not commit before they finally figured out that I was telling the truth. I could have copped a plea, but that would have meant probation, which would have thrown a giant monkey wrench into our business. And I’ve got my pride; if they had caught me for something I had actually done, that would be one thing, but I’m not going down for something I’m innocent of.
I was as shocked as anyone to find out about that gun; I hate the damn things. I only carry a firearm on the job or when we’re playing outlaw biker out on the roads. Tonight, Max, my second-in-command, pretty much had to push a pistol at me and make me promise to take it along.
I’m an ex street kid with a lot of dumb mistakes under my belt, but compared to the guys I met in prison, I’m a model citizen. I steal and smuggle jewels from people so rich that they will barely miss them, and I sell a little pot between gigs. I’ve never bullied anyone, I’ve never started a fight, and I’ve never had to use my gun.
When I think about my time in jail, those six months have a weird, dreamlike quality. I had no control of my life then—someone else told me when I could eat, sleep, exercise, everything. Once they found out I was a black belt, the gangsters and crazies mostly left me alone, but I never entirely felt safe, stable, or...real...while under those bright prison lights.
The first thing I wanted when I got out was a long motorcycle ride. So I asked the boys, since I didn’t want them to see me struggling through my post-jail recovery, if I could go pick up our latest stash of diamonds by myself. That’s what puts me on the highway toward Atlanta at eight on Halloween night.
I like Halloween. It’s one of the most benign holidays ever. Raucous parties aside, it’s pretty much all for the kids—running around playing pretend for payment in candy. It’s nostalgic and silly, and when you find yourself passing those happy, noisy gaggles of small figures in costume, it can lighten the worst mood.
Once I’m off the highway I buy two shopping bags worth of full-sized chocolate bars and start tossing them to kids as I roll past—without taking my helmet off. “Thanks, Ghost Rider!” one of them yells, and I wave. I feel something relax inside of me that hasn’t relented since my cell door slammed on me for the first time.
We’re pretty much rich by now. I might want to retire soon. Maybe go full normal—wife, kids. I love kids, and as for women...I let out a chuckle as I give out the last of the chocolate bars and head to a late supper at the nearest steak place.
I’ve been in a cage for six months, constantly watched, constantly...pent up. I need to get laid so badly that my balls ache sometimes, like they’re over-full. I know nothing is going to really help me but a good, long fuck with a really enthusiastic woman.
But before I do that, I have a stopover to make, and then a job to do.
I park the bike and jump off as a pair of college girls are walking past toward the restaurant. I hear one of them gasp as I pull off my helmet, and can’t help but smile a little. My hair is bright, white gold, and stands up in spikes just out of the helmet, so I have to smooth it down with a hand.
After months of canteen food, this is my first real meal that hasn’t been delivered by a pizza guy since I got out. I order the biggest steak on their menu with all the fixings, and take over an hour downing the whole damn thing with good beer. My mood keeps improving; eventually, once I have a full belly and a little buzz, I start planning the night’s short but very important job.
We stashed the jewels in an abandoned hospital called Grace Memorial. Eight months ago, before we left for Rio, I personally hid over two million dollars in unset diamonds under the floorboards of a room in their mental health wing. I'm the only one who knows exactly where they are, so it made sense to just let me go.
I scouted the place for over a week before choosing it as our stash site. There’s one security guard, but the man’s fifty and struggling to cover four acres of forested land on foot, on top of the building itself. As far as I know, all he does is check the doors for signs of tampering.
It’s an easy job. The building’s a maz
e inside, but the room I’m going to has a missing window with a broken metal grating. The angle of the grating and the two remaining bolts provide a convenient way for an athletic guy with the right training to get straight to that room.
My mood continues to lift as I ride over to the hospital grounds. I find myself humming—something I haven’t done since I was locked up. I might be contemplating retirement after another year or so of this, but it still feels good to be getting back to what I do best.
I feel the first little hint of doubt as I see a battered little blue car sitting at the curb immediately outside the front gates. It could be the security guy’s, but he usually parks in the back as far as I know. Its presence sets my nerves on edge. Is someone else here?
A fat, drooping live oak sits at the property line near the gate. I park in its shadow, secure my bike, grab my backpack with my minimal gear and strap it on. Then, after a glance around to make sure I’m not being followed, I scramble right up the tree trunk and swing over the iron fence on a sturdy branch.
I land in a crouch, glancing around again. I still have my helmet on since I want my head protected if I have to do some climbing—and my face covered in case I actually do run into anyone. I’m pretty distinctive—I’ve always been a big guy, and I got even more into bodybuilding while I was inside. But the helmet makes me anonymous enough.
I still can’t get used to the idea that I can see the sky as much as I want. I still can’t get used to the idea that I can go pretty much wherever I want, whenever—as long as I take precautions not to get caught. My false imprisonment has left me with a greater appreciation for freedom than ever before.
Now let’s not fuck it up.
I approach the building cautiously, staying in the shadows. Down the hill from me, a flashlight bobs as the security guy doggedly makes his usual rounds. I don’t have to worry about him. But I need to get past the tree line so I can get a good view of that hospital wing.
Finally, I reach the knot of trees closest to that side of the building and peer up at the window where I’m supposed to make my entrance...
Only to see a light shining in it.
Fuck, I think, as I stare up at the lit window in this supposedly abandoned building. Who is this now? Are they looking for the diamonds? If they’re here for some other reason, is it possible that they’ll stumble onto them?
I can’t just leave and take the chance that the diamonds are safe. I have to check this out—and pray that I can still retrieve them without risking being seen.
Muttering in irritation, I head for the entrance, planning to slip inside and quietly investigate this unexpected intruder.
Chapter Three
Amanda
“Is anybody there? What’s your name? Do you mind telling us?”
The worst part of ghost hunting is that it requires an awful lot more patience than you can ever afford to let on to your viewers. They don’t want to know the time and effort you put in for those thousands of likes, the monetization, and the Patreons. But getting them proof of ghosts sometimes means spending my Halloween alone somewhere dusty, drafty, and dark, where central heating stopped being a thing three decades ago.
I’m filming myself doing EVP recordings. Ghosts seem to be able to manipulate electromagnetic fields, including electronic and magnetic media, and cause it to record their voices. So I give them prompts and an open sound recorder to talk into.
I usually record in shifts all night—three hours on, a few hours off to explore, then reset and change venues for the equipment, and another three hours of EVP. I then enhance nothing but the volume for my viewers, playing the interesting bits back at a lower speed in case they don’t catch those fleeting whispers.
In the years since I started doing this, I have caught a lot of pretty convincing things. The only problem is, I’m working surrounded by city noise pollution, even in the middle of the night. So, I’m a long way from proving I’ve heard anything that I can say beyond the shadow of a doubt has a supernatural origin.
That’s the problem with ghost hunting. To be taken seriously and provide anything resembling a consistent, scientific approach to investigation, we always have to be skeptical. Even to the point of constantly second-guessing our own work. But better that than ending up trapped in the pitfall of gullibility, or of believing one’s own hype.
Belief that evidence of the existence of ghosts can be captured with enough diligent work doesn’t equate to blind faith that every creak and cold draft is the work of a spirit. There are always other explanations, and I acknowledge them. I’m popular long term because I’m providing the evidence I find as I go along, as well as being user-friendly and a touch sensational.
The fact that a cute, thick girl with a friendly, perky attitude is doing the delivery probably helps as well. But the real stars are the ghosts—when I can get them to come out and play, that is.
I have the FLIR and a regular camera focused on me and the psych nurse’s desk behind me, and another focused toward the connecting hallway around the corner. I always record myself on video from a few angles while doing EVP recordings. Nine times out of ten, it’s while I’m sitting there trying to do them that any poltergeist activity, orbs, light streaks, or other phenomena will kick in.
But that means that I have to keep my manner, as well as my voice, calm and cheerful—for the ghosts and my audience—the entire time. I must also always be polite, even though the entities in this place may include a spree killer—or the demon that inhabited him. “This is Amanda. I was here a couple of weeks ago. Thought I’d come visit you guys again. I have the mic going. If you have anything to say, please do.”
I have to leave big empty spaces of silence between each question because I can’t actually hear the ghosts answer. Their voices are too quiet, even if they could register to my ears. I only know later if I have gotten anything. I end up having to spend hours sitting there, having a one-sided conversation and keeping faith that someone or something is talking back.
The EVP recordings I’ve captured in the past are all short phrases; usually single words, not always answering the question I asked. They always have this weird intonation, as if they’re only an approximation of a human voice. Some of them sound like a piece cut out of a longer conversation, while others are metallic, flat, or hollow—or buzzy, like a computer generated them.
“Fred here.”
“I’m still cold.”
“...nicer than the last...”
“Number four. Four. Four.”
“He’ll hurt you. Sorry.”
Every time I hear a good one for the first time, the hair on the back of my neck goes up with a mix of terror and glee. Once I calm down, I go back over them again, doing my best to be objective. I take a lot of trouble to screen them and eliminate false positives before showing them to my viewers.
I finish my first three-hour recording session and turn off the recorder and cameras, sighing and stretching. I grab a snack bar out of my bag and go over to the workstation I have set up at the nurses’ counter. Booting up my laptop, I start working on processing the audio I have taken so far. I’ll check the cameras next.
I munch and take sips from one of my water bottles as I get the program booted up. Its window opens promptly—bare bones, just some text and the oscilloscope graphic below, which vibrates every time there’s even a hint of noise. It only takes me a minute to transfer the files from the camera to my laptop and get the first one running.
I keep it turned to a normal volume at first, double checking the spaces between my questions and prompts to try and hear any faint sounds, or see the slightest vibration of the lines on my laptop screen. All I can think of right now is getting a good, convincing, exciting catch for my viewers to go along with the rolling gurney.
I can’t hear what’s causing it, but I definitely see the line wavering in spots between my questions. Sometimes in rhythmic patterns, sometimes at length, sometimes in short bursts. There’s no logic to it. Wondering wha
t the hell is going on, I put my headphones on, isolate one of the quiet sections, and enhance it.
“Cunt!”
It’s a single word, whispered very clearly in what sounds like a young male voice. It has depth, expression, and barely any distortion; it sounds, in short, too human. Sometimes it snickers a little, but otherwise it repeats that same word in different ways for almost a minute.
“Cunt cunt cunt cunt. Cuntcuntcunt. Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuunt.” And childish snickering.
My eyebrows creep toward my hairline. What the hell?
I check some of the other spaces between my prompts. It’s the same voice, just a lot of swearing, mocking and insults, mostly based around that one word. What he says gets noisier and gains variety as it goes on, as if the speaker is getting bored of his own stupidity.
“Cunt cunt dried up cunt bitch stupid bitch thinks she’s gonna make a comeback show but thanks to me it’s gonna blow la la la you’ve been working for hours for nothing stupid biiiiitch!”
