Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
The waves of Pamlico Sound lapped against the timeworn posts of an old pier, which now stood entirely surrounded by water, any connection to land gnawed away by the hungry sea.
A catamaran-style yacht glided toward the newly built replacement, fresh lumber unweathered by the hot summers and angry storms. Gulls followed the boat in, screaming to each other as they kited on the wind, hoping for a chance to snatch up unattended fish.
“Sorry guys, not today,” Nigel told them.
He stood just off the lone, cracked remnants of a road that dead-ended in the water.
Marsh grass rustled to either side, interrupted by the tall gray trunks of dead pines, broken and stripped of all bark so that they looked like bones jutting up from the marsh.
The stiff ocean breeze brought some relief from the July heat, but sweat still plastered his shirt to him in a line just beneath his top surgery scars.
The air smelled of salt, rot, and fish: the distinctive odor of the Atlantic where it met the southern coast.
The slam of the van doors broke him out of his reverie. The rest of the OutFoxing the Paranormal crew had unloaded the heavier gear from the back of the van, while he’d hauled backpacks and luggage onto the new dock.
“Need a hand?” he called.
Tina wrestled with a bulky equipment case. “Yes, please!”
He grabbed a handle so they could each carry one end. The case’s size was unwieldy, but the contents were light—probably cameras and tripods.
Oscar and Chris hauled another equipment case between them, though theirs seemed a lot heavier.
Even though they hadn’t been in the sun for long, sweat sheened them both, sticking Oscar’s light blue t-shirt to his arms and belly.
Nigel took a moment to admire the sight; he’d always had a thing for strong men at work.
“Is the van going to be okay here?” Oscar fretted as they lugged the cases to the dock.
“Ms. Montague said it should be.” They reached the dock, and Nigel carefully lowered his end of the case to the ground.
Tina’s colorful skirt whipped against her legs in the fierce wind. “If the van gets towed, we’ll just make Ms. Montague pay to get it out.”
“Or buy us a new one. She’s got the money for it,” Chris said. They wiped back a few sweat-struck strands of their hair, which they’d dyed in rainbow streaks for Pride last month.
“I don’t want a new van,” Oscar protested. “This one has character.”
“If character means getting gallons per mile, instead of miles per gallon, then sure.”
While Chris and Oscar retrieved the final equipment case, Tina posed and snapped a photo of herself with the ocean as a backdrop. “One bar. Do you think it’ll go through?”
“Sending it to Zeek?” Nigel guessed.
Zeek Holt was one half of Zeeking the Unknown, another online ghost hunting show.
They’d collaborated with OtP to investigate an old asylum, and now they regularly promoted each other’s channels.
Zeek and Tina started dating a few weeks after the asylum, though Zeek’s more-intensive shooting schedule regularly ate into their time together.
“I can’t believe they’re doing the Stanley Hotel, like every other ghost show ever,” Chris muttered as they returned with Oscar. Zeek’s partner on the show, Adrienne, was their ex from college and so their criticism wasn’t entirely unbiased, but Nigel privately agreed.
“It pays the bills, and we aren’t here to judge how others run their businesses,” Oscar reminded them.
The catamaran slid up to the dock, engines powering down from a growl to a purr.
Ethan Brown hopped down to secure the lines.
Ethan worked for the woman financing their recent work, Patricia Montague, as her personal assistant.
He was dressed for a day on the water, in a salmon-colored polo shirt, white shorts, and deck shoes.
Two other figures came to the railing on the upper deck. Dr. Ruth Lawson waved a greeting; she wore her silver hair in a long braid and was dressed in a faded t-shirt advertising a land conservancy, cargo shorts, and stout boots.
The woman beside her, Patricia Montague, couldn’t have looked more different.
Her white hair was in a pixie cut, and her clothes consisted of a cream-colored suit that must have been linen, or else she’d have expired from the heat.
Everything about her looked expensive in the understated manner of those born to old money.
She didn’t wave, but left her hands resting on the railing as she peered down at them.
“Need help getting stuff aboard?” Dr. Lawson called.
“Nope, we’ve got it,” Nigel assured her.
Lawson hadn’t exactly been a spring chicken back when he was an undergrad at the Duke Institute of Parapsychology, and the years since had thinned her arms and legs, dotted her skin with more liver spots.
He certainly wasn’t going to ask her to pick up an equipment case, even if it was light.
Ethan helped them get everything stowed for the short trip across the sound, then cast off and made for the upper deck and the captain’s chair. Apparently he drove Montague around in more than cars; did he have a pilot’s license as well?
They followed him to the upper deck, which thankfully had a roof for shade. Dr. Lawson and Ms. Montague had already sat down beside each other on the bench-style passenger seating; Lawson gestured to a built-in cooler. “Help yourselves to some water before you get dehydrated.”
Chris opened the cooler and passed cold bottles to them. Glass bottles, even, of some expensive brand Nigel had never heard of. He drank gratefully. Beside him, Oscar pressed the chilled bottle to the back of his neck, condensation mixing with sweat.
Dr. Lawson leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, hands dangling loose between her legs. “Welcome aboard,” she said. “Are you ready to enter the Devil’s Den?”