A Ghost for a Clue

by C L R Draeco

  “Based on what?” Torula asked.

  “The witching hour.”

  Gawd. I rolled my eyes.

  “That’s three a.m.!” Starr exclaimed.

  “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

  “It’s also called ‘The Devil’s Hour,’” Eldritch said. “When demons and ghosts are said to be at their strongest. It’s when many people wake up, inexplicably, to experience the supernatural. The legend of the witching hour was born because of a shared manifestation among people of different cultures and faiths, from all parts of the world. It’s Mr. D who, inadvertently, helped me figure it out.”

  “How?” Torula asked.

  “He’s diabetic. And he told me that his doctors had once advised him to set his alarm to three a.m. to check his blood glucose at that hour.”

  Torula nodded as if the psychic’s mumbo-jumbo made perfect sense to her. “It’s the dawn phenomenon.”

  “I don’t get it,” Roy said. “If you see ghosts at three a.m., you’re diabetic?”

  “No,” Torula said. “The dawn phenomenon happens to everyone, regardless of age, gender, or geographical location. In the middle of the night, our body releases growth hormones, epinephrine, cortisol, etcetera, to help the body repair and restore itself. This can cause glucose levels to rise in diabetics, but those with no problems with insulin are unaffected by it.”

  “Or they wake up and see ghosts?” Roy asked.

  “Or dream about them,” Starr said, raising her brow at Torula.

  Torula turned abruptly towards the greenhouse. “I think I know what’s going on. I know what to look for.” She straightened up and tugged her shirt down firmly. “I’m going back in.”

  “Like hell you are,” I said.

  “Are you insane?” Starr cried.

  “If Truth was able to hold up against the parasitism for days, surely I can take it for a few more minutes.”

  “Jackson, it was milkin’ you dry and scramblin’ your brains. Even you would stop milkin’ a cow if it started speakin’ in tongues.”

  Torula darted her gaze from one stone path to the other, looking every bit like a cornered criminal about to make a run for it.

  “Let’s go to your nursery instead, Dr. Jackson.” Eldritch held his arm out towards one path and blocking the way to another. “Perhaps the data you can access there will show us what you’re looking for.”

  31

  We’re Not Harming Thomas

  Roy and I walked behind Torula as Eldritch led her safely away from Greenhouse 3C. Torula paused along the stone path and looked behind us at Starr who hadn’t budged. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Starr stood alone in the shade of a tree, trifling with her necklace, while the rest of us waited in the sunlight. “Part of me wants to stay away, but another part says it will be wiser if I watched over what you’re doing.”

  I almost smiled; it was ironic that we were at odds despite feeling exactly the same way about Project Hyperwill.

  “Heck, I got into this gig just ’cause I was curious,” Roy said. “I still can’t see the damn thing, but now I go to sleep and wake up thinkin’ about it.”

  I rubbed the stubble on my jaw and wondered why he did.

  “Come on, Starr,” Torula said. “We’re not harming Thomas. More than anything, I think proceeding with this study is the only way to help him.”

  “And other lost spirits like him,” Eldritch added.

  Starr looked at me, though I had nothing to say. Was she waiting for me to stop her too? Frankly, I thought it would be easier on everyone—including Starr—if they just let her walk away.

  “All right,” Starr said and pointed a polished finger at me as she walked towards Torula. “But no more anti-hyper gadgets.”

  I sighed and let everyone else lead the way to Torula’s nursery. We all filed in, clueless as to what piece of information Torula was chasing now. As we walked past the neat rows of glass-enclosed plants surrounding the elevated platform, I imagined them turning their leafy heads to guess what their botanist friend was up to now.

  “So whaddaya wanna see?” Roy asked as he positioned himself at the workstation.

  “What the FR3 captured of my brain activity,” Torula said.

  As Roy opened a selection of charts and diagrams, a deep voice resonated from a hidden speaker nearby. “I’m thirsty.”

  Roy jumped. “Whatdafuh! You got a ghost in ’ere too?”

  “Relax,” Torula said, smiling, and gestured towards a specimen plant in its glass dome. “It’s my Spathiphyllum. The Verdabulary will take care of giving him water.” She sat down and surveyed the graphic representation of her brain waves on the monitor as the Spathiphyllum let out an appreciative sigh. “Ahhh . . .” Like a tired gentleman sinking into a warm bubble bath.

  “There, see?” Torula said. She pointed at a relatively calm section of the graph, where the wave patterns were midrange in density.

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “That’s when my PSD spiked.”

  “When it matched the alpha-theta border,” Eldritch said.

  “Right,” Torula said. “Now, show me the electrochemical readings shortly after that.”

  Roy displayed another chart showing a corresponding spike.

  “I knew it.” The glow of a smile spread across Torula’s face. “The transmission triggered a higher metabolic rate, induced by increased brain activity. That’s the correlation between heightened hormone levels and increased paranormal observations. Do you get it?” she asked, her eyes wide and bright.

  All of us gaped in confusion. Even her Verdabulary remained speechless.

  “Hyperwills feed on electricity,” she said, “not hormones. Having elevated hormone levels is what allows our brains to produce more electricity. Simply put, the more hormones produced, the more millivolts—the more power the hyperwills can use.”

  “How?” Starr asked.

  “A single brain cell has a transmembrane potential of 70 millivolts, and hormone treatments have been shown to increase the transmembrane protonic electrochemical potential difference by several millivolts.”

  That sounded familiar. “Is this based on that fuel cell analogy your mother gave?” I asked.

  “It’s not an analogy, Bram. It literally is the production of electricity in living organisms. It’s called electrogenesis.” Torula swiveled her seat to face Eldritch. “My mother’s a psychiatrist. She’s convinced these apparitions are influenced by some sort of hormone modulation. There’s about 300 millivolts of energy present around the membrane of a cell. With higher hormone levels, you can boost it.”

  “Are you saying a hyperwill can frighten you just to modulate your hormones?” Eldritch asked.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Torula said. “Like how a lab rat gets to associate pushing a certain button to get food, hyperwills might associate scaring someone with an energy surge.” She cleared her throat and stood up. “And speaking of lab rats, I’d like to go to the clinic.”

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, instantly worried. “Are you feeling something?”

  “I feel perfectly fine. But I want them to get vitals and a blood sample from me. All this time, we’ve been examining the transmission being sent by the hyperwill. But we haven’t analyzed me. The transmitter. The antenna. The transducer or whatever else it is you think I am.” She tapped her chest. “We need to study what effects hyperwill-driven electrogenesis might have on my system.”

  Eldritch nodded. “Every medium will tell you giving a spirit access to your life force is a draining experience.”

  “I believe,” Torula said, “that what primarily drains the medium—or transmitter—of energy is driving ion pumps to restore an electrical potential, something crucial in the process of electrogenesis that requires more ATP.”

  Starr frowned and shook her head. “Surely, Thomas didn’t mean to cause any harm. He wouldn’t have done so if he knew his life depended on keeping you well.”

  “I agr
ee,” Torula said. “Like mistletoe, I’m sure the hyperwills are unaware of the ill effects of their basic need to feed. In fact, they probably don’t even know they’re feeding.”

  “Jeez. It’s like people have had a gut feel about it all along. Except we ended up jumpin’ to weird ideas like vampires suckin’ blood, succubi harvestin’ sperm, and zombies eatin’ human flesh. I think deep down, we sense what the hyperwills are doin’—harnessin’ energy our bodies produce. But we ended up bein’ too creative. We get subconscious hints and we . . .” Roy snapped his fingers. “What’s that word? Extrapolize . . . extipolate?”

  “Approximate? Extrapolate?” Torula asked.

  “Extrapolate, that’s it,” Roy said.

  “Oh, Christ,” I said. Only after the others turned to look at me did I realize I’d actually said the words out loud—four cardinal directions of confusion, resentment, disappointment, and disbelief. “Look, the last thing I want is you to think I have no regard for the dearly departed. It’s the opposite, believe me. That’s why I don’t understand why it gives you satisfaction to picture them like parasites sucking the life out of our bodies.”

  “That is not how anyone wants to picture them, Mr. Morrison,” Eldritch said. “Unfortunately, most people have been poisoned by what fiction has fed their minds. That’s why we need to work together to uncover the hard facts.”

  “The problem is, Bram . . .” Starr said. “You were never interested in the research. You didn’t come here to learn or to work. You only came to woo my friend.”

  I opened my mouth, wanting to deny it—but couldn’t.

  “Yo, you can’t force a guy into a game if he doesn't wanna play.” Roy had spoken in my defense, but somehow the words also carried the sting of an accusation.

  Torula gave me a sad smile. “I know you think this someone that we’re seeing is a some-thing. And I understand why you can walk away from it—in fact, I’ve been encouraging you to. But I can’t. Not until I understand why he’s reaching out to me.”

  I found it hard to meet her gaze. “You must know, I’m doing my best to help. I want to believe.”

  “No, you don’t.” Torula sighed. “What you want is to help—without having to believe.” She moved towards the stairs. “I’m going to the clinic.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Starr said, and all I could do was look on sullenly as they left the platform and headed out.

  I slumped onto a tall stool, guilty of having promised wholehearted support yet coming in with half a heart.

  Roy clucked his tongue. “Can’t figure you out, Morrison. You can see the damned thing. Shit, you even walked right through it. But you still don’t think it’s what it is?”

  “I’m not surprised,” Eldritch said. “Skeptics can ignore facts to defend their non-belief as passionately as believers cling to scriptures to defend their religion.”

  “Hey now,” I said, straightening up. “I’ve been far more open-minded about this than I thought I’d ever be.”

  “Nah,” Roy said settling down into a chair. “Your mind’s just ajar—and only ’cause Jackson’s foot is keepin’ you from closin’ it.”

  Eldritch gazed out at the potted plants around us, their glass domes glinting in the sun as though they were his audience instead of us. “For most people, a psychic experience comes just once in a lifetime. One incident of clairvoyance, telepathy, telekinesis, or any other supernatural occurrence. One inexplicable moment that never happens again. So people end up giving it some flimsy explanation and file it away, until it turns into nothing but a dim and curious memory. A fluke.” He glanced at Roy. “Like a lightning strike that no one else heard or saw.”

  “Yeah,” Roy said with a nod. “What was it like for you, Brighton? The first time you saw one.”

  Eldritch paused a long while, then exhaled audibly like a man tired of trekking down an oft-beaten path that led him nowhere. “I’ve lived with these visitations as far back as I can remember. But the first contact I made that others could attest to was in my mother’s office. I was still very young, and my mother had asked me to wait on a couch while she finished a meeting with her clients. They talked about having problems locating their father’s last will and testament, and my mother remembers that I had dozed off during all that. In the car ride home, she says I told her that I’d dreamt of their father in a wooden house, pointing at a particular drawer of a table underneath some stairs.” He shook his head, as though he regretted what had happened next. “I don’t know why, but my mother actually told her clients what I’d said.”

  “And they found it?” Roy asked.

  Eldritch nodded. “It was at the bottom of a drawer—of a table I’d never seen, in a summer house I’d never been to, that belonged to people I’d never met before or since. After that, my family no longer doubted my abilities.” He looked straight at me. “I admit, for a while, it was tempting. It became easy to trick people into believing. Until my father gave me a good dressing-down. He told me to respect the gift and not corrupt it with my vanity—to ensure people will not lose their respect for me.” His gray eyes, usually expressionless, were now a shade of melancholy. Perhaps heeding his father’s advice hadn’t done much to spare him the scorn.

  I considered this man who believed in things no one else could see. Accused of having conversations with hallucinations. Who formed friendships with figments of his mind. Suddenly, I understood the icy pallor around him.

  “Listen,” I said. “This ability of yours, it’s drafted you into some . . .‘cause’ you didn’t volunteer for. I’ve no doubt you see things—”

  “But you still don’t believe they’re people,” Eldritch said. “People whom we can help.”

  “And I’ve been trying to explain why. It’s data. It’s old data. Obsolete data. And absolutely not conscious or alive. But all my explanations seem to be falling on deaf ears.”

  Eldritch scrunched his brow. “Are you sure it is us who are deaf? Or is it you who refuses to see, Mr. Morrison?”

  I shook my head in aggravation. What can I do to make them all break free of this delusion? How could I open their eyes so that so they could see—

  Holy Christ. That’s what I needed to do!

  “I can make everyone see it,” I told Eldritch. “Even Roy.”

  Roy gaped at me. “Say what?”

  “If the cameras saw it once, I can make anyone see it every single time. I just need to . . .” I patted the console table like Torula had, “. . . fine-tune things a bit.”

  32

  The 3D Chamber

  I stood at the top of the platform and watched Roy as he put the finishing touches on the 3D chamber. Measuring nine feet square, taking over two plots in Starr’s nursery, like a giant aquarium with a translucent cylinder housing a tilted mirror at its core, it was where the hyperwill manifestation would appear when “hailed.” Soon, if all went well, the dark interior would light up with the apparition and put an end to everyone’s mystery. Everything about this so-called Thomas would be revealed.

  “I never would’ve believed you knew any religious hymns if I didn’t hear it myself, honey.”

  I looked behind me, not knowing who Starr was talking to.

  “What?” Torula asked, seated next to her at the console.

  “That tune you were humming. They sing it every day at the missions.”

  Torula shook her head, eyes still fixed on her computer. “No, that wasn’t me. I don’t . . . hum.”

  “El Cantico del Alba. There’s no mistaking it, dear.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of it. So don’t accuse me of anything.”

  “It’s not an accusation.” Starr stood up. “Goodness, you make it sound as though knowing a church hymn was a crime.” She walked past me with a roll of her eyes and headed down the platform, her shocking pink shoes clicking on the steps. Despite her initial reservations, Starr was back onboard—hoping to confirm that the hyperwill was still intact even though we’d seen it crumble to ashes.
<
br />   I glanced at Torula, riveted to her monitor at the console table. “We’re just waiting for Eldritch, right?”

  “Uh-hmm,” she sort of replied. A discreet movement of her hand told me she had switched the display on her monitor.

  What’s she up to? I walked over to my seat and feigned a yawn, my eyes straining to catch a glimpse of her computer screen, but I was too far away to read the fine print on her open tabs.

  I reached for a tablet and pretended to work, ending up opening my inbox. A subject heading caught my eye: The Deltoton Riddle.

  Well, what do you know. It seemed like such a long time ago when I’d answered the brainteaser about Einstein’s equation, when I’d proposed that E=mc2 hinted at a third element in the universe which people mistook for a god. Feeling as though I’d stumbled on an old toy I’d long forgotten, I clicked on the message.

  * * *

  I found your answer quite intriguing. Can you prove it?

  Live by the trine,

  Yonn Benerak

  Co-Founder, Deltoton.org

  I guessed they liked my answer. I glanced up, grinning, and was surprised to find that Torula had left her seat and gone to join Starr and Roy by the 3D chamber.

  Her deserted computer monitor beckoned. I stood up and pretended to stretch a sore back then took a few casual steps and riffled through some items on the desk and dropped a pen “by accident.” I picked it up and just so happened to sit on Torula’s newly vacated seat. I glanced at her to see if she’d noticed. She was oblivious, engrossed in conversation.

  I checked her search engine history and turned completely deaf to everything going on around me. I sat slack-jawed and stared at the recurring topic: Exobiology.

  Torula had been surfing about the study of life outside the Earth.

  “Wo-how!” I shot out of her seat and grabbed my coffee mug, turning around just in time to catch the trio look my way. I pointed at the empty mug in my hand. “Coffee. Hot.”