"We're staking out an abandoned diner somewhere off the highway in hopes of seeing a ghost," I say, dryly. "I'm not seeing the 'serious.'"
"But we're going to get something no one else has ever managed to get," says the folklore major. Angela, I think her name is. She looks like an Angela.
"What's that?" I ask. I love ghost-hunters. They're so hopeful, and so willing to walk wide-eyed into the places where angels—if not Angelas—fear to tread.
"We're going to catch a ghost," says Physicist One.
I start to laugh, stop as I realize that they're serious. "I—wait—what? You can't catch a ghost. I mean, nobody's even all that absolutely certain that they exist. How are you planning to pull this off?"
"We had a little help," admits Jamie. His tone says that he doesn't want to tell me, and his face says that he's been praying for this opening. People like to brag. I think it's an essential part of the human condition. "Marla, get the book."
The phys ed major blinks, her eyebrows knotting themselves together. "Are you sure that's a good idea? We just met this girl."
"I'm sure." Jamie looks at me, chin slightly tilted up, like he's trying to present his best profile. That's when I realize what he thinks my role in this little drama is going to be: I'm the wide-eyed Timmy to his mysterious Mr. Wizard, the adoring ingénue ready to be seduced by his showmanship and drama. I'm okay with that. I've played worse parts in my day. "We can trust her. Can't we, Rose?"
"Absolutely," I agree, nodding so vigorously that for a moment, it feels like my head is going to pop clean off. "I'm really interested. Like, really."
Marla still looks unconvinced, but she turns, rummaging through the big plastic storage bin that serves as the group's "ghost hunting supply chest" until she comes up with a battered brown journal that looks like something you'd find in a high school senior's backpack. She holds it reverently, and for a moment, it seems like she's going to run away from us rather than risking bringing a non-believer into the fold.
Finally, grudgingly, she says, "You'd better be right about her," and thrusts the book, hard, against Jamie's chest. He takes it before it has a chance to fall, and she retreats, joining the sullen, glaring twosome of the physics majors. It's weird, but I'm actually starting to feel a little nervous. Why would she be reacting so badly if they didn't really have something? I understand people getting jealous—Jamie's good-looking, and the way she looks at him tells me she'd like to give him a little physical education on the side—but this isn't jealousy. This is something else.
"Professor Moorhead came to our club meeting, and brought us this," says Jamie. He flips the book open to a point about halfway through, holding it out toward me. He's showing it, not offering it; the distinction is in his hands, the way his fingers grip a little too tightly against the cover. That's okay. I couldn't hold it right now if I wanted to. I'm having enough trouble keeping myself from sitting down involuntarily, because it feels like all the air has just left the room.
The newspaper clipping is fresh, still clean around the edges. It'll yellow and curl as it ages, but right now, it's a little piece of sweet and recent pain. LOCAL TRUCKER DIES IN TRAGIC CRASH says the headline. Larry Vibber, age 42..., that's how the article begins. There's a sidebar—there's always a sidebar—and that's what really makes my heart hammer against my ribs, like a raccoon kit caught in a snare and trying as hard as it can to work its way free. Suddenly, this little outing doesn't seem nearly as funny as it did a few minutes ago.
A GHOST STORY COMING TRUE? The tale of the Girl in the Diner is a familiar one on these American highways, and some of Mr. Vibber's fellow truckers have reason to believe that it's true...
And then: Larry Vibber's body was the only one retrieved from the crash. So what, then, explains the woman's jacket in the seat next to his?
Stupid stupid stupid Rose; there's only so much evidence you can leave, only so many breadcrumbs you can scatter before the witch in the woods starts catching up with you. "Whoa," I say, hoping I don't sound as unsteady as I feel. "So you're hunting for the ghost of Larry Vibber?"
"Better," says Jamie. "We're hunting for the Girl in the Diner."
I nod slowly. "Of course you are."
***
It makes a certain sort of fucked-up sense. If you're going to catch a ghost, why not start big? Why not start with a ghost that everybody's heard of? I suppose I should be flattered that this little crew of collegiate ghost hunters wants to stuff me into a soul jar—or whatever it is the kids are calling it these days—but mostly, I feel the serious need to run very far, very fast. There's just one problem with that little plan. If they're going the high-tech route, I'm fine. But if whoever gave them that book also gave them some more traditional routes for attracting the restless dead, this could be a bad night for everyone concerned.
"Who did you say gave this to you?" I ask, looking around the group. "I mean, 'cause wow. If I had the stuff to hunt a ghost, I'd probably want to hunt it myself, you know?"
"She can't," says Marla, stiffly. "She's a professor. It wouldn't be appropriate."
"A professor? Of what? Ghostology?"
"The University of Ohio doesn't have a parapsychology department," says Physicist One. "If we did, we'd have faculty support."
"Professor Moorhead teaches American History," says Jamie, and flips to the front of the book, where the face of a woman stares out at me from another, older newspaper clipping. The picture is black and white, but I know her hair is dirty blonde, and that the eyes behind her glasses are pale, and cold.
PROFESSOR LAURA MOORHEAD TO SPEAK ON THE LEGEND OF THE GIRL IN THE DINER, that's what the caption underneath says. I take a breath. Force a smile. And ask the one question that stands a shot at saving me:
"So what do we do first?"
***
It turns out that what we do first involves driving out to tonight's designated hunting ground, an abandoned diner in what was once a truck stop, and is now a deserted patch of asphalt and gravel. The freeway redirected the traffic, the trucks stopped coming, and time moved on. I've seen it before, these little dead spots, and they break my heart a little more each time. I ride in the back with Angela and the Physicists, ceding the front seat to Marla in the vain hope that it will make her glare at me a little less. This night's going to be long enough as it is.
"So how long have you been into ghosts, Rose?" asks Angela. She's trying to make conversation. I appreciate that.
Answering "since I died" seems like a bad idea just about now. I pretend to give her question serious thought before I say, "Oh, forever, I guess. It sure seems that way sometimes."
Angela nods, expression set in a look of absolute and total conviction as she says, "I started really believing when I was eight. That's when my grandfather's ghost came to me and told me that things were going to get better."
Scrooge was right about one thing: most spectral visitations are actually dreams or indigestion. I have to fight to keep my eyes wide and filled with belief. And if her grandfather really did come to visit her when she was a kid, why the hell does she think catching a ghost is a good way to spend a Friday night? If anyone was going to be live and let not-live about the dead, it should have been her.
"Have you ever experienced a genuine paranormal visitation?" demands Physicist Two.
I'm still trying to figure out how to answer that one when the minivan pulls to a stop outside the broken-down old diner. "We're here!" announces Jamie, with near-maniac cheer. "Everybody out and to your stations. Rose, you're with me."
Marla shoots me an absolutely venomous look as I slide out of my seat and move to stand next to Jamie. He hands me a container of salt, ignoring her displeasure.
"Angela, Tom, you go west. Marla, take Katherine inside and start setting up the camera."
Marla may not be happy, but she doesn't argue with him. She moves quickly and efficiently. So does everyone else. In a matter of minutes, it's just me, Jamie, and the salt.
"Come on," he says.
"Let's get started."
"I can't wait," I reply, and follow the crazy ghost-hunter into the night.
***
Their approach is a weird synthesis of traditional and technological. Cameras to catch any apparitions, gauges to catch any unexpected fluctuations in the local temperature...and spirit jars with honey and myrrh smeared around their mouths, to catch any wayward, wandering ghosts. Salt circles with just a single break in their outlines. Half-drawn Seals of Solomon on the broken asphalt. Even scattered patterns of rapeseed, fennel, and rye, guaranteed to attract any poltergeists who happen to be in the area. They aren't missing a trick. If I weren't already wearing a coat, I'd be worried.
"So what are we hoping to achieve out here?" I ask Jamie, as we walk slowly around the edges of the old parking lot, throwing down torn carnival tickets and bits of broken glass. "This doesn't seem very, y'know. Scientific."
"That's why we're going to succeed when nobody else has," he says, seriously. "We're pursuing synergy between the spirit and material worlds."
"I have no idea what that means," I say, in all honesty.
Jamie smiles. "It means keep scattering those ticket stubs, and by morning, you're going to see something you'd never believe."
"Oh, I can believe that," I murmur, and keep scattering.
***
The sun's been down for a little more than an hour. Everyone seems sure that nothing exciting will happen until midnight--which they insist in calling "the witching hour," which is making me want to scream--so people are mostly just checking equipment and taking walks around the grounds, making sure everything has stayed in place. So far, the valiant ghost-hunters have managed to successfully attract two raccoons, a stray cat, and a hitchhiker who isn't quite as dead as I am.
"Spirit world, one, college kids with a high-tech Ouija board, zero," I say, sweeping my flashlight around the edges of the blacktop. They're letting me patrol on my own now, probably because they don't really think there's much I can do to disrupt things if I'm on the other side of the yard. Marla's probably hoping I'll see something mundane and scream, thus proving that she was right and Jamie was wrong.
I don't think she'll be getting her wish tonight.
When I actually do see something, it's not mundane at all. One of the spirit jars is closed, rocking gently back and forth with the weight of its pissed-off contents. I stop beside it, squatting down, and tap the glass. The rocking stops. "Yo," I say. That's about as much ceremony as I can muster at the moment.
There are no words—bottled ghosts don't really communicate in words, per se—but the spirit jar manages to communicate, clearly, that it would like to be opened. Immediately.
"That's nice," I say. "What'll you give me?"
Some of the suggestions the spirit jar makes are anatomically impossible, even for someone as flexible as I am. At least one of them would require my cutting off one or more limbs. Still, I have to be impressed at how articulate it manages to be, given its current lack of vocabulary.
"Nope, that won't be happening," I say. "How about we try this: I'll let you out, and you'll go far, far away, and not bother any of nice, incredibly stupid people that are here with me. And in exchange, I won't hunt you down and shove you back into the jar. Deal?"
The jar mutters something sullen.
"Deal?"
Grudging assent this time. I reach out and remove the lid, ready to fight if I have to. I don't. Some innocent backwood haunt too new to know to avoid the scent of myrrh and honey blasts out of the open vessel, chilling the air around me for an instant before it vanishes, racing back into the twilight, where it will presumably be safer than it is out here.
"It's always nice to meet the neighbors," I say, returning the lid to its half-open state. With luck, they'll never guess the jar was tampered with. I retrieve my flashlight and resume walking.
By the time I finish my first circuit around the lot, I've freed two haunts, a spectral lady, a will-o-wisp, a pelesit, and a very confused poltergeist that takes half the carnival tickets with it when it goes. It's like a weird naturalist's cross-section of the ghosts of the American Midwest, and it would be a lot more interesting if I wasn't expecting one of the ghost-hunters to appear at any minute and demand to know what I was doing.
Instead, a high, horrified scream rises from the direction of the diner. It sounds like one of the Physicists. I stop where I am, turning toward the sound, and wince as the taste of ashes and empty rooms wafts, ever so slightly, across my tongue. "Oh, God, these idiots are going to get themselves killed," I say, and break into a run. The screaming escorts me all the way.
***
The ghost-hunters are backed into the far corner of the diner, packed into the space that still holds the shadowy ghost of a jukebox, playing songs I'm too far into the daylight to quite make out. The temptation to drop down and hear them would normally be a problem for me, but at the moment, it's easy to ignore the phantom jukebox. The massive spectral dog standing between me and the terrified college students seems likely to be a little more important.
"How the holy fuck did you people manage to attract a Maggy Dhu?" I blurt out the question before I have a chance to consider its ramifications—namely, that it betrays my knowing more than I've been letting on, and that shouting is likely to attract the attention of the Black Hound of the Dead.
Sure enough, the Maggy Dhu swings its head in my direction, lips drawn back to display teeth like daggers, eyes burning the smoky, angry orange of midnight jack-o-lanterns and the sort of harvest fire that used to come with a side order of barbecued virgin sacrifice. I take a step back. "Uh, nice doggy. Good doggy. Don't eat me, doggy."
"I don't know what that thing is, but it is not Scooby-Doo!" wails Marla.
"Not Scooby-Doo, Maggy Dhu," I say, keeping my eyes on the dog. It's the only thing in this room that can hurt me. That means it gets my full attention. "It's the Black Dog of the Dead. It harvests souls. What did you people do?"
"N-nothing," says Jamie. He sounds like he's hanging onto his sanity by a thread. I guess when he said "ghost," he was picturing something nice, friendly, and human-looking, like, say, a hitchhiking dead girl from the 1940s. Not the afterlife equivalent of Cujo on a bad hair day. "We were just reading the incantations from the book, and then this...this thing..."
"It came out of nowhere," says Physicist Two. She doesn't sound as scared as the others, possibly because she sounds like she's talking in her sleep. We all have our own ways of coping. "It bit Tom. He's bleeding a lot. Can you make it go away?"
Shit. Well, at least that explains the screaming. I'd be screaming too, if a Maggy Dhu had just tried to take a chunk out of me. I don't remember whether they're venomous. I don't think so. There's a level at which things like venom cross into "overkill," and when you're a two-hundred-pound spectral hound, you're basically there. "I don't know," I say, with absolute honesty. The Maggy Dhu is still watching me. I think it's growling. That's just great. "I'm going to try something, okay? Nobody move."
Nobody's moving. I'm taking this less as a sign of obedience and more as a sign of blind terror. Whatever. The end result is the same. I take another step back. The Maggy Dhu finishes its turn, growl becoming audible. It's been summoned from the ghostroads to this dead little diner, and it's pissed. I understand the feeling.
"Fuck me," I mutter, and take off running.
***
There is no possible way for me to outrun an angry Black Dog for more than a few panic-fueled yards. That's fine, because a few panic-filled yards is all I need. These kids may be amateurs and idiots, but they're amateurs and idiots who've been turning this place into a giant ghost trap since the sun went down. I have no idea what it takes to catch a Maggy Dhu—I don't deal much with the totally non-human inhabitants of the twilight—but if there's a standard mechanism, I'd bet my afterlife that it's somewhere here.
Actually, that's exactly what I'm doing. I should let go, drop down into the twilight, and let the Maggy Dhu teach these kids the l
ast lesson they're ever going to learn. I should remind them that there's a reason the living don't dance with the dead. And I can't do it. Maybe it's because Laura would expect it of me; maybe it's just that everyone deserves to be dumb, at least once, and you don't really learn from the things that kill you. So I keep my grip on the borrowed life I'm wearing, and I run like hell.
The pelesit got snagged in one of the half-drawn Seals of Solomon, but there are still five of them untriggered, scattered around the edges of the lot like a weird version of the home base in a game of tag. The first one is just ahead when I hear the Maggy Dhu's claws scraping against the gravel behind me. I put on a final burst of speed, feet easily clearing the lines of the unfinished circle. I feel like an Olympic sprinter. I feel like my lungs are going to explode. I don't think I like either feeling.
The sound of pursuit stops, and the Maggy Dhu starts to growl again. Now it sounds well and truly pissed. I stop running, bracing my hands on my knees and fighting for air as I twist to look back at the Black Dog.
It's pressed against the circle's edge, eyes glowing hellfire red and legs braced in the posture of a junkyard mutt getting ready to charge a trespasser. I've never seen an animal that angry. At least it hasn't realized yet that the circle's broken, or it would already be on my ass again. It'll figure it out eventually. Hopefully, I'll be breathing again by then.
"I don't suppose I could convince you to go home," I wheeze.
The Maggy Dhu barks furiously, trying to bite the barrier that keeps it from biting my ass instead.
"I'm going to take that as a 'no,'" I say, and let the Maggy Dhu bark while I finish getting my breath back. I don't age, and that also means that no matter how much shit I go through, I'll never be in better shape than I was in when I died. Back then, girls didn't go in that much for extra-curricular running like their asses were on fire. Sometimes I really wish I'd picked a better era to die in. Like one where all high school students were capable of completing a three-minute mile.
Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan Page 17