A Ghost for a Clue

by C L R Draeco

  “I know this is highly irregular,” I said.

  “No kiddin’? They’re askin’ outsiders into a disciplinary meetin’ for their employees. That’s just not done.”

  “It is, when the outsiders are part of the reason they’re being disciplined, I suppose.”

  Roy’s dog, Boner, loped over until he bumped against Roy’s leg, then sat down on the ground next to him. Roy hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the old guy could hardly see anymore.

  Roy cocked his head at me. “Aren’t you worried NASA will find out you were checkin’ out a ghost?”

  I snorted, even though it was the second time I’d heard the warning. “My friends will have a good laugh, and that’ll be that.”

  “I’m not thinkin’ about your friends. I’m thinkin’ about the higher-ups who’ll be evaluatin’ you for your next promotion. Yo, it’s one thing to say you believe in ghosts and another to say you’re datin’ a girl who wants to have one for a pet. Believe me, I know.”

  “It’s not the same thing going on here, all right?” I tried to shake off Roy’s point, but it stuck to me like bubble gum under my shoe. Still, I trudged ahead. “Look, it’s this simple. We’re being ‘requested’ to join the meeting tonight. I’m going, and I hope you will too. Torula herself wouldn’t have asked, but she’s really upset about having caused this trouble for her best friend. Starr’s a widow with three kids to support. And us showing up is an act of goodwill that could help them. So what do you say?”

  Roy clucked his tongue. “Why the hell did you have to put it that way? Now I can’t say no to a damsel in distress.”

  We agreed to meet at the Green Manor in a few hours, and as I made my way back to my car, that small warning Roy had given me now felt like a deadly threat that could blow up all my plans. Torula’s background—not just mine—had to remain impeccable if she was to be considered for Pangaea.

  I buckled myself in and cracked my knuckles, unable to press the ignition.

  What would ISEA think if this came out in her personnel records?

  Dr. Grant had mentioned something about the heads of Pangaea being members of Deltoton. Their opinion wasn’t exactly ISEA’s, but it was a start.

  I flipped my iHub open and tapped on the Deltoton icon—a Brunnian Link of three intertwined triangles that glinted like silver. An animated banner greeted me.

  * * *

  E=mc2

  What does this equation hint at

  that people could mistake for God—

  and why?

  A new mystery in an old equation?

  Intriguing. But I brushed it aside and went for the search bar. I typed in ghost hunting, and the results came back nil.

  Deltoton didn’t even think it was worth anyone’s time. But what would ISEA think of a candidate who lost her job for doing exactly that?

  16

  Time For Serious Business

  Schwarzwald, the Green Manor’s administrative building, looked like something straight out of a children’s illustrated storybook. Stone-clad. Climbing vines. Pin lights glowing in flower boxes at each window. Ironic that what had been happening around this fairy-tale place was turning all my plans into a horror story.

  All I wanted to do was ask a woman out. To space. For life. How hard can that be? I’d started out thinking sixty days was an extravagance. Now, this ghost of a problem had turned me into a beggar for her time.

  Torula met us at the lobby dressed in a corporate black-and-gray outfit, her hair in a neat braid. Roy and I, both wearing dark blazers, complemented her time-for-serious-business dress code. If I could just pull her aside and tell her about Pangaea. Surely, she’d see that her ambition to study the afterworld was nothing compared to my hopes to take her out of this world. Were we bound to arm wrestle over whose dream was more worthy?

  She led us into a conference room that continued the old-fashioned feel. Wooden floor. Wooden table. Flowery prints on the wall.

  Starr was waiting inside dressed in a dull shade of purple, clutching her necklace, standing still while looking out an arched window where moonlight streamed through.

  We all turned towards the doorway as a deathly pale gentleman walked in, every strand of his blond hair slicked into place. He wore a well-tailored, double-breasted suit with high lapels and a slim necktie.

  “The chairman will be here soon. My name is Eldritch Brighton.” He cast a piercing look at Roy and me. “I know who both of you are.” With his British accent and rich, deep monotone, he could easily have passed for an agent on Her Majesty’s Secret Service who’d been raised from the dead.

  The door swung open again, and in walked a silver-haired man with mellow brown eyes and thin, upturned lips that made it seem like he was always on the verge of smiling. His pale blue suit gave off the slightest sheen as he moved across the room and surveyed all of us gathered there with an expression of saintly kindness.

  “Mr. Dumas,” Eldritch said. “These are the people involved in the late-night activities in Greenhouse 3C.”

  Starr earnestly shook the chairman’s hand. “Good evening, Mr. D. I mean, sir. Please call me Starr.”

  “A pleasure,” he said.

  “How do you do, Mr. Dumas,” Torula said as she held out her hand, her gaze steady. “Please call me Torula.”

  “And you may call me Alexi. Or Mr. D. Whichever you’re comfortable with, ja?” He spoke with a peculiar accent that sounded like a mottled mix of Indian and German, which in a way, went with his complexion, which was not quite brown and not quite light.

  Eldritch introduced Roy and me to the chairman, and I felt no sense of added privilege even after shaking the hand of one of the richest men in the world.

  “Some unusual things have been happening at the Green Manor, ja?” Mr. D gestured for us to take our seats as he settled down at the head of the table. “Could any of you explain what we’re looking at here?” He nodded towards the only modern thing inside the cozy cottage-like conference room: The monitor hanging on the wall.

  A video played—of me in Starr’s workstation, walking into the path of a blurry hyperwill gliding towards Torula just before it disappeared.

  I sat frozen, gaping.

  “Holy shammalamadingdong!” Roy cried, shooting out of his seat. “You weren’t shittin’ me when you said a ghost walked right through you. Dawg, that’s murder!”

  “Oh mercy,” Starr said, eyes wide. “We never thought . . .”

  “It’s the reason you’ve been staying late, am I correct?” Eldritch asked like an investigator out to extract a confession. He then played a video of Starr screaming, horrified over her fruitless papayas, without the vaguest hint of what she was looking at that had scared her. And then came footage of the three of us standing stupefied, staring at some shrubs—and no hyperwill either.

  I wanted to get up, grab the remote, and examine the footage, but I was in no position to make any demands.

  “I don’t understand.” Torula scanned the screen, searching for an image that wasn’t there. “Why did the cameras only capture it on the third incident?”

  “Maybe a disruption in the environment caused some electrons to get excited or somethin’,” Roy said. “I hear ghosts can be recorded with infrared cameras. Is that the equipment you got?”

  “Standard surveillance equipment.” Eldritch narrowed his eyes at Roy. “You,” he said, making that single word seem like the strike of a clock at midnight. “You’re convinced that ghosts are real.”

  “Yeah.” Roy said, raising his brow. “Anythin’ wrong with that?”

  Eldritch cocked his head by a fraction. “I’m interested to hear why it is you are so convinced.”

  I leaned towards Roy like a defense lawyer giving last minute advice before my client took the stand. “Nothing about the ex, all right?”

  “No sweat.” Roy straightened up in his seat. “I got only one reason: Lightnin’.” He gave a confident nod. “Because when Benjamin Franklin went out fishin’ for lightnin’
in the rain, nobody called ’im an idiot. ’Cause everyone could see what he was tryin’ to catch.”

  “I assume you’re attempting to make a point?” Eldritch said.

  “What if nobody could see or hear lightnin’, except for the thousand or so people who get struck by it every year? These people are left knackered by the trauma. But what if no one believes ’em? They can spend the rest o’ their lives just tryin’ to produce proof. But the only answer they get is: Make it appear on demand, then we’ll believe you. I know—’cause I married a woman who had to go through that.”

  Oh crap. I moved my leg discreetly and stepped on Roy’s foot.

  “Hell, that pretty much is the picture when it comes to people with ESP.” Roy moved his foot away. “They wanna prove they really got it. That’s why you got all these posers out there goin’. . .” Roy shifted his voice to falsetto, “I see dead people.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Phew! They keep sayin’ they’re seein’ things even when they don’t. ’Cause their gift is sorta like lightnin’. Finicky as hell. Everybody thinks lightnin’ strikes when there’s dark clouds, or it’s rainin’. But it can also happen on a sunny day and outta the blue. It can strike the tallest thing, but it can skip that and hit somethin’ closer to the ground. A lotta times, it’s deafenin’. Other times, it doesn’t make a sound and just lights up the sky like faulty fluorescent lights. Now, how do you expect some poor fella figurin’ all that biznitch about a ghost when no one besides him can see the damn thing?”

  In the few seconds of silence that followed, I imagined a pin being pulled and a grenade of disgrace about to explode. “That sounds like a good point, don’t you think?” I heard myself say.

  “A good point indeed,” Mr. D said. “And have you figured out how to make a ghost appear, Mr. Morrison?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You presented a NASA ID, ja? So you have access to the latest technology and experimental—”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You think I’m the prankster?”

  Eldritch turned to Roy. “Or perhaps it was you? An electrical engineer.”

  “Whatduh?” Roy’s eyes popped wide open. “Are you some paranormal skep-dick? A detective out to prove that everyone’s fakin’ it?”

  “Please don’t blame anyone else in this room,” Torula said, sounding out of breath. “It appeared when I clicked on the Verdabulary.”

  “We’re not here to cast any blame.” Mr. D flashed Torula a benevolent smile. “You caught my interest with your theory.”

  “What theory?” she asked.

  “That ghosts could be incorporeal data preserved after death—like extracellular DNA that survives lysis, ja?”

  Surprise flared in her eyes. “You know about that?”

  “I think it’s brilliant.”

  The glow of a smile almost spread across Torula’s face, but then her eyes suddenly hardened. “How did you find out about it?”

  “The Green Manor has the authority to install audio-video surveillance in all its research areas,” Eldritch said flatly. “The day you were hired, you signed a waiver. And so did you.” He turned towards Roy and me. “It’s in the fine print each time you log in to enter the premises. Which is how we know that, with your illicit use—and abuse—of the manor’s facilities, you might very well produce an explanation for the occurrences.”

  “We’re not dealing with a hoax,” Torula said, her hands clasping the edge of the table. “My hypothesis is that it’s a natural phenomenon that can be replicated. And that’s what we’ve been trying to do.”

  “Can you?” Mr. D asked.

  “Replicate it?” She shook her head. “We still have no idea what causes it.”

  Eldritch leaned forward in his seat. “Yes, but with the help of these two engineers, do you think you can figure it out?”

  Bloody hell. My breath caught, and I gaped at the two high officials of the corporation. Were they no different from everyone else in this room? Simply curious about a ghost? “Are you saying you want us to study it?”

  The two men exchanged glances before Mr. D got up and walked towards the arched window. “I’m afraid the Green Manor cannot risk exposure pursuing this line of study. Would you be willing to sign a contract of non-disclosure?”

  Starr quickly dabbed a finger at the corner of one eye, as though she only meant to swipe aside a stray strand of hair. Torula leaned back and frowned.

  The chairman turned towards us, now backlit by moonlight that glinted off his silver-blue suit. His gaze flitted across our faces until it settled on mine. “It will do more than just grant the two doctors the liberty to pursue this line of research in continued secrecy. It also frees them of all liabilities from past actions related to this matter.”

  I narrowed my eyes. So if Torula and Starr didn’t sign, they could lose their jobs and be sued for damages?

  There was the slightest shudder that shook Torula’s body, so subtle all the others may not have noticed. “What exactly do you want us to do?” she asked.

  “Find the explanation,” Mr. D said.

  What the devil. Did they want to rid the place of this disturbance? Clear up the Manor’s name? Whatever their reasons, it was something I wanted too. “Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”

  All heads turned to look at me. Frankly, even I would’ve gawked at myself if I could.

  “Hell, if there’s proof out there of anythin’, I wanna find it. Give it ’ere.” Roy gestured a “come on over” with two hands.

  Eldritch rose and exited the conference room.

  Torula leaned close, her voice an urgent whisper. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you get answers.”

  Torula shook her head. “Even if NASA never shifts the height limit, you still have a job that others would die for. Why risk your good standing on something like this?”

  Because I can’t step away and let them ruin yours.

  “These documents should ease your fears,” Eldritch said, back in mere seconds. “The confidentiality works both ways.” He handed non-disclosure agreements to each of us, making me close to certain he was Mr. D’s lawyer.

  “Rest assured,” the chairman said, “the Green Manor will make it worth your while. You and Roy will be paid for whatever time you spend here.”

  “No shit? Heck, I was willin’ to pay just to see the damn thing.” Roy scanned through the NDA and signed.

  Starr sat with pen poised over paper, her brow crinkled. “I would like to make it clear that I only wish to pursue this study for purely scientific reasons.”

  I glanced at her in bafflement. “As opposed to what?”

  “The Lord Jesus implicitly confirmed the existence of ghosts in Luke 24:39. I don’t need proof they exist. All I wish to discover—or understand—is the natural mechanism in place that enables them . . . to be. And if, or how, they can still interact with our world. What I don’t want is for us to conjure up the dead and consult them about the future and other things we’re not meant to know.”

  “Duly noted,” Eldritch said with a solemn nod.

  Starr took a deep breath, closed her eyes briefly, and then signed.

  I gritted my teeth and reached for the pen—which Torula grabbed from me.

  “Bram, you don’t have to,” she said. “We can handle it.” She signed the paper and handed it to Eldritch. “Here. You’ve got your research team. Two biologists and an engineer.”

  Damn. Why won’t she let me help? “Spore, I don’t need you protecting me.”

  “And I don’t need you protecting me,” she said.

  “We understand,” Eldritch said, his tone stern and louder by a notch. “Neither of you needs each other, but what we need is for Mr. Morrison to join the team.”

  “Why?” Torula frowned. “He’s a robotics engineer. Why would you need him on a ghost hunt?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched just short of a smile. “His presence calls upon the dead.”

  I froze, too stunned to say a thing. Ever
yone else seemed equally thunderstruck.

  Mr. D glanced around at his newly recruited team of ghostbusters. “I’m appointing Eldritch to serve as the project director. He’s a consultant in another facility of mine in London, so he’ll be flying back and forth as necessary.”

  I glanced at the peculiar Englishman. This odd bloke is a scientist?

  “I see,” Torula said, pushing aside a lock of hair on her forehead. “May I know your field of specialization?”

  The man raised his chin. “I am a medium and a longstanding member of the Society for Psychical Research in London.”

  A puff of disbelief escaped me.

  “Wait. Right. Let me understand.” Torula put one hand on the table as though to steady herself. “You’re a . . . psychic?”

  Mr. D strode back towards his seat of authority at the head of the conference table. “Eldritch is a director at my institute of research into the paranormal. He is a leader in the Spiritualist Church of England and arguably the most respected medium I know.”

  Respected medium? Now that’s an oxymoron for you.

  “So . . . so you . . .” Starr laid a hand over her chest as if to push the statement up and out of her throat. “You represent exactly what I said I don’t want to be involved in.”

  “Yo, it’s not like talkin’ with ghosts is evil, missy.”

  “But it is,” Starr said. “The Bible repeatedly warns us against mediums and necro—”

  “Necromancers, I know,” Eldritch said. He paused and took a deep breath, his eyes losing their steely edge. “Which is why I, like you, am here for scientific reasons.”

  I squinted at the self-proclaimed psychic. “Scientific . . . like, how?”