Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The energy here is heady, drumming. Alive. The leaden boulder in my gut, the awareness stretching across my skin like something’s watching me.
This is exactly what I need.
“Spirit Candle,” I explain before he can ask as I palm what looks like any standard short, chunky LED candle.
“It’s an EMF sensor—triggers when the electromagnetic field fluctuates.
” I set it on the table closest to me. “And this is a Paranormal Music Box. It detects motion through temperature changes.” I calibrate the coffin-shaped wooden device and it cries out its eerie tune.
It takes its place a foot over from the candle.
“We like setting these together to vouch for each other, so to speak. Capturing both EMF fluctuation and movement at the same time.”
“Why didn’t we use those in the other room?”
“More space in here. Overloading your investigation with trigger devices just increases chances for false positives.”
“Thorough,” he mutters, adjusting his glasses as he crosses back over to me.
I flash a smirk as I strip my backpack off and set it on one of the table stools. Charlie mirrors my action. “Watch it, Charlie. You’re sounding a little impressed.”
He snorts, panning the camera as he looks around, and a growl sounds from his stomach. “Wonder what the food’s like in prison.”
“You can try asking. I bet you could easily charm a ghost.” My brows arch in a dare.
Warding off the idea, he lifts his free hand. “Talking to an empty room? I’ll leave that to you.”
“Specialty of mine,” I deadpan.
We take our positions at the far end of the room in a corner enclave so we have a clear view of everything.
Sunlight bleeds in through the barred windows and tallies itself on the floor, eight individual slashes of hope.
I wonder if the reminder of the world outside ever felt like a sick tease to those imprisoned here.
Charlie peers out the glass dripping with dusty cobwebs, looks toward the sky, and hums.
“Mind if I check the radar really quick before we start?” But he’s already drawing his phone from his back pocket.
My gaze lingers a beat too long on how the moss green fabric conforms to his ass. “Sure. Yeah.” Pulling my attention away, I grab my own phone. I absolutely should not be checking out my ex. What I need to be doing is checking in with River.
I swipe off Airplane Mode, and when my service reconnects, a series of texts from him flood through.
River
why’d no one tell me tow trucks take for fucking ever
they should teach us how to change tires in school. no offense to pythagoras but shit’s stupid and not real-world applicable
bro delete your instagram story that’s so embarrassing
you better be capturing some sick ghost activity
when they take her car away, if dude ever decides to show up, then I’m gonna take P home. then it’s ghost time
I blow a quiet laugh through my nose and shoot him back a quick message about the new entrance at the back of the prison.
I have no idea what his ETA is, and if I ask I’ll probably just get “no idea” in return, and that uncertainty sours in my stomach.
After everything that happened, I can’t help but worry too much.
Deepening my voice, in a perfect rendition of the classic, smooth, news anchor voice, I return my phone to Airplane Mode and mock, “And now, back to Charlie, with the weather.”
“System’s setting up nicely,” he mumbles, not looking up from the screen. “But we still have a few hours until it reaches the DFW area. Two . . . two and a half.”
Perfect timing. We’ll finish our ghost hunt, part ways, and he’ll set up shop in the guard tower in time for River to show up.
From the middle of the room, the REM Pod buzzes. A pleased chill climbs up my spine. I glance at Charlie, full attention on the camera and phone out of sight. “Did you catch that?”
“Think so.”
I nod and look directly into the lens. “We’re here in the dining hall of Black Magnolia Penitentiary, which is rumored to be the place James Dewhurst spent most of his days.
Unfortunately, the doors that lead to the kitchen where he worked are stuck and won’t open for us.
But we’re hoping we can still catch some activity here.
The energy in this room is . . . I wish you could feel it.
” I rub the back of my neck, looking over my shoulder.
“But it’s intense. We just set everything up and the REM Pod over there has already gone off. ”
Charlie follows as I start down the aisle between table rows.
“Thank you for touching that device, whoever you are. And thank you for leading us here.” I roll a cheeky smile between my teeth. “I think my friend here has a question for you, if you don’t mind answering it.”
I stop short and turn around to find Charlie’s eyes wide behind his round-framed glasses. “Uh . . . no, I actually . . .”
A full grin forces its way on my lips. “Can you do something to let him know it’s okay to ask? I think he’s nervous.”
“Winona,” Charlie hisses, as if he thinks the ghosts won’t be able to hear him if he’s quiet enough.
“Maybe set off that cat ball on the floor? Try to turn on the candle? Or touch—”
“SMOKE,” the Ovilus monotones.
Adrenaline dumps in my stomach, surges through my limbs, and I laugh. Smoke. Like . . . cigarettes—they’re traded like currency in prisons. If Charlie wants to ask something, he needs to give something in return.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any smokes. But I do have a bottle of moonshine. Would that work?” I call into the empty space above us.
“Moonshine?” Charlie sounds even more exasperated, which only ratchets up my amusement. His gaze darts around the room, like his hackles are raised and he senses exactly what I do in here.
I pull the clear jar-shaped bottle from the front pocket of my backpack and lift it in the air.
“If I give you this, will you let my friend ask a question?” Coming up from behind it so as to not set it off, I set the bottle between the Paranormal Music Box and the Spirit Candle.
“I’ll leave it right here for you. If you want to come get it, this thing will play some nice music for you.
” I wave my hand in front of the music box’s sensor and the chilling, tinny tune rolls until I pull back. “Nice, right?”
“Right. Nice,” Charlie grumbles under his breath.
I swallow my snort. I sincerely hope he’s shaking in his storm chaser boots right now.
“Can you set something off to let us know you’re here and willing to communicate with us?”
“DRINK.”
My chin whips toward the Ovilus, heart rate building speed to a gallop. Such an intelligent response—that can’t be coincidence. “Yes! Yeah. Go for it. Have a dr—”
“TOGETHER.”
I look toward the camera, amusement tangling in my expression. “You want us to have a drink with you?” Silence. “How about if you set off one of these devices—any of them—Charlie and I will have a drink with you. Deal?”
His head tips sideways, boring holes into me with a fierce glare. He willingly seeks out some of the most violent storms known to man, but imbibing with the dead is where he draws the line? Silly.
The REM Pod squeals, alerting to the highest degree, and my stomach drops as we both whirl to face it.
“Thank you for that. Well, Charlie,” I say, a little too loud. Just enough to be extra obnoxious. “A deal’s a deal.”
Crossing back over to Charlie, I hold my hand out for the camera setup, which he passes over.
I reach into the side pocket of my backpack and extract a tripod, swapping the stabilizer for the stationary mount.
I place the setup off to the side of the corner brick enclave, the perfect spot to capture the room as well as me and Charlie.
“Grab the moonshine?” I call as I fiddle with the light attachment, until it illuminates the spot we’ll be standing.
With a heavy sigh, Charlie does, muttering something like, This is absurd.
He tries handing it to me but I smirk. “You’re the guest of honor, and this ghost seems fond of you.
You go first.” His gaze flicks to the jar of liquor, then to me, then back to the moonshine.
I click my tongue. “Don’t worry, the guy I bought it from was only blind in one eye. You should be fine. Bottom’s up.”
His eyes narrow on me, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You absolutely owe me a storm chase after all this.”
He opens the jar and takes a swig. His brows tense, wincing as the burn of it hits. Features twisting in sheer disgust, he holds the jar out to me, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth. The edge of his bottom lip catches, just barely, against his knuckle.
I take a vile, burning sip of my own and pound a fist against my sternum as I cough. “Okay,” I rasp. “We had a drink with you. My friend’s going to ask his question now.”
Charlie stares at me, utterly unamused, the faintest shade of rose spreading on the peaks of his cheeks.
The humid heat, maybe. Or the alcohol. Or perhaps I still possess the ability to make this man blush.
I nudge my head toward the expanse of room where this unseen entity possibly lurks, flashing an encouraging smile like a mom trying to convince her kiddo to tell the nice lady in the apron what they’d like off the menu.
Voice flat, devoid of any enjoyment or pleasure, purely in service of getting me off his back, he asks, “What kind of food did you eat in here?”
After a beat, the Ovilus says, “DOG.”
Charlie snorts. “Dog? They did not feed you dog.”
“Did that ghost just get you to laugh?”
“No, it—”
“NAME.”
Charlie grimaces at the Ovilus and shifts imperceptibly away from it, closer to me. Man of science my ass. Everyone’s a believer when the paranormal’s staring them dead in the face.
“I’m Winona,” I say. “And this is Charlie. We introduced ourselves earlier. You must be someone different than who we spoke to downstairs. Can you tell us your name? Do you see that recorder on the table? That little device with the red light? Can you go up to it and say your name?”
While I give the spirits a few moments to gather the energy to fulfill my request, I push up on my toes, bring my mouth to Charlie’s ear, and murmur, “You nervous?”
“What? No.”
“Your knee’s bouncing.”
Grimacing, he stills it instantly. It’s written all over his well-carved features: I’m getting under his skin. That, or Mr. Skeptic is scared. My teeth sink into the bottom curl of my smile as I look up at him, our faces only inches apart, and his gaze drops to my mouth.
Clearing my throat, I back up. “I’ll grab the audio recorder, see if we caught any EVP.”
I retrieve it, rewind, and let it play, closing my eyes as I listen. My voice echoes back to me, and then it’s a wave of static and white noise. A gasp sticks in my throat as a disturbance interrupts the monotony.
“Holy shit. Did you hear that?” I rewind and play it again. “Tell me what you hear.”
“Nothing, I—”
“Shh. Listen again.” I rinse and repeat. “You don’t hear that? At the end there? It sounds something like . . . I see?”
His brow furrows as he leans a little closer to the the audio recorder I hold between our heads. The corner of his head grazes mine as I play it yet again.
“Lindsay,” he says, matter-of-factly, pulling back to look at me like he’s proud he figured out the answer first. “It sounds like . . . Lindsay.”
The realization drains all the way down his body—from the widening of his eyes, to the parting of his lips, the slumping of his shoulders, and I bet even his knees buckle. He heard a spirit speak.
I chew the bottom of my lip as I replay it again. “But . . . this was a men’s prison. Lindsay? That’s a woman’s name. I know there were female medical staff, but in the cafeteria?”
“Lindsay can be a man’s name. Historically, I think it actually was a male name.”
“GEEK,” the Ovilus monotones.
Damn. Roasted.
I look at Charlie and burst out laughing, snaking my fingers around the curve of his bicep without thinking. “Hey! Be nice. He is sort of a geek—”
“Am I?” Charlie whisper-chuckles. His pupils—close enough I can see even in the low lighting—are blown wide, drunk on the adrenaline of what’s happening. And maybe a little moonshine, a fresh hit to his bloodstream.
“—but he . . . he’s really smart. And for a geek, he was very popular in college. Everyone liked Charlie.” It’s indulgent and irresponsible but I graze the side of my thumb along his warm arm. My attraction to him is still loud and clear even through the chaotic noise of our past.
“Everyone except you,” he murmurs, his mouth brushing the top of my head. If he’s put off by my touch, he’s going above and beyond to hide it.
I roll my eyes. “I think I liked you the most, idiot.”
He draws back and there’s such a soft curiosity pulled taut between his brows it aches behind my ribs.
So many questions flicker in his eyes. Questions he has every right to ask, and ones I’m not sure if I’m ready to give the answer to.
It’s not even the alcohol going to my head—it’s the pure adrenaline rush of the investigation.
But I’m walking far too close to dangerous territory.
In saving grace, the REM Pod shrieks across the room. I drop Charlie’s arm, jump back, creating space between us. Inhaling long and slow, I try steadying my pulse. Charles Rosenhoth isn’t the man I’m here to talk to.
“All right, Mr. Lindsay. We have a few questions for you.”