We played, all right. Only it wasn’t in college.
Wayne checked the monitor system. The guests who had signed up for early hunts were already making the rounds of the most notorious rooms, led by members of the SSI team. Wayne and Burton had charted out the rotation schedule to ensure that everyone would be able to spend time in 318, 202, and 218, with the dining room optional. Little history had been gathered on the dining room, though supposedly a spirit dubbed “The Waiter” still offered service in the wee hours of night.
Wayne turned to the group of six that had assembled for the next hunt. Two were old ladies who looked wiry and clear-eyed, knotty hands clutching meters labeled “Ghost Detector.” Such devices were usually sold on the Internet by enterprising paranormal sites, run by entrepreneurs who bought basic EMF meters at wholesale and decked them out with a few stickers and a marketing image at double the cost.
A younger couple, who appeared more interested in each other than in Wayne’s explanation of the hunt logistics, carried no equipment besides digital cameras. A balding man in a plaid jacket projected an unhealthy eagerness, as if ghosts were the only entities that could endure his company for long. Martin Gelbaugh, the final member of the group, hovered around the edge like a wolf waiting to cull the weakest from the pack.
“Okay, folks, here’s the drill. We have one hour in 202. First I want to give you a little history on–”
“Excuse me,” Gelbaugh said. “Wouldn’t it be preferable to go in with a blank slate rather than a head full of suggestions?”
“Not necessarily,” Baldy said. “If you know the stories, then you know what to look for.”
“Exactly,” Gelbaugh said. “You find what you’re looking for.”
Baldy wasn’t sharp enough to pick up on the sarcasm, but one of the old ladies said, “If there’s a ghost in the room, I want to know before I step foot in there.”
Great, Wayne thought. A hunter afraid of ghosts.
“For the record, 202 features anomalies such as tobacco smoke from nowhere, an alarm clock that turns on and off by itself, and a moving cold spot,” he said. “The EMF levels are fairly stable and consistent with the room’s wiring. Multiple reports suggest an entity lingers in the room, but I won’t go into details. You can read the Ghost Register at the front desk if you want to know the rest. Now let’s head out so we can stay on schedule.”
One old woman, the one whose slumping posture made her resemble an undersize Quasimodo, said to the other, “Maybe the ghosts wait until after bedtime.”
Wayne led them down the hall, where they passed a group led by The Roach. Wayne gave a casual salute, impressed by the military precision The Roach had drilled into his charges. The small MAG lights clipped on the bill of his cap gave him credence and furthered his insectile demeanor. Wayne was glad they’d selected the black jump suits as uniforms, because they conveyed organization and competence and also a slight suggestion of danger.
Spiritual storm troopers, armed and ready.
The door to 202 was open, with wires running along the baseboard of the hall and feeding into the room. Burton had rigged surveillance cameras in each of the hunt locations, arranged to capture evidence but also help Wayne track the progress of the various groups. Any guest that wanted to drop out and conduct armchair hunting could sit in the control room and get their money’s worth, imagining shadows on the tiny monochrome screens.
Room 202 was a honeymoon suite, with a renovated kitchenette and a spacious bathroom with a sunken tub. The windows faced east, and dusk was already settling on the rippling hills in the valley below. Night came suddenly in the mountains, especially in November with the solstice approaching. Wayne had almost forgotten the magical aura of the Blue Ridge, with its gray shroud of fogs and ancient, mute granite slabs.
“Okay, folks,” Wayne said, instinctively lowering his voice as the group entered the room. Hunters whispered on a scene, and they assembled with all the reverence of devotees entering church. After all, this was a mystical act of faith and belief. They came to see the unseen and know the unknowing, and they were eager to eat the invisible wafer.
“Can we take pictures yet, Mr. Wilson?”
The woman, whose name tag read “Ann,” projected the air of a tourist. Up close, she looked a little older than her companion, Duncan, and Wayne figured her for a rich cougar who’d netted a hunk in the twilight of her hotness. Nothing was sadder than a woman fighting the losing battle with time and growing desperate and scared as her feminine vanity fought the truth.
I never got to go through that with Beth. And she was braver than I could ever be. She would have kicked Father Time’s ass if she’d had the chance to meet him.
“Take all the pictures you want,” Wayne said. “You never know which one will catch the evidence.”
“You make it sound so random,” Gelbaugh said.
Wayne ignored him and clicked on his digital voice recorder. “White Horse Inn, Room 202, November twenty-first, 6:30 p.m. Six people present. Room temperature is 72 degrees.”
Wayne put his recorder on the coffee table in the middle of the bedroom. The two elderly women settled into arm chairs, Ann and Duncan sat on the bed, and Gelbaugh took up a post by the window. Wayne turned off the lights and closed the door, then returned to the center of the room. Gelbaugh’s silhouette was clear, but the others blended into the twilight.
“Is anybody here?” he said, in a stage voice.
No answer.
“Show yourself.”
Nothing.
“We would like to meet you.”
The bed squeaked a little as someone changed position.
“Audible bed squeak,” Wayne said, wanting the comment on record to account for the stray sound.
“Did you hear that?” Gelbaugh said.
“Bed squeak,” Wayne said, annoyed that Gelbaugh seemed intent on ruining the hunt.
“Not that,” Gelbaugh said. “Something else.”
They all listened for a moment, but only their shallow breathing disturbed the silence. A flash went off near the bed, illuminating the room like a lightning strike, freezing Gelbaugh as he moved away from the window. Ann had taken a digital photo.
Wayne resumed his summons. “Can you say ‘Hello’?”
The huncher gasped.
“I heard it, too,” said the other.
Wayne hadn’t heard anything. He pressed the glow button on his wristwatch. “6:33 p.m.,” he said for the benefit of the recording. “Report of auditory anomaly.”
The notation would help him review the data later and examine the sound waves to match them with the subjective reports of the people in the room. He didn’t expect the recorder had captured much of anything. Gelbaugh was along to cajole and smirk, and the two old ladies were suggestible enough to turn a whistling wind into the keening of a rabid banshee. Ann and Duncan were the anchors of the group because of their apparent open-minded skepticism.
“Are you with us now?” Wayne said.
Nothing.
“If you’re here, can you move the recorder on the table?” Poltergeists were reputed to respond to challenges on occasion, though Wayne had never witnessed such behavior. He’d seen things fly across the room before, and books and knickknacks fall from shelves, but nothing to convince him the incidents weren’t due to telekinetic powers rather than mischievous spirits. In fact, if the recorder had actually moved, he would have attributed it to floor vibrations caused by the heating system.
The bed squeaked again.
“Audible bed squeak at 6:36,” he said.
“Something touched me,”‘ Ann said.
Wayne squinted into the darkness and made out her shape. She was sitting in a lotus position, with her legs folded under her. If the touch had startled her, it wasn’t reflected in her tone or posture.
“Can you describe it?” Wayne asked.
“I feel it, between us,” Duncan said, showing more excitement than Ann.
“Is it there now?” Wayne said, keeping his voice flat. If the two old ladies started twittering, any auditory evidence would be lost.