"Okay, ghost huntresses. Let's go kick some major spirit ass at city hall!"
Five o'clock in city hall, and the official business is done for the day. Our work has just begun.
We've got three hours to set up and "go dark," as Celia's heroes the Ghost Hunters say. Since it's Wednesday and a school night, we won't stay while our recordings are going on. We'll just set up, make sure everything's working, and then head home to let the spirits frolic as they may. Then we'll come back Friday night and get serious about having fun. That's the time we'll dig in and I'll try my hand at a psychic connection with whoever—or whatever—this entity is. It'll also give us time to do more research.
Celia and Becca have set up a card table at the base of the grand marble staircase that sits in the middle of city hall and leads to the second-floor offices where Dad works.
Taylor starts to spray some Oust to cover up the mustiness of the over-two-hundred-year-old building, but I stop her. Smells—no matter how sneeze-worthy they may be—are essential in the hunting as well. The clear windows let in the last remnants of the afternoon sun, casting an orange glow on Celia's monitors and Becca's recording equipment.
A tickle skulks up my back, making the hair at my neck stand at military attention. My heartbeat picks up and I sense someone is coming. Not a spirit, though. Human.
I spin around, hoping that Loreen has come to watch our first ghost-hunting expedition. However, I nearly pant when I see those blue eyes I'm obsessed with.
"Hey," Jason says, a bit out of breath.
"Hey," I mimic. "What are you doing here?"
"Taylor told me what was going on, so I skipped out of track practice to help out."
And apparently ran all the way from RHS.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as if he's unsure what to say to me next. Honestly, am I that scary? No! At least, I hope not. After all, he's just doing this to keep an eye on his sister. Still, a niggling deep down in my stomach tells me he's watching me as well. He's so close. My senses are piqued, and my insides are like a bowl of mashed potatoes. Not such a good simile, but I feel squishy, warm, and comforted. I'm too attached to Jason Tillson. How will I be able to really sense what's going on here at city hall if his gorgeousness is distracting me from properly ghost hunting?
"So, use me," he says with a roguish smile.
My mouth falls open. "Huh?"
"You know. To help."
Get a grip, Kendall. "Oh. Well. I hadn't exactly decided whether we needed a skeptic or not on the team," I manage to choke out.
He smiles. "I figured I'd make up your mind for you by showing up."
"Jason, I appreciate—"
"Besides, I can lend a hand with heavy lifting or whatever you need. You know, guy stuff." His eyes nearly sparkle in the twilight of the room. "Come on, Kendall. Let me."
Becca snaps her gum. "Might as well, Kendall. If this friggin' spirit pushed your dad down the stairs—and he's a fair-sized dude—we may need some muscle around here to ward off any evil."
Jason reaches out and fist-bumps Becca.
Knowing I'm going to regret this—and hoping it doesn't hamper our investigation—I give in. "All right. Come with me."
Celia doesn't exactly look thrilled, but she remains silent.
Jason and I leave them to finish setting up base camp. Together, we climb the monstrous marble staircase. I firmly grip the railing, never knowing when the spirit—or spirits—might lash out again. Don't want to go flying ass over tits with a cute boy around.
"Where are we going?" Jason asks, keeping pace with me.
"Up to Dad's office."
"To do what?"
"Observe. Listen. Investigate. You know, 'cause we're ghost hunters?"
"Listen to what?"
I flinch. "Too many questions, Jason."
He nods and steps a pace behind me. "Right. Sorry."
At the landing, Taylor is setting up one of the infrared cameras in a corner, pointed just right to get a shot of the top of the staircase. She stands and brushes her hands together. "There! All set. Now if that mean old ghost tries to push anyone else down the steps, we'll get it on tape."
"You're really into this, aren't you?" Jason says to his sister.
Taylor beams a brilliant smile at him. "You're darn toot-in'!" Then she runs off down the hallway to the room where the security tapes are kept.
"Darn tootin'?" I ask, with a quirked grin.
His eyes squeeze shut and he sighs. "She's adopted, from another planet, anything but my twin ... I don't know," he jokes.
"I think she's adorable."
Jason stares at my mouth for what seems like an hour and I almost hear his words in my head. You're adorable. A blush paints me from head to toe, and I step away to break our moment. "Well. Okay, then. Let me fill you in on everything that's going on." I point down the hallway. "Taylor's setting up cameras in Dad's office, as well as the hallway and the top of the steps. She's also got two tripodded cameras on timers to take still photos throughout the night. Celia's software not only tracks but records temperature changes, so we can analyze it later. Rebecca's been bugging the joint with microphones so we can pick up any EVPs tonight. Those are—"
"Electronic voice phenomena. I know. I've been reading up on this stuff."
"Oh. Okay." Wow, he really is serious about helping us now. Maybe my "quit acting like an adult" speech had a more positive effect on him than I originally thought. I certainly don't mind watching his broad shoulders as he walks in front of me down the hallway. Or his cute butt that fits nicely into those Levi's 501s. Man, I have got to stop ogling him and worry about this asshole ghost who's after my dad. Or is it that the spirit is specifically targeting the city planner? Hmmm.
As I'm mulling this over, Jason knocks me out of my thoughts. "What's Celia doing?"
"She's manning all of the computer equipment at base camp. She's also responsible for all these tech toys, courtesy of Mega-Mart. Thanks to her AmEx, we've got temperature gauges, flashlights, cameras, wiring, computers, you name it."
Jason spreads his arms wide. "This is amazing. I had no idea."
I smile and wink. "You ain't seen nothin' yet."
Oh my God! Did I just flirt? I did, didn't I? I overtly flirted. Down, girl!
"I, umm, uhh, want to check out my dad's office. You know, to debunk whether anyone could get in at all." I hand him the small meter that I'd picked up from Celia's base-camp table. "You want to, like, take temperature readings?"
"Sure."
Our hands touch innocently enough as I pass the meter to him, sparking that tingly sensation from the tips of my fingers to the ends of my hair. This isn't like my psychic tingling awareness. This is all about him.
"Why do you take temperature readings?"
"If the temperature drops dramatically," I explain, echoing what I've learned from Celia and the Internet, "it's a sign that a spirit could be present."
"If you believe in that stuff."
I look him square in the eyes. "I have to, Jason."
"Or else what?"
"Or else I'm just a crazy lunatic who sees and talks to people who aren't really there."
He hangs his head a little. "I guess I understand where you're coming from."
This is my job now. My mission. To right the wrong done to Dad. And to get this spirit to move on ... if I can do that.
Entering Dad's office, I take a few deep breaths and then try to center my energies. Last night, Loreen called Celia, who then three-wayed us together (so my mom wouldn't know I was talking to Loreen). Loreen told me I have to tune in to everything my body is trying to say because the slightest itch, twitch, or even indigestion could be a sign of something. One breath. Two. Third one. Hmmm ... Jason's wearing some amazing spicy cologne.
Stop it!
Focus. Focus. Concentrate.
The noxious stench of paint fumes is up front and present in my mind. Ahhh ... the clairalience ability Loreen was telling me about. Guess I h
ave that, too. "The windows in this office are painted shut. They have been since the seventies," I say, very sure of myself.
Jason goes over to the sill next to Dad's desk, and there's no way in hell that even his athletic bulk could open the frame. "Yep. That's pretty stuck. How'd you know that?"
I shrug. "That's how it is. I just know things." I keep looking around. "So, no one could have come in that way." Eyes closed, I face the door. "The office was locked. Everyone was gone. Yet the model of the development, which was over on the table, was completely destroyed."
Quietly, Jason stands by my side while I mull this over. Then he nudges me.
"Am I supposed to tell you when the temperature drops?"
"Sure," I say.
He shows me the reading. "It just went from sixty-eight degrees to forty-two."
"What?"
He shakes the monitor. "It must be broken."
Spoken like a true skeptic. "It's brand new."
"Then how'd you do that?"
"I didn't."
I crouch down and fan my fingers out in front of me. Sure enough, the air feels like a gust from an air conditioner. I can almost see its path sweeping out the door. Is this the entity? Or simply some peculiar HVAC problem in this old building? Pulling Jason by the arm, I instinctively follow the trajectory of the breeze. "This way."
Twenty or so steps down the hallway and I'm back to the staircase. "Dad was standing right about here when he got manhandled."
"Don't worry, Kendall," Jason says. "I won't let anything hurt you."
Oh, there's that delicious ache in the bottom of my stomach. Just like when I would ride the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier back home. That unbelievably scary-yet-thrilling wheeeeeeeeee!
Of course, just as I relax and take my concentration away from the ghost hunting at hand to bask in Jason's words, something happens. Rather, something knocks into me, hard. Before I know what's happening, my feet are lifted right out from under me and I'm teetering toward the edge of the top step. I open my mouth to scream, but it's like someone's gripping my throat. I hear laughter. And I see my own demise as I begin to plummet down the marble flight.
That is, until Jason's strong arm reaches out and grabs me in the nick of time. He jerks me into his chest and we both collapse backwards onto the floor. Bam!
There's nothing in my lungs, and I struggle to get a mouthful of air. "I-I-I can't ... can't..."
"Shhh," Jason says.
Although he's holding me steady, I realize that I've had the wind knocked out of me. It happened once at vacation Bible school when we were playing red rover and I got clotheslined in the throat when Nancy Pulkki forgot to let go of Aaron Murray's hand. Only this is nothing like that. I'm not a little kid anymore and I'm up against something much more ferocious than Nancy's and Aaron's joined hands.
"Just breathe, Kendall. I've got you."
His voice is so soothing. So calming. So reassuring.
Then it hits me painfully in the face. I'm in Jason's arms. Not like that time in the cafeteria; more like what happens in my dream. I quiver in his grip. "Holy crap!"
"What? Are you all right?"
I'm anything but all right. I'm half sitting in Jason's lap and I can feel his body heat radiating out at me. I sense his pulse picking up to join the rhythm of mine, and his eyes search my face. His hand moves to cup my face, and I know exactly what he's about to do.
Because it's exactly what I dreamed he would do. And what I truly want him to do.
Jason leans over and kisses me. His lips are cool at first, tentative, as he moves in. He's waiting for my reaction—or participation. Without thinking twice about it, I tilt my head slightly to the right and part my lips. He takes that as a green flag and pulls me closer. Mother of pearl ... that's niiiiiiiiiiiiice.
I'm not a pro in the art of kissing, but I've watched enough movies and read enough books that I'm able to fully kiss him back. There's lots of heavy breathing and shifting and hands in hair and stuff. We're totally making out on the stairs, like we have no care in the world.
He moans. Or I do. Who can even tell at this point? We bump noses and scrape teeth, but it doesn't stop us from continuing our snog-fest at the top of the stairs.
What does stop us is the staticky click and beep of the walkie-talkie clipped to my jeans.
"Y'all about finished up there? Over," Celia says over the airwaves.
We freeze midkiss.
My heart starts beating again when I hear Taylor say, "I'm done. Over."
I push Jason away like he's got the plague. "Taylor's coming."
He looks as wild-eyed and dumbfounded as I feel. There's no hesitation on either of our parts as we scramble to our feet and step far away from each other. Neither of us wants to get caught by Celia, Becca, or especially Taylor.
I try to get my composure— how?—and head down the stairs with Jason on my tail. Two steps down, I stop and turn to meet his gaze. "Thanks for catching me just then."
I don't want this thing—whatever it is—between Jason and me to get in the way of our ghost hunting. I think I'll keep this turn of events all to myself for now.
He winks those beautiful gold eyelashes at me and says, "Anytime."
Oh, man. This. Is. Not. Good. Not good at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I CHECK MY WATCH as I leave the house. The homeroom bell at RHS won't ring for another twenty-five minutes, so I've got time for my stealth reconnaissance side trip this Thursday morning.
I need protection and I can only think of one place to get it.
No, I'm not going to the sexual-health aisle at Mega-Mart to purchase family-planning products just because Jason and I kissed. Get real! (Although I have hit Rewind and Play like ten zillion times in my head to relive the moment.)
Currently, I'm in need of something from a higher calling.
Twice now I've been around spirits where something not good—to say the least—has happened to me. First in the cemetery, when I nearly passed out from the overwhelmedness (I think I just made that word up, but it works here), and then yesterday, when I was nearly killed on the stairs at city hall. Loreen told me never to go into a ghost hunt without protection: a prayer, a cross, or whatever works for me. I should've listened to her.
So, now I'm after holy water.
I turn down Pace Street and then cross over to Market to the large building with the lush green lawn. I slip up the front steps and through the brick portico. I push the sturdy red door open slowly, making it groan on its hinges. My used but thoroughly sterilized Clinique Happy perfume bottle is in my backpack and should make a good receptacle for splashing myself with the blessed liquid. I just need to get a stash of it that I can funnel into the small container.
I move through the vestibule of Christ the Redeemer Holy Episcopal Church, wondering if it's a mortal sin to swipe holy water from a baptismal font. I certainly hope not, and God forgive me if it is.
Once inside the sanctuary, I take a moment to soak up the majesty of such a breathtaking cathedral in the middle of Nowhere, Georgia. The ivory marble floor is smooth and immaculately clean against the redwood pews, which have crimson velvet kneeling benches between each set. Up front is the altar, five steps up, decorated with a large gold cross, white tapers, and mossy green ferns. Pipes and chimes from the organ fill the back wall in shimmery brass. The Gothic ceiling forms a ship's-hull-like pattern, culminating at the front of the church with a fantastic stained-glass window of Jesus and his disciples.
Not thinking of how I'm disturbing the serenity of the quiet morning, I slip over to the baptismal font that sits at the back of the sanctuary. It's an oval marble stand about three feet high, with a wood finishing around the rim that coordinates with the benches. I lift the lid of the fountain and smile when I see the clear water filling the bowl.
I pull the Ziploc bag out of my pocket and I'm just about to dunk it in the depths when I hear, "I'm afraid you're a little late for Wednesday night's Eucharist."
I spi
n around and squelch the words Holy shit! that threaten to tumble off the tip of my tongue. "Oh! I'm sorry." My eyes connect with the crisp white liturgical collar. "I mean, sorry, Father." I feel like I should curtsy or something, although no Episcopal church would ever require such action.
"No worries," he says with a kind smile. Then his eyebrow lifts. "May I help you with something this morning?"
Man, am I busted or what? And by the priest, no less! At least, I think the guy's a priest. He's tall, dark, cute, and waaaaay young. Maybe in his midtwenties. He must be straight out of seminary.
"I just ... needed some holy water," I say plainly, not wanting to lie in church. "I hope that's okay."
"Of course it is. Whatever you need." He spreads his arms wide. "That's what we're here for."
"Thanks." I dip the bag in, then seal the sloshing-full Ziploc. I'll worry about transferring the water to the perfume bottle later.
He stretches his large hand out toward me. "I'm Massimo. Father Castellano."
I look at it, unsure what to do. What is wrong with me? I'm just not used to my priest being damn near a contemporary. I'm used to way-past-middle-aged Father Ludwig and his ten-yard comb-over that swirls around his head in a crop-circle effect, which you get a good gander at as he's bending down to hand out Communion wafers. This guy before me has short black hair, a firm jaw, and a bright white smile that could adorn the cover of any men's-fashion magazine.
"Please don't take this wrong, but you're not old enough to be a priest, are you?"
His laughter reverberates up to the beams of the church. "You flatter me. Let me assure you that I earned my degree many years ago, and Radisson is my third parish. I'm thirty-three."
Red tinges my face, and I feel like a total goober. "I'm sorry, Father. Geez. I mean..."
Shut up, Kendall.
He smiles again. This time with his eyes, like Tyra Banks is always telling the girls to do on America's Next Top Model. "You must be new to Radisson."
"I am," I say, fingering the Ziploc full of agua. "My family moved here a couple of weeks ago. We're still getting settled in, but we'll start coming to Holy Eucharist, I promise."
The Awakening Page 18
