Ghost Camera

by Darcy Coates

  Bree’s smile returned to its plastic state. “Right,” she said. “Is there anyone else you could recommend?”

  “Sorry, dear, he’s really the best. I mean, I would have suggested Jackson. He was a lovely fellow, really knew how to speak to spirits, but he moved to Canada last year.”

  “Okay. Great. Thanks for your help.”

  Bree hung up and turned to Jenine with a grim expression. “Richard Holt is a jerk,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m not calling him again. I’ll find someone else.”

  “Sure. I… I’ll make us some fresh drinks.”

  Jenine listened in on the next two phone conversations while she waited for the kettle to boil and made a tea for herself and coffee for Bree. The first call was with a middle-aged woman who breathed heavily and spoke with a nearly incomprehensible accent. She and Bree couldn’t understand each other, and Bree ended the call with an exasperated sigh. The call to the next ghost hunter seemed promising, until he brought up Richard Holt’s name.

  To Bree’s credit, she remained polite and calm until she’d hung up. Then she threw her hands in the air with an exasperated groan. “Why’s everyone in love with this Holt jerk?”

  Sensing Bree’s bad mood was breaking, Jenine brought over the cups. She sat forward in her chair and leaned her chin on her hands. “Maybe he really is the best.”

  “Why hang up on us, then?”

  Jenine shrugged.

  Bree blew a gust of wind through her pursed lips. “Okay. We’ll call him again. Not that he deserves it.”

  He answered on the second ring. The smooth tone was back into his voice as he said, “Richard Holt speaking. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, yeah, we called you a bit earlier. We’ve got a problem with our camera.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” The tightness returned to his voice, but he didn’t try to hang up. “Did you destroy it?”

  “Hell no. We don’t want it broken. We just want to know what’s happening. And we thought it might, I dunno, be useful for your type of people. Ghost investigators, that is.”

  “No, I’m afraid it won’t. The best thing to do is break it apart and burn it.”

  Bree pursed her lips as she glanced at Jenine. “Oh yeah? What’s making you say that? Do you have a camera of your own that you’re doing experiments on? Are you trying to stop us from stealing your thunder?”

  She got a frustrated sigh in response. “Not at all. I’m trying to help. Destroy the camera.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe we’ll take this straight to the media. I’m sure they’d love proof of life after death.”

  “Don’t.” His voice was sharp. “Whatever you do, don’t give it to the media. Don’t show anyone else. Just… please. You have to trust me. What you have is a dangerous, sick aberration. It needs to be destroyed before it can do any further harm.”

  “I’m going to level with you, Holt,” Bree said. She leaned over the table, placing one spread hand on either side of the phone as she loomed over it. “I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you. Both of those facts are making it pretty hard for me to want to follow your instructions. If you can help us, go ahead, but otherwise I’m going to have to hang up and do whatever I damn well please with my camera.”

  Richard was silent for a very long time. Bree sat back in her chair, folded her arms and waited.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “All right. You win. What’s your address?”

  Chapter Four

  Yawning, Bree stretched her arms above her head, reminding Jenine of one of her cats. “Well, I’d say that went alright. Mr Holt got to eat crow, and we get the supposed expert popping around this afternoon. Win-win.”

  “For us, at least. He didn’t sound very happy.”

  Bree stood up and carried her empty coffee mug to the sink. “I’ll bet it’s because he’s got his own camera. He doesn’t want us showing him up.” She paused and pursed her lips. “On that note, we’d better hide the camera. He’s a little too obsessed with its destruction for my liking.”

  Jenine picked the camera up and turned it over in her hands. “In a drawer?”

  “Works for me.”

  Bree stashed the camera inside the coffee table’s drawer then rubbed her hands over her jeans. “You got anything else planned for today?”

  “I’ve really got to do some reading,” Jenine apologised. “I’ve got an assignment on Wednesday.”

  “It’s cool, babe. I can place orders for the store. Mind if I borrow your laptop?”

  Bree set up the computer on the coffee table and sat on a cushion in front of it. Jenine made good headway on her reading, and Bree was considerate enough to move quietly whenever she refilled her coffee mug, which was often; Bree’s creative output was heavily dependent on how much caffeine was in her system.

  It was nearing dinnertime and Jenine was close to wrapping up her work when she felt a breeze on the back of her neck. The sensation was as cold as a gust of air from the freezer, and it sent goose bumps along her skin. She jerked away from the chill, but the room behind her was empty.

  Soft fingers brushed her arm, raising the hairs there. “Bree?” she called, jumping up from her seat and rubbing her hands across where she’d felt the sensations. “Bree, I’m freaking out.”

  “What’s up, babe?” Bree leaned back from the computer, a pencil balanced between her upper lip and her nose. She had at least twenty tabs open to packaging sites and was holding a piece of paper covered in neat notes.

  Jenine sat down next to her. “Things keep touching me. I don’t know what.”

  “What, like—” Bree frowned as she made the connection. “You don’t mean ghosts, do you?”

  “I don’t know!” Jenine combed her fingers through her hair. “Something cold. Like fingers. It happened at the park and again here.”

  “Do you think a photo might show something?”

  Jenine glanced at the drawer where the camera was hidden. Part of her wanted to try it, but the thought of glimpsing more of the entities sharing her home made her feel sick.

  Bree wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s probably just that you’re on edge. You’re reacting to every little noise, every breeze, and wondering if it might be a ghost. Just try to relax, if you can. Can I get you something else to drink?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then, how about you help me pick out some new ribbons. I’m low on gold.”

  Jenine nodded and tried to focus on the screen as Bree rattled through the options. She was grateful for the company. The warmth of Bree’s shoulder, the sound of her voice, and the simple fact that she didn’t have to spend the night alone was enough comfort to make her feel drowsy. She would have to do something about dinner soon, though. She considered taking the easy route and having a pizza delivered. She could even splurge a little and get the cheesy garlic bread Bree liked.

  Fingers ran through her hair, grazed over the nape of her neck, and trailed over her shoulder. Her skin burnt cold where long fingernails scratched her.

  Jenine jerked forward. “Bree! Cut that out!” Her voice was higher and more frantic than she had intended.

  Bree stared at her in shock. “What, you don’t like the ruffles?”

  “Don’t scratch me like that. It’s a horrible joke.”

  Bree’s eyes were wide. “I… I didn’t.”

  Jenine glanced down at Bree’s hand—her nails were short. Whatever had scratched her had been long and sharp. She touched a hand to the burning part of her neck, and her fingers came away with a smear of blood on them.

  “Oh… oh…” She felt as if she was about to be sick. Her throat closed up, making it hard to breathe, and tears stung at the corners of her eyes. “Oh…”

  Bree’s face was set in hard angles. She wrenched open the coffee table drawer, snatched up the camera, pointed it at Jenine, and took a picture. It spat out the undeveloped image, and she slid it into the drawer then hooked one arm under Jenin
e’s and pulled her to her feet. “Come on.”

  Bree must have sensed Jenine was queasy, because they made it to the sink just in time. She held Jenine’s hair back and rubbed her shoulder as she gagged and retched.

  “You okay?” she asked as Jenine slumped, shivering, onto the counter. She nodded, and Bree offered her a glass of water to rinse her mouth. “Listen, Jenny, I don’t know what happened back there, but it’s going to be okay. That expert jerk will be here soon. He’ll know what to do. Just don’t freak out on me, okay?”

  “Okay,” Jenine mumbled, allowing Bree to lead her to a kitchen stool. Bree squeezed her arm then went to retrieve the laptop and the photo.

  Jenine leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and willing her heart to slow. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see the photo.

  Wait…

  She’d completely forgotten about the photo she’d taken at the park. She stood and fumbled in her pocket for it.

  It had come out well. She’d taken it from inside the car, facing the tree she and Bree had been sitting under, about twenty feet away. A couple of the picnicking families were visible at the edges of the picture, fishing food out of their baskets and playing with their toddlers. The ocean was mostly hidden by the thick bushes that grew along the park’s fence. Two spirits were present in the picture. A boy peered out from behind the trees Jenine and Bree had eaten under. He was watching the camera but seemed to be trying to hide.

  The second spirit was a tall, gaunt man walking towards the car. He looked as though he belonged on a farm where they pumped water out of the well every morning and waited for the weekly mail delivery to hear about the life outside their secluded world. He held an axe one hand; its handle was long and its blade looked wickedly sharp. He’d been taking long strides towards the car when Jenine photographed him, and the skin around his bleached eyeballs was creased in a scowl. A stain on his overalls, large and dark, splattered up from his waist across his shoulder, leaving flecks of dark liquid on his cheek.

  Jenine slapped the picture upside- down on the counter. She could feel her heart thundering in her ears as she rubbed her sweaty hands together.

  “Feeling any better?” Bree slipped into the seat opposite. She’d brought the Polaroid she’d taken, but placed it face-down, out of Jenine’s reach.

  “Of course,” Jenine lied. She waved a hand at the picture. “Did you look at it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it… is something there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I—”

  “Nope.” Bree’s tone rejected argument. “Not when you’re this stressed, at least. It’ll only make things worse.”

  Jenine leaned her arms on the table and cradled her head in them. Her heart was slowing, but the tightness in her chest wouldn’t relent. “This sucks.”

  “It sure does.”

  Jenine jumped as someone rapped on the door. She froze, wide-eyed, trying to imagine who would be visiting her at 6pm on a Sunday, then she remembered Richard Holt.

  “I’ll get it,” Bree said, disappearing from the kitchen.

  Jenine thought of the camera, and jumped up. Bree had left it on the coffee table, so she stashed it back in the drawer as Bree opened the front door.

  “Mr Holt?”

  “Yes, hello.” The man’s voice was tense, tight. “May I come in?”

  Flustered, Jenine sat on the lounge and tried to smooth her hair back as Bree led an older man into her living room. In his black slacks, cardigan, and glasses, he looked like an old-fashioned British professor. His face was developing wrinkles but seemed mild and gentle.

  He rubbed at his pants as he sat. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Breeanna,” Bree introduced them, “and this is Jenine. Apparently you’re some sort of expert on ghost stuff.”

  “Ghost stuff.” He chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. “Yes, I am considered an authority. I’ve worked on a few cases that made it to the news. Which one of you found the camera?”

  Jenine raised her hand. “At a wedding. It had been left in a lighthouse.”

  “I see. Have both of you taken photos with it, or…?”

  “Both,” Bree said. “But Jenny more than me. Why?”

  “May I see the photos?”

  Bree glanced at Jenine, who nodded. Bree fetched the pictures from the kitchen table and handed them to Richard. He placed each picture on the coffee table after glancing at it then pushed the pile towards Bree when he was finished, almost as if he didn’t want to touch them.

  “You have what I like to call a ghost camera,” Richard sighed. “It’s the third one I have come across in my career.”

  Jenine sat forward on her chair. “Really? But… I’ve never heard of them before. If they’re as common as that, why aren’t they publicised? Tested? Displayed in museums?”

  “They have a rather dark history, I’m afraid,” Richard said. He crossed his legs and placed both hands on the top knee, a pose that was simultaneously relaxed and guarded. “People who know about them tend not to discuss them. It’s… I suppose you would call it bad luck.”

  “That’s crazy,” Bree said, gesturing towards the pictures. “We have certifiable, reproducible proof of ghosts. Why wouldn’t people be interested in it?”

  Richard wet his lips and inhaled deeply, as though he wished he could avoid continuing. “The ghost camera has unique properties. Not only does it make the spirit world visible to us, but it makes us mortals visible to them.”

  Jenine glanced at the pictures. More than half of the ghosts were looking directly at the camera.

  “Normally the spirit world and the mortal world are intangible to each other,” Richard continued. He held one palm out flat and laid his other on top to illustrate his point. “We share the same space. We cohabitate without realising it. Like light and air, two substances can take up the same space without having any effect on each other. Well, barely any effect, anyway.”

  Jenine glanced at Bree. She no longer looked accusatory, but fascinated. Richard’s natural charisma commanded the attention of the room. Definitely an ex-uni lecturer, Jenine thought.

  “When I say light and air don’t interact, that’s not strictly true. Light can warm the air, and air can slow the progress of light. That’s similar to the human realm and the ghost realm. The vast majority of the time, they’re intangible to each other, but there will be little instances, micro-events, that you may not even be aware of, where they influence our world. You might wake up in the middle of the night and not know why. Perhaps small items move when you’re not in the room—never by much, just a few centimetres at a time—that you don’t realise. Or your pets will stare intently at a wall—just an empty wall—as though they can see something you can’t.”

  As if on cue, the largest of Jenine’s cats leapt onto the lounge. Jenine reached out to rub its head, kneading the thin skin over its skull.

  “Imagine two pieces of paper, one sitting on top of the other. This is a flawed analogy, mind, but please bear with me.” Richard shifted forward in his seat, the natural excitement to teach burning through his initial reluctance. “Those pieces of paper are close, very close, so that when you look at them they might appear as one. Yet they’re separate. You can slide them, move them, divide them. Now imagine that a single drop of water falls onto the top page. It seeps through to the second page, binding them together. Yes, they can still be peeled apart, but not as easily. It almost, not quite but almost, fuses them together. That can happen in life sometimes. The spirit world will, in patches, sync with the earth and allow ghosts to interact with us. Of course, the drop of water dries quickly. It may take a few hours, or even a day or two, but it will dry, and the pages will separate again.”

  Bree was scowling, but her eyes were fiery. “You’re saying that’s what happens with the ghost camera?”

  “I’m getting to that. Keeping with my analogy, everyday paranormal events are light sprinklings of water. Sometimes a location can be tainted when a li
fe that passes over is so troubled that it drips water on the paper, so to speak, and creates a haunted location that, depending on the strength, can last for decades. These are your classic haunted houses.” He sighed. “What you’ve found, the ghost camera, is like a glass of water that tips onto the paper every time you take a picture.”

  Jenine drew her cat into her lap and massaged along its back. It purred in response: a comforting, safe sound. The enthusiasm was dying out of Richard’s voice. He was sounding, and looking, older, as though the enjoyable part of his lecture was over. “Each additional photo dampens the paper further. Breaks down the fibre. Makes it harder to separate. I apologise—I’ve carried this analogy much too far, haven’t I? Essentially, from what I have been able to deduce, the ghost camera makes the user visible to spirits. It marks you. Not just temporarily, like water on paper, but permanently. The more photos you take, the easier it is for them to find you.”

  Shivers snaked up Jenine’s back. She petted her cat more vigorously, desperate for the warmth and comfort between her fingers.

  Bree was at the edge of her seat. “Okay. Why is that bad? What happens when they ‘find you’?”

  Richard opened his mouth then closed it. He swallowed and glanced around the room, looking everywhere except at the two friends. “They kill you,” he admitted.

  “What the hell?” Bree stood up, towering over the sitting man. “Bull. You’re lying.”

  He continued in a rush, as though she hadn’t spoken. “That’s why you have to destroy the camera. Don’t show it to anyone. Don’t give it to anyone. Destroy it. That’s the only way to stop others from being tainted with its curse.”

  Jenine felt as if her world were collapsing. She didn’t realise she was squeezing her cat until it bit her hand and scurried off with a hiss. “You… you can stop it, though.”

  “Yeah.” Pacing the room, Bree pointed one finger at Richard but refused to look at him. “You said you found two cameras before, right? You know how to beat it.”