Chapter 28
twenty-eight
. . .
When I awake from the strange unconsciousness that is not quite akin to sleep, I wander over to my window and take a seat. Kit is on the laptop drafting notes on our haunted house.
“Good morning,” I say pleasantly.
I hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Hey,” back.
“Whatcha doin’?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Making notes for the hunt tonight—if you still want to go. I’m putting all the research we did in one place and making a list of our potential ghosts. The baker lady, the sex fiends, everyone.” He clicks save on the document then closes the laptop. “Can I show you something?”
My eyebrows rise in curiosity. “Sure.”
He gets up and does a little jog into the kitchen where he brings out a brown paper bag. And out from the bag, he pulls—
“Is that a thermal camera?” I ask. It’s exactly the one I wanted. I shake my head. “Kit, you don’t need to get me gifts. It’s too much. Even if you are stealing them.”
“I didn’t steal this. I swear. I promised I’d get this for you, so I did.”
“Yeah, but only if you won that poker game, which you did not.”
He shrugs. “I had some cash left over from the Market. You need this, so I got it for you.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, knowing that camera was expensive. “When did you have time to buy this?”
He sets the camera on the counter. “You’ve been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours.” He angles toward the window so I can see the dark sky. Oh, wow. It feels like every time I “sleep” I’m out for a bit longer.
Almost as if I’m fading away.
I don’t voice this observation aloud.
It’s getting late, and by the time we arrive at the house, it will be around midnight, so we decide to go ahead and leave. While Kit can successfully jump, he’s still wary of going long distances, so driving is his preferred method of transportation.
We pull up to the multi-level white house, situated at the end of a neighborhood street, hidden behind trees. Kit parks farther away so no one will suspect we’re at the house.
We need to be careful, even though the contest said that if they choose you and decide to air your footage, they will make sure to secure any of the necessary permits for anywhere you visit, even if it is after the fact. It’s fine. It’s not like I haven’t done this before.
Kit finds an unlocked window, pushing it up and open before putting both my tripods and my bag full of all my equipment through the window then climbing in himself.
The inside of the house represents every decade it’s been around, rooms at different stages of updates—a living room lined in wood panels that scream ’70s, a kitchen with dark-brown cabinets and stainless-steel appliances that feel like the early 2000s, ’80s floral wallpaper in the bathrooms, glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to the ceiling in one of the bedrooms. There’s an odd chair in the kitchen, but other than that, there is no furniture in the house.
It’s generally well-kept, since it’s still on the market, but it has been for sale for over a year.
I eventually land on the upstairs main bedroom for where I want to start my night.
Kit says it feels a few degrees colder than the rest of the house.
I want to leave August’s camera recording in the kitchen before I go upstairs. Kit sets up my tripod and the camera atop it, but doesn’t secure it perfectly.
“You need to screw it in tighter. Or, like, at all.”
“I’m sure it will be—”
He’s cut off by the camera tipping off the tripod.
My hand snatches the camera before it can hit the ground, and before I can think about what I’m doing.
“Good catch,” Kit says apprehensively.
“Yeah…that was weird.”
“You’re telling me.”
Except it’s not weird. I’ve been practicing, whenever he isn’t paying attention. Trying out the slightest moves. It’s still only the left arm I can control, but it’s something. I don’t know how it will help me yet, but I know it is a major card in the game we’re playing.
“Here,” Kit says, and I’m thrust back into my body, making me stumble.
“Thanks,” I say, a little out of breath.
He wiggles my pinky as an indication of where he is. Got it.
I set up the camera, properly attaching it to the tripod this time, and turn it on to record.
With my other handheld camcorder, I start my standard sweep while I narrate.
“This Connecticut family home has been around since 1912, though we can see it’s been updated since then.
This house has changed hands over a dozen times, averaging at least one owner per decade.
During the century-plus that families have been residing here, at least fifteen people died in this house, making for a nice mix of residual and intelligent hauntings.
Two occupants died in the main bedroom upstairs, in their sleep.
Four passed away in a tragic fire in the ’60s.
Three people have died in the bathrooms, one slipping and hitting their head, one drowning in the bathtub, the other on the toilet, Elvis-style.
In the ’90s, there was a home invasion and the owner shot the intruder. ”
In my head, I ask Kit, “Who am I forgetting?”
“The aneurysm in the kitchen, the person who fell down the stairs, the sex ones, the person who fell off the terrace.”
“Right. Thank you.”
Aloud, I continue as I start up the stairs.
“One woman unfortunately had an aneurysm burst while she was cooking in the kitchen, someone fell down the stairs, breaking their neck, another person fell off the upstairs terrace, crushing their skull. Lastly, in the late ’60s, early ’70s, the owners would often host orgies.
At two separate orgies they hosted, one person died of erotic asphyxiation that was not done safely and another had a heart attack mid coitus. ”
In my head, Kit snickers, “Coitus.”
“You’re a child,” I scold.
I finally make my way to the main bedroom, where I set up my second camera and my new thermal camera.
Into my phone speaker where I am recording, I say, “Multiple previous owners have reported a lot of activity in this room specifically—feeling someone poke them, yank off their covers in the night, and even sights of an apparent apparition.”
With my dad’s lighter, I light a few candles that we brought with us at Kit’s suggestion and set them carefully around the room. It reminds me of my first hunt with August, before we figured out the trick with the flashlight. I wonder if that’s why he suggested them.
I take a seat on the floor with my flashlight set up and go through my standard introduction.
When I ask, “Is there anyone here with me?” I get nothing, but I’m patient.
I ask again, and this time the light does flash.
Yes! “Hi,” I say. I give my spiel of how the flashlight communication method works: one flash for yes, two for no. “Understand?”
The light flashes once. Cool.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask this. Did you die here?”
The flashlight blinks once.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Did you live here?”
One flash.
“Is your name Henry?” Henry Jones died in his sleep back in the ’30s. One of the owners has reported seeing a translucent man standing in the doorway in the middle of the night.
Two flashes. No.
“Oh, all right. Am I speaking with Violet?” Violet Parker lived here for fifteen years, the longest of any of the owners, and also died in her sleep in this very bedroom.
One flash. Fantastic.
“Well, thanks for letting me visit you today, Violet. Did you have a happy life?”
The light flashes once. Then twice.
“I’m sorry, did you mean yes or no to that?”
Again, the light flashes once then twice.
“Are you trying to say maybe or sort of? I get that. That was a complicated question I asked. Can I ask what made it sort of or maybe happy?”
The candles go out in a flush of wind, plunging me into the dark and making every hair on the back of my neck stand up. I grab my dad’s lighter to relight the candles but pause when I hear a noise. It sounds like a voice, but I can’t make out the words.
“Can you repeat that?” I ask, attempting a steady tone.
I hear the sound again.
I bang the heels of my palms together twice in a muted clap, pressing my closed fists to my mouth to conceal my grin.
This is amazing. I can’t understand what they’re saying, but this is amazing.
I contain my squeal before I say, “I’m so sorry, I can’t understand. Let me see if the phone picked it up.”
I pick up my phone and stop the backup recording I have going.
I press play and fast forward to the end.
I turn the volume up and listen closely.
There! I bite the corner of my mouth. Muffled, I hear something like, “Cherry pie.” If the phone picked it up this well, the EVP recorder likely caught it more clearly.
“Cherry pie?” I repeat, mulling over the phrase.
Kit starts whooping in my head. “Remember?!” he yells. “Remember?! Violet was famous in the neighborhood for her cherry pie!”
“She was. Oh my god.” I direct my next words to the ghost, switching my phone back on. “Your cherry pie. You made a mean cherry pie. Do you miss baking?” As I ask the question, I relight a couple of the candles.
Two flashes.
“No? But you loved it while you were living here?”
One flash.
“If you could, would you bake a cherry pie again?”
Two flashes, then I hear a muffled sound again. “Sorry, Violet, I need to listen to that on the recording. Can you give me a moment?”
I play back the recording on my phone and hear: “Too many.”
I laugh. “Understandable. Well, Violet, I have probably taken up enough of your time. Thank you for talking to me today.”
I move to stand, and that’s when I see it. Or…or I guess I should say her. A flash of blonde hair before it fades into a solid black void, blocking the moonlight flooding in from the window. Then it disappears, taking the light of the candles with it.
“Thank you,” I whisper, a tear rolling down my cheek.
Oh, this is a ridiculous reaction. While that is not the first ghost I have seen with my own eyes thanks to that fun experience with the malevolent spirit, it is the first friendly ghost I have seen.
I blink quickly, but a few more tears escape, sliding into my smile.
“You okay?” Kit asks gently.
“I’m fantastic,” I emphasize.
I look up, whispering to August, “Did you see that?”
Kit keeps quiet, knowing that comment wasn’t for him.
I pick up the camera still attached to the tripod, nearly dropping it.
The footage of me struggling can be edited out later.
I leave the room and move on to the next bedroom, then continue on to the other bedrooms, not having a lot of luck in any of them.
Next, I stop by one of the upstairs bathrooms, where, with nowhere else to sit, I take a seat on the closed lid of the toilet after my camera is set up and set the EVP recorder and my phone on the counter beside me.
“Hi,” I say. “My name is Lacy. Is there anyone—”
A singular knock on the wall cuts me off. I don’t let myself get too excited—it could have been the pipes, but I ask, “Was that you? Is someone here with me?”
No response.
“I usually like to use this flashlight”—I tap it—“for communication, but we can use knocks on the wall, too. One knock for yes, two for no.” This is the bathroom that someone slipped and hit their head in. “Did you die in this bathroom?” I ask.
No response.
I sniff. Is that…sandalwood? I sniff again.
Yeah, that definitely smells like sandalwood.
Sometimes ghosts can produce a smell, though I can’t often concretely connect it to them.
I sniff my arm. It’s not coming from me—though it could be an air freshener?
I pick up the flashlight, turning it on so I can swing it around the bathroom, but I don’t see anything that could be producing the smell.
“I heard someone slipped and hit their head in the shower—Geoffrey. If that was you, I am so sorry. Were you using a sandalwood-scented body wash or shampoo? I can smell it.” My phone is still set to record, I point to it as I say, “If you want to talk, I can’t guarantee I’ll hear you now, but you can speak into this and I might be able to hear you later.
” Silence still answers. I’ll poke for a bit longer before I give up. “Have you been here long?”
One knock.
I grin widely then set my face back to stone. “Sorry to hear that. It must be hard, but I bet it’s not lonely. I just met a woman named Violet—have you met her?”
One knock.
I wiggle in excitement—a ghost is definitely answering me. I still myself. “She was very nice. How many other people are in this house? Can you knock the number for me?”
One knock. Two. Three. I keep counting until the number reaches ten. Ten ghosts in this one house. No wonder Kit picked it.
“That’s a full house,” I say, impressed. “I’m sorry you’re all stuck here. I wish I had a way to help. Do you think everyone here will want to chat with me?”
Two knocks. No.
“Well, can’t say I don’t understand why. I appreciate you talking to me.”
The ghost seems done after that, so I move on.
I have no more activity upstairs, so I leave my camera where I can see into both the main bedroom and a bit of the bathroom before heading downstairs.
I head first to the kitchen. I set my flashlight down on the counter, leaning on the opposite counter as I start my standard introduction then ask if anyone is here.
No response, typical. I ask a few more questions, but I’m not getting anything.
I’m about to give up, but then my flashlight rolls off the counter.
“Was that you?” I ask. “Is someone else here?”
No one responds, but after I check the counter with the leveler app on my phone, I determine it would have been pretty difficult for the flashlight to roll off on its own, so that’s still great footage.
I leave the kitchen and poke around the rest of the ground floor.
I eye the door to the basement but don’t make a move for it.
Kit says, “I hate basements.”
“Yeah, I’m going to stay out of it. Too many spiders.”
“Are you scared of spiders?”
“Not particularly, but I’m tired of them biting me.”
“Makes sense.”
By the time we finish, it’s four a.m.
“Thank you,” I say to Kit once I gather my things and we head back to the car. “That was so, so great.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me tag along. You were incredible.”
I pack the car back up and get in the driver’s seat. “You drive,” I say.
He takes the body back, and I settle in for the ride.