by JL Bryan
One of Stacey's roommates and three other students were crammed into the living room, and we had to veer wide and clamber over the couch to avoid their huge art project, a mass of clay molded into a roughly human size and shape. A variety of strange objects were being shoved into the clay person, from old fast-food containers to cheap sunglasses and a bright fanny pack stuffed with plastic beads. An old TV remote speared the clay person's outstretched hand.
"Hey, nice," Jacob said, taking in the sculpture on his way back to Stacey's room. "So this is like a statement on consumerism?"
The four art students looked at him. Their eyes took in his buttoned-down appearance, his white collared shirt and khaki business-casual pants, none of it sourced from a thrift store or deliberately stained or distressed.
"Yeah," one of them said.
"No," the other said, at the same time.
"It's less and more than that," a third one added.
"Cool. Good to know," Jacob said. Then the three of us continued into Stacey's room, and she closed the door behind us.
We hooked up every screen we had—laptops, tablets, Stacey's desktop with its huge video-editing screen, the TV on her wall—and began the painstaking processing of reviewing the footage from Anton's old properties. Because we'd been so busy with our most recent case, involving a wicked ghost haunting a baby's nursery, we actually had several days and nights of accumulated sound and video to review, from a number of devices in each location.
It promised to be long and difficult, sifting through a sea of data in search of any hints of evidence about Anton.
"I'm out. I've got work in the morning," Jacob said, lying back on Stacey's bed. Stacey and I sat at her desk. She'd pulled a plush pink chair over from the corner for me, while she occupied her regular desk chair. Her bedroom was cluttered with furniture. A kayak hung near the ceiling, on ropes, positioned over Stacey's bed like the Sword of Damocles.
Jacob grabbed a pair of Stacey's big, fuzzy pink headphones from her nightstand. I heard a cacophony of angry music leaking out as he started to pull them on.
"What are you listening to?" I asked.
"Misery Index."
"What?"
"It's death metal," Stacey said, not looking away from her computer.
"Helps me sleep," Jacob said. "Ever since the plane crash."
"I still don't get it."
"The dead," Jacob told me. "They can sniff out a medium. Sometimes they find me at night and talk to me. They'll wake me up. So I drown them out with some Bolt Thrower. Or Wolf Legion. Or, tonight, Misery Index. When it comes to helping you ignore the dead, nothing else does the trick as well. I've tried."
"Death metal makes the spirits go away?" I asked.
"No, but it kind of drowns out their wavelength." Jacob closed his eyes and dropped the screeching, howling headphones into place around his ears. "Mmmm. Soothing."
Soon he was deep asleep, a smile on his lips, despite the racket of guitars and drums that leaked out of the earphones even when they were clamped around his ears.
Jacob was the lucky one that night.
For Stacey and me, there was hours of sitting and wearing our eyes raw on sickly green night-vision video and colorful but blurry thermal imagery. Software could help speed up the process of pinpointing abnormalities in the audio recorded by our microphones, simply by looking for unusual spikes or troughs in the soundwaves, but no such luck with video. You have to watch and watch, usually multiple screens at once. You can speed it up a little, but not too much, or you could miss some critical detail—a shadow passing in the corner, a face in a mirror, a cup sliding just a little across a table while nobody is in the room.
Ghosts are more active than we realize, opening doors in our homes, moving books around, even impishly hiding our keys. We usually don't notice if it doesn't happen in front of us. We always assume we must have done it ourselves and forgotten, or somebody else did it. It wouldn't be entirely rational, after all, to suspect a ghost was involved every time we misplaced an object or accidentally left the cabinet or the refrigerator open.
We could only pore through so much data that night. The main excitement in the convenience store was a slightly warmer than average shape that appeared for less than two seconds before vanishing again, like a traveler passing momentarily through our world on the cosmic road to somewhere far more interesting. We flagged it, though, for later study. Maybe it was the residual of Anton Clay that Jacob had mentioned. Maybe it was nothing.
The theater was busier. We noticed a number of anomalies during our review, such as cold spots, shadows, orbs, several notable events over the course of a night. Any of them could have been Scary Houdini, but they could also have been the other ghosts infesting the old theater—stage actors, musicians, lovers who'd embraced in the darkness, dead clowns.
"I have to cut out," I said, when I checked the time and saw it was approaching two a.m. “They're expecting us at the office in the morning."
"Unfortunately, you're right," Stacey said. "Here's hoping for a short day. With a long lunch."
I headed home and slept uneasily. I always do. My memories are filled with rich nightmare-inducing material, after all.
Then I had to wake up in the morning, get dressed, and drive to the office in traffic while sipping coffee from a travel mug. All things considered, I was behaving like a frighteningly normal person.
Of course, there was nothing normal about my life. I might have been walking into an office controlled by shadowy corporate masters—also like a normal person—but pretty soon it would be back to chasing ghosts in dark cellars again. That was my place in the world. There was a lot to hate about it, but I couldn't realistically imagine myself doing anything else.
I stopped outside the barred glass door, letting the rain patter on the hood of my jacket.
The lettering on the door had been redone. Our new owners had kept the name, ECKHART INVESTIGATIONS. I supposed they liked having the local association for now. My former boss, the man who'd trained me in the utterly insane science of ghost capture and removal, had been a homicide detective on the Savannah police force for many years. That was when he'd begun to discover and learn to counter the threat of dangerous ghosts around the city. He eventually became a private detective focusing on ghost-related cases, and it was often older police officers who informally recommended him to ghost-troubled residents of the city.
All of that added up to a good reason to keep Calvin's name on the business.
The font was larger and more stylized, though. Underneath, much smaller than the name of the business, a new extra logo had been added. It looked like a pyramid encircled with a Saturn ring, underscored with the letters PSI. Paranormal Solutions, Inc. Our new owners.
I walked inside.
The lobby was no larger than before, but it had a fresh coat of paint and some abstract art on the walls that seemed to depict close-ups of sharp crystals, maybe. Or broken glass. I could see Kara Volkova finding broken glass an appealing decorating theme.
Track lighting had been installed and the lobby's old hanging fluorescent done away with. Okay, that was an improvement.
Something was missing, though.
"Where's the Ghostly Gumballs painting?" I asked, pointing to the spot on the wall where it had hung.
The person I addressed occupied a small glass desk that hadn't existed before. The only thing on the desk was a thin digital tablet. She was a young woman with green eye shadow, dressed in the standard PSI garb of black suit, no tie. She looked me over quietly.
"Tina, right?" I added.
"Right. I don't know what painting you're talking about."
"It was of an old candy tin. It had a gumball machine haunted by ghosts on the front. It was a real line of candy. Discontinued in 1968. One of our clients painted it for us."
"I really don't know," Tina said. "There's some storage down in the basement."
"Yeah, I know that. I've been storing stuff there for years."
&n
bsp; "Then why are you asking me where storage is?" Her brow wrinkled and her eyes drifted back to her tablet, which was where she clearly wanted all her attention to be.
"So, are you going to be the receptionist? We have a receptionist?"
"I am not!" Now she made eye contact, looking hostile. "I'm the administrative and communications coordinator."
"Good to know," I said. "I'll just head inside..." I moved toward the door to the big workshop and offices out back, where the real work happened.
"Where's your badge?"
"I don't have one." I started to open the door, thinking I'd just glide past her, but it didn't work out that way. The handle refused to turn, and I walked face-first into the closed door, instantly shattering my cool and confident stride. I jiggled the handle some, or tried to, but it just wouldn't jiggle. "It's locked," I finally said, applying for my Captain Obvious award.
"You need your badge," she told me.
Using my keen detective skills, I finally noticed the new keycard reader that had been installed just next to the door. I'd been walking through that door for years, and it had never betrayed me until now.
"Okay," I sighed. "Where do I get my badge?"
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Seriously? I'm one of the two people who've worked here since before last week."
Tina shrugged and raised her eyebrows, as if this information couldn't be less relevant.
"Ellie Jordan," I told her. "We already met—"
"I have Allie Jordan here," she said, touching the Bluetooth plugged into her ear. "She forgot her badge."
"Actually, I never had one."
"Someone will be with you in a minute." Tina looked back at her tablet, where she appeared to be shopping for a pair of Vibram Five Fingers, the shoes that look like feet. Apparently she wanted them in green to match her eye shadow. She scowled when she noticed me looking and covered the tablet with her hand, like I was trying to cheat off her math test.
"So what's the deal with those shoes?" I asked, since there wasn't much else to do while I waited a minute for someone to be with me. "They outline each one of your toes?"
"They're for trail-jogging," she replied. "Do you do CrossFit?"
"Oh, look, the door's opening," I said, ten or fifteen seconds later, after the keypad beeped and the little red light turned green. The door opened, treating me to the sight of Nicholas looking me over with a smirk. I'm not even sure he was consciously smirking. I think his mouth just does that.
"Ellie," he said. "You shouldn't be so forgetful with your badge."
"I don't have a badge." I removed my rain jacket as I passed him, accidentally spraying him with droplets of water. Okay, maybe it wasn't that accidental.
"I appreciate the soaking," Nicholas said, letting the door close and lock itself while he followed behind me. I tossed my jacket toward the spot where the coat rack was supposed to be. The jacket sailed through empty space and splatted on the recently scrubbed concrete floor.
The loud, wet slapping sound turned the heads in the room. These included the few remaining members of the transition team, to whom I'd never been introduced, who looked like auditors or computer programmers. I wasn't even sure why they were still here—finalizing their study of our firm's inventory and cash flows, I supposed. There wasn't much cash flow to study, really.
Stacey waved at me from her desktop. Hayden was leaning over her in a way that seemed pretty deep inside her personal bubble.
"Ellie J!" Hayden called. "Just the girl we were looking for."
"You're a bit tardy," Nicholas said to me, coming up close on one side, his voice low.
"Bad weather," I told him.
"Stacey arrived on time."
"Who cares? There's no client waiting for us. Is there?"
"You don't want to give Kara an excuse to act against you." He pointed out a camera mounted high on the wall, watching us both.
"Seriously?" I looked from the camera to the closed door to Kara's office. "It's going to be like that?"
"For the moment," Nicholas said. "We both know Kara desires a transfer away from here at the earliest possible opportunity. You must tolerate and obey until that time."
"Then who will be in charge? You?"
"Would you prefer him?" Nicholas pointed ahead at Hayden, who continued winking and waving me over. Hayden's resemblance to David Hasselhoff really was uncanny. He claimed to resent it, yet grew and styled his hair out to maximum Hoffiness.
"Hayden in charge? Is that even a possibility?"
"He's due for a promotion," Nicholas said.
"For what? Going an entire day without sticking jelly into a USB port?" My voice was a low whisper now, since we were rapidly approaching Hayden and Stacey. Our low conversation had kept Nicholas and me physically close to each other while we crossed the large room, and now I fixed that by taking a couple of steps to the side. "What's happening over here?" I asked, much louder, as we approached the corner of the workshop room where my desk and Stacey's had been placed. Hayden's desk was close by, rotated to look directly at ours.
"Just training. She's learning a few new tricks," Hayden said, clapping the shoulder of Stacey's pink chiffon blouse. She smacked his hand away.
"I'm complaining to the human resources director," Stacey said.
"That would fall under my purview at the moment," Nicholas told her. "Is this a formal complaint?"
"It's more informal." She jabbed her elbow into Hayden's stomach, making him double over. "Only because he wasn't totally useless on our last investigation."
"Noted," Nicholas said. "Ellie, have a seat at your desk so you can benefit from training as well."
"My desk used to have a couple of walls," I said. "Useful for privacy. When I'm making phone calls, for example. Plus I need a place to pin up my kitten pictures and inspirational quotes." That last bit was sarcasm, for the record.
"PSI believes an open-plan work environment encourages transparency and communication," Nicholas said.
"So why do you and Kara have private offices?" I asked.
"They are not 'private offices,'" Nicholas replied, with finger quotes. "They are alternative distraction-minimized executive work environments."
"Okay, thanks for clarifying." I glanced at the closed door to Kara's office and wondered if she was really watching us over the cameras. My stomach suddenly felt tight and slick on the inside. I could almost taste fear rising like acid at the back of my throat.
For an instant, I was out of my body again, suspended on Kara's sharp little fingertips, looking down at her, helpless as a jellyfish plucked out of the sea and held up to the sun.
I tried to swallow that feeling back down. My heart was beating too fast as I took my chair.
"Okay, Hoff," I said. "Let's go ahead with...whatever this is."
"Equipment review time!" Hayden beamed and clapped his hands. He leaned against the edge of his own desk and picked up a grape Fanta, sloshing it on his shirt. He remained heedless of the spreading grape spatter as he spoke. "At PSI, we keep the power in our hands—and out of the ghosts'—by using the latest gear at all times. Okay, five points to whichever one of you can describe the role of a thermal camera in the course of a paranormal investigation. And, go. Someone raise your hand. Anyone?"
"Seriously?" Stacey asked.
"This is kind of insulting," I said.
"Whoa, whoa." Hayden held up both hands. "I can go slower if you need me to. Check this out." He rotated the enormous flat screen on his desk to face us. On it floated the larger-than-life image of a sleek, spiky black camera. It looked like some kind of freakish alien that wanted to suck my brains out of my skull. "This is the latest from Lourdes Tech—our preferred supplier for advanced gear."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Because they are definitely the best," Hayden said.
"There's an underlying corporate relationship that provides us discounts," Nicholas said.
"Yeah, that too," Hayden said. "So back to today'
s lesson. Haunted areas can get really cold. Cold spots, people call them. This is because ghosts are cold, see. So you can see them on thermal."
"It's because ghosts are sucking energy out of the air," Stacey said. "Ghosts are starved for energy."
"They can use ambient heat to help them act or manifest," I said. "Even candlelight."
"Yeah, yeah, everyone knows all that," Hayden said. "Anyway, we use thermals because ghosts are cold. And really powerful ghosts are really cold. The colder they are, the meaner they are. Any questions?"
"Nope," I said. "Next subject."
"Let's talk about thermals a little longer," Hayden said, and while he went on and on about nothing that was news to Stacey or me, Nicholas strolled away into his alternative executive work environment and closed his distraction-minimizing door.
Hayden went on and on, describing in detail the functioning of the camera, including the record, rewind, and fast-forward buttons. He then brought out a tripod to demonstrate.
After an hour, he said, "Now, let's talk about thermal goggles. Can anyone tell me the difference between thermal cameras and thermal goggles? Anyone? Stacey? Ellie? Stacey? You know I have to turn in a write-up about your participation, right? I have to evaluate your readiness to handle our gear."
"Believe me, the last thing Stacey and I want is to handle your gear," I said. I pointed to the bank of locked cages along the wall. "All we want is access to our own. It might be cheaper and have fewer bells and whistles than this stuff you're bringing in, but it's always getting smashed around by ghosts anyway."
"Yeah, you don't want to go too pricey with these things," Stacey said.
"Oh, but ladies," Hayden said, "I think I remember you needing some of our gear on your last case, am I right? Exclusive prototypes to encourage ghost manifestation? I didn't see any of that on the acquired inventory list. Which I helped compile, I could add."
"This job used to be all about ghosts trying to rip out your eyeballs," I said. "Not sitting around in meetings. I miss those days."
Hayden's useless training continued unabated all morning. I toyed with the idea of grabbing an antenna, running out into the storm outside, and trying to get struck by lightning, because I had a hunch it would be less painful than sitting at my desk getting lectured by Hayden. He snacked while he talked, too. Barbecue Bugles, Cool Ranch Doritos, and a king-size of Junior Mints went down his throat as he yapped and gestured at images of gear on his screen.
