2. Encounters of the paranormal sort
two
Encounters of the paranormal sort
EWAN
Iknew it! I think. I knew I wasn’t crazy, and ghosts are real.
I used to see things when I was a kid. People who had died the previous week walking around our neighbourhood as if death hadn’t put a stop to their daily routine.
I broke my arm once and spent some time at the hospital, and that place was even worse.
I couldn’t tell who was alive and who wasn’t anymore, so I kept my eyes closed for hours, to my mother’s dismay.
Eventually, the more I looked away, the less I saw them. They faded in the background of my life and I lost the sight.
Maybe I should have kept my eyes closed just now, when I saw the flames reflected in the window. Or maybe I shouldn’t have taken this job in the first place.
But I wanted to know... I wanted to be sure I hadn’t just been crazy all this time. The weird kid, too big and clumsy and dumb and crazy.
I just wish this wasn’t the way to prove me right, with the Burning Crone walking out of her pyre.
I scream.
James screams. “Holy shit!” He trips on his own feet and falls to the kitchen’s floor. “What the fuck?”
I’m frozen in place, horror-stricken, as the entity emerges from the fire. She’s made of the fabric of nightmares: blackened skin, gray hair aflame, and twisted limbs. She’s walking like a puppet being led by a twitchy puppeteer, all jerky movements and missteps.
“Shoot her, Ewan!” James roars. “SHOOT HER, YOU BIG OAF!”
His voice pulls me out of my stupor and I fumble with the PolterPulse.
I aim loosely and pull the trigger, but nothing happens.
How does this thing work? I should have tried it before going ghost hunting!
What was I thinking? I knew ghosts were real...
Why did I..? Tears prickle my eyes and my hands shake as the old fear wakes from its slumber.
My hands are too big—too clumsy—and I drop the gun.
“EWAN! I SWEAR TO GOD!” James shouts.
He is fury incarnate, but unlike me, fear seems to urge him into action.
He throws the EMF meter at the Burning Crone’s melting face, but it sails right through her and hits the fridge on the other side with a loud bang.
He swears, then he rolls on the ground like a video game character, barely escaping the Burning Crone’s fiery grasp by an inch.
His back hits my shins heavily, but the least we can say about me is that I’m a sturdy fella, so I don’t budge.
James gets a hold of the PolterPulse and aims. His hands aren’t even shaking as he finds the safety to unlock it—of course there’s a safety!—and he pulls the trigger.
My awe manages to pierce the fog of terror. My teammate is a badass.
The PolterPulse doesn’t shoot bullets, but some kind of zapping blue energy.
It hits the Burning Crone square in the chest. But instead of going through her like the EMF meter did when James threw it moments ago, it turns her more substantial for a heartbeat before rebounding.
The blue energy hits the the crystal chandelier above our heads and it explodes in a shower of sparks and broken pendants.
I curve my body over James to protect him from the shards pelting down.
The kitchen is plunged into darkness except for the Burning Crone and her flames, and she’s fuming—literally and figuratively. Her mouth opens unnaturally wide, and she wails.
How much pain must she have been in when they burned her at the stake? How much fear? Her fury is understandable.
James pushes to his feet and stands between me and the ghost. He shoots at her a few more times, until the PolterPulse sputters and stops working entirely. He shakes it madly. “The fuck is this junk they gave us? It’s barely slowing her down!”
The Burning Crone reaches for us again with her thin arms, flames licking her charred skin. Smoke burns my nostrils and stings my eyes.
Desperately, as I grab James and start walking him back with me, I shout, “Sorry! We’re so sorry! We didn’t mean to anger you. Go away, please!”
She stops her advance and lets out a long exhale, head tilted to the ceiling. For a moment, I think I can see chains unravel around her. The chains they used to bind her to the pyre?
Then her fire dies as suddenly as it came to be with a great whoosh, as if all the air is sucked out of the room, and we find ourselves in the dark.
The silence is deafening.
The little lights on the appliances blink like stars in the night sky. The clock on the oven says 02:34.
“Is she gone?” I whisper. I’m shaking all over.
“Looks like it,” James says. “We just had to ask nicely. Who knew?”
I laugh wetly.
I feel him move in front of me. “Ewan. Are you crying?”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see it in the dark. “N—no...”
“Oh my god, you are! What’s up, big guy, scared of a little ghost?” His words sound mean, but his hands are gentle as they find my face and dry my tears.
My heart gallops in my chest like a wild horse. “Sorry...”
“I mean... holy shit. Ghosts are real. Let’s find some light.”
We walk blindly out of the kitchen, James pulling me by the arm. A lone lamp is turned on in the large living area, beckoning us.
James finds his phone inside his bag. “Grab everything that looks like a weapon. She won’t catch us unaware twice.”
He turns on the flashlight app in his phone and we walk back to check the damage in the kitchen. There is a wide scorch mark at the centre of the room, a dent on the fridge’s door, and broken crystal all over the floor.
He chuckles. “Well, at least we have proof of what went down here.” He winces. “We were supposed to limit the damage to the house. But really, considering we were facing a ghost who was literally on fire, I think it could have been worse.”
I nod. “Do you think the guests heard the commotion?”
“I mean, I’d be surprised if they didn’t. She screamed like a banshee. Do you know more puns?”
I shake my head a little too fast. I don’t want to face the Burning Crone again, but what choice do I have?
It’s our job. I don’t understand how James can be so flippant about it.
He’s unbothered, even though the witch came after him only minutes ago.
I wish I was like him, but I’m just me, a giant crybaby.
“Let me do a quick search on my phone,” he says. I wait patiently, clutching my PolterPulse—hopefully this one works better. “Aha! What is a witch’s favourite TV show?” He pauses. “A Game of Crones!”
We wait. James looks ready to fight, but I’m ready to bolt.
“A centuries-old witch probably doesn’t watch TV,” I say.
“How about...”
On and on it goes. James reads puns and jokes from his phone, and we wait for the Burning Crone to make herself known again. She doesn’t. The kitchen stays dark and quiet. Nobody comes to check on us even after all the commotion.
“Maybe... maybe we chased her out of the house?” I say eventually.
James hums. “Looks like it.” He paces the kitchen for a moment, then adds, “Let’s clean up this mess and go to bed. It’s getting too late to hunt another ghost anyway. The curfew ends at five.”
The clock on the oven says 03:57.
We look for a broom and a dustpan and then sweep the crystals shards and throw them in the bin.
Just as we’re about to exit the kitchen, James gasps, “Holy shit! It scared me.” A pair of eyes are glowing under the table. He aims the flashlight and it reveals a cat. “Huh. This one’s new.”
It’s a Russian blue with an adorable round face. Someone heard us, after all.
“Oh, hello you. Sorry for the commotion,” I say.
The cat slow-blinks at me—the equivalent of a smile in the feline world—and I have to resist melting into a pile of goo in front of James. We always had cats and dogs at home growing up, and I missed their company more than anything since I moved to my cramped apartment in the city.
“Move along now,” James says, shooing the cat with a lazy gesture. “Your mistress will have our heads if you get shards in your paws.”
The cat doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
James mutters something under his breath and he exits the kitchen. I follow on his heels, not wanting to be left behind in a haunted kitchen.
He takes a sniff of his torn t-shirt. “Fuck. I smell like smoke and sweat. Shower first.”
I resist the strange impulse to smell him—to know what he means, of course.
We pack away our devices and grab our bags. On the way to the bathroom, we cross paths with three other cats. They watch us from the dark, eyes glowing, but disappear every time James tries to shine the light on them.
“Fucking cats...” he mutters.
The communal showers are on the second level of the house.
The shower floor is covered in deep green tiles and the stalls are the only thing that appear modern.
There are vintage sconces on the walls and gilded mirrors, giving it the impression that we’re on the Titanic or a fancy hotel from another time entirely.
Hopefully, we won’t hit an iceberg at the centre of Edinburgh.
The handbook says most spirits are tied to the location of their death, and I wonder...
“Do you think the ghosts of the Titanic still haunt the wreck in the abyss?” I ask out loud.
James stares at me before dropping his bag by one of the porcelain sinks. “Honestly, I have no fucking idea, but it’s an unsettling thought.”
I shiver. Time to think of something else. The Burning Crone creeped me out enough for one evening—for life, if I’m being honest. And yet, tomorrow we hunt again.
“Which one are we doing tomorrow night?” I ask, pulling my shampoo and towel out of my bag.
James understands what I mean. “I don’t know. We’ll need a decent plan this time, so we might do some digging first. I don’t like being caught unaware like tonight.”
He was terribly efficient for someone caught unaware.