Every Breath You Take

by Chris Marie Green

  I steadied myself, then crept closer to the rock.

  As a flash of gray filled the air, I swore that something was ducking around the rock. Zinging with nervous electricity, I darted ahead.

  “Jensen!” Amanda Lee said in a ragged whisper.

  Just as I was almost at the rock, I caught a glimpse of long, light hair flying in the wind and the smell of rusty blood. . . .

  I screeched to a stop in the air and held up my hand to Amanda Lee. “Wait.”

  She was smart enough not to question me about what I was doing as I inched toward the rock’s jagged tip. If I’d had breath, I’d have been holding it, but as it was, I could only feel my phantom heart beating, mostly because I’d once remembered hearing it and my mind wouldn’t let go.

  One, two, three . . .

  I surged over the top, only to find leaves and dirt below me.

  But then I felt a twinge. A scratch that ran down the back of my neck to the top of my would-be spine—

  I turned around, expecting the witch, the dark spirit, something . . .

  Yet I saw only Amanda Lee standing there, holding an iron dagger. Poison to any ghost—especially one who might be stupid enough to attack her.

  “Did you feel that? Smell that?” I asked.

  She shook her head, and I blinked. Was I off my game? Maybe I needed to charge up even more after today’s haunting.

  “What scared you?” she asked.

  “I’m not scared.” Ha! I took one more look around, but the only indication of other life or death that I got was a few birds sounding off at me.

  I backed away from the rock, totally cool now. “There was blood in the air. And a gray shape with light hair. At least, I thought there was.”

  “Stay alert, then.”

  Amanda Lee put the dagger back into the pocket of her boho skirt, but even though she’d hidden it, she kept her hand cupped nearby. We kept on moving through the woods.

  Okay, so I’d heard and smelled something in the big, bad forest. Big whoop. Time to just mellow out from the thrills and chills of today’s haunting, I guessed. Obviously I was still too keyed up to function right now.

  When we heard a female voice in the near distance, I knew that we’d come across the crew. But as we got closer, I realized I was only half right.

  A bunch of lookiloo ghosts surrounded the filming area, the glare from two cameras like beacons for them. Or maybe it was just the life force of the show’s hostess, who was the aura-haloed center of attention.

  Amanda Lee had already told me that the girl with long, curly black hair, dark skin, and thick-framed glasses was named Sierra Darque. What a superdorky name for a ghost hunter. But the spirits hung on every word she said, drawn to her.

  “Can you see the crowd here?” I asked Amanda Lee.

  She whispered back, trying not to act like she was talking to me. “I only sensed spirits around her earlier, but now I actually see a few.”

  “How many exactly?”

  “Three. All of them are Native Americans.”

  “There’s a hell of a lot more than that. By my count, at least fifteen.” And I knew a couple of the intelligent or interactive ghosts already—Milo, with his plaid shirt and whiskery face and stroked-out grimace, and Daniel Ashbury, a modern-day hiker who’d died from a heart condition in the woods. I wasn’t sure who the Native Americans were, but the rest were known as anonymous spirits—confused and frightened ghosts who refused to come out and play with the rest of us. These particular anons seemed to be the gypsies who’d supposedly been slaughtered in Elfin Forest because they wouldn’t leave their homes here in the 1800s. Now they hid behind trees, shyly peeking at the hunting crew, and when they saw Amanda Lee approaching, they disappeared behind the trunks altogether.

  Amanda Lee never noticed. Her gaze was on Sierra.

  “She’s a poltergeist agent, isn’t she?” Amanda Lee said in wonder. “Now that the team has been here for a while, I see that she excites the spirits, and that’s the reason they surround her.”

  “So, her show’s not fake? They don’t have to pull a bunch of stunts to supposedly make contact with us?”

  “It seems so.”

  Sierra had spotted Amanda Lee by now, and she cut off the cameramen. One was a guy Amanda Lee said was named J.J. She’d forgotten the other girl’s name, but she had blond braids threaded with beads and reminded me of a khaki-wearing Bo Derek.

  Sierra waved Amanda Lee over. “Good timing! Are you ready to be grilled, Ms. Minter?”

  Amanda Lee’s body was giving off a hum. I’d never noticed one coming from her before, but then I realized what was happening: she thought Sierra was attractive.

  Like we needed that kind of complication if we wanted to be in and out of this situation in a hot-potato minute.

  I thought of touching all three crew members, just to see if they had any dark agendas, but now wasn’t the time. Amanda Lee would’ve already superficially vibed them. Besides, empathy could wear a human down if a ghost wasn’t careful, and I didn’t want to alert them to my presence. There might not even be a need for empathy if these ghost hunters left as soon as Amanda Lee wanted them to.

  Sierra was shaking Amanda Lee’s hand and pulling her toward the humongo oak tree where she’d been standing. It had an awesome hole in it that provided a spooky background.

  I followed, taking my place next to my spirit acquaintance Daniel and his hiker-Jesus beard. The Native Americans stuck with each other a few yards away, floating over a log, nodding at me. I took a moment to observe ghost etiquette.

  “I’m Jensen Murphy,” I said. “Murdered by a serial killer with an ax to grind against me.”

  They’d probably heard the story before, like every other ghost in the Elfin Forest area had seemed to. I had to admit, it was a doozy.

  “Johnny Eagle,” one young Indian said, dressed in what looked like white man’s garb—denim pants and a work shirt, with a kerchief around his neck. He pointed to his group, speaking for them, too. “Hanged from a grove of trees.”

  Daniel talked. “I’d always heard that Indians feared ghosts, but these guys can’t fear what they are.”

  Johnny Eagle and the others accepted that.

  And this concluded ghost etiquette—the exchange of death stories instead of human-type handshakes. I didn’t even stop to wonder why Johnny Eagle and his friends didn’t show any signs of being hanged, because I knew enough about Boo World by now not to bother thinking about why we didn’t carry death marks. A Ghost 101 class would’ve come in handy to explain all the quirks of our existence, but we were all shit out of luck. I was just glad that I’d died with only the ton of Mello Yello I’d poured into my system before I’d gotten snuffed out.

  No wonder I was a halfway happy camper in this afterlife.

  After I turned back to Daniel, he said, “How’s it been going, Jensen?” He didn’t bother to hug me or shake my hand, either. Ghosts could harden themselves and touch each other, but we didn’t feel anything from it, so why do it?

  I chanced a smile at him because the last time we’d seen each other was when our mutual friend Cassie had chosen to go with her wrangler. Sad stuff.

  But leave it to a social idiot like Milo, the plaid mountain man with the wandering eye, to crap on the delicate moment. “Shut up in the cheap seats. A man can’t even listen in his own backyard without being interrupted by trespassers.”

  “Relax, Milo,” Daniel said.

  Behind us, the group of Native Americans chuckled. They had to already know about Milo’s infamous grumpiness, too, and maybe even about my own history with the old fart. He’d been a person of interest in my missing-persons case, and he didn’t exactly like to be reminded of that whenever he saw me.

  Still, I couldn’t resist poking fun at the dude. “I can’t believe something pulled Milo out of his shack. You reall
y that bored, sir?”

  He grumped at me, facing front. A few feet away, a curious gypsy popped his shaggy head from behind a tree, then disappeared again.

  Daniel shrugged. We all knew that boredom was a ghost’s worst enemy, and Milo—or anonymous ghosts, for that matter—wasn’t exempt.

  “Were you here earlier?” Daniel asked.

  “Amanda Lee was. Why?”

  “There were ghosts I’ve never seen before hanging around when I got here, looking for you two, asking for help.”

  “What’s new?” I sighed.

  “Come again?”

  “Nothing. They left?”

  “Johnny Eagle and his friends chased them off. Their whining was enough to give us bad mojo.”

  While we’d been chattering, the Bo Derek chick—hell, I was just going to call her 10—was fitting Amanda Lee with what Daniel told me was a microphone pack. The wired box stuck out of her back like a parasite, if you asked me. They tested the sound, just before Amanda Lee went to her purse on the ground and pulled out a picture.

  I didn’t have to wonder whose it was.

  Daniel leaned toward me. “These show people seem especially interested in you, Jensen. Better watch out, or the witch of the woods will get pissed that you’ve stolen her spotlight.”

  I shot him a that’s-such-bunk! look, and he laughed.

  “You think I’m joking?” he asked.

  “All the more reason for Amanda Lee to finish up her interview ASAP,” I muttered, glancing around. No ghosts here but us.

  When Sierra got out a makeup bag and offered a brush and powder to Amanda Lee, she refused.

  “I won’t be on camera,” she said. “That’s what we agreed on.”

  Sierra shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying. But you sure I can’t change your mind? It’s such a rush to see yourself on camera.”

  She said it like she was . . . flirting?

  Daniel laughed again, but I don’t think any of the other alpha males around us got the context. Duh. Maybe Sierra swung that way . . . or maybe she just knew how to get what she wanted from people.

  Amanda Lee shook her head in an emphatic No, thank you, and Sierra smiled, then told Amanda Lee what to expect from the interview.

  Daniel talked over her. “I’m surprised you’re trusting these people.”

  “Trusting isn’t the word,” I said, but I didn’t explain Amanda Lee’s little plan. We’d be here and gone—that was the deal.

  “You do any research on them?” he asked.

  “No time. Why?”

  Milo turned around and sent us a shut-up death stare. We played it cool until he faced the other way, then started talking again.

  Daniel said, “I’ve heard through the ghostvine that this team has committed crimes against the spirit world.”

  “Huh?”

  Daniel gave me a you-still-haven’t-been-around-the-block-much glance. “They say that, on their show, this team accused a ghost in New Orleans from the early 1800s of a murder she didn’t do. Something about her being a prostitute who gutted one of her clients with a knife.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah, that’s an understatement. It’s real bad karma to pin a crime on a ghost who can’t defend herself. She went into a glare spot half a century ago, so she can’t tell her own side of the story to a medium or anyone else.”

  “Are you saying that this team made up the story, then?”

  “Or they got some bad information and perpetuated it. Either way, not kosher.” He frowned. “There’re other stories about them, too. Other ghosts say these people are . . .”

  “Fame whores?” Courtesy of Amanda Lee.

  “Exactly. So be careful about what they air about you, because I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them.”

  That was all I needed to hear, and I flew over to Sierra Darque, who was fussing with her own microphone. I laid my ghost hand on her toasty-skinned cheek just lightly enough that I wouldn’t shock her. Unobtrusively enough to get an empathy reading so I could see her true intentions . . .

  Frissons of excitement . . . Ghosts, so close; can feel them . . . Is one here right now . . . ?

  Then her voice: Help you. I can help you! Believe me, work with me!

  Then a flash to another thought . . .

  Through the eyes of someone young, tiny, sitting at the side of a bed. A woman . . . Mother? Sick, her dark skin chalky . . .

  “You’ve got a gift, Sierra. Use it for good. Promise me . . .”

  I floated out of Sierra’s thoughts, finding Amanda Lee giving me the stink eye. She’d seen me connect with the hunter and didn’t think it was appropriate right now, because she’d already gotten her own reading.

  I’d bet she had.

  Sierra rubbed her arms, her eyes wide. But not wide in a creeped-out way. She was actually . . .

  Smiling?

  “Jensen Murphy?” she whispered euphorically. “Is that you?”

  3

  Well, hell. This Sierra Darque girl seemed to be for real.

  I didn’t answer her, but I did notice that J. J. Blue Eyes had activated one of his devices—an EMF meter. Sierra lunged toward her backpack and brought out what looked like a recorder.

  J.J. waved his toy around the area with one hand as he rested the camera on his shoulder with the other. “Ghosts are made of electromagnetic radiation. They’re a part of the energy in the air, can manipulate it—all that. This detector helps us measure the electromagnetic fields and sense them.”

  Was he telling this to Amanda Lee? Uh, then no shit, Sherlock. She already had the true scoop on what ghosts were.

  I’d even been in the presence of what I thought was a temperature gauge once, and I’d been in dire straits at the time, my energy at a low ebb, so I hadn’t reacted to it then. But this EMF reader? Different story. It felt like a probe, like needles in my essence.

  Actually, it wasn’t a bad feeling. Kind of like a spiked version of one of those twenty-five-cent massage machines in motels that my family would use on summer vacation trips. Those had been niiiice.

  “Shit!” J.J. was walking closer to me. “We’ve been taking readings all day, but this one’s off the charts!”

  He sounded like a kid who’d just bought Sea-Monkeys and was watching the fishbowl to see them frolic. As the needling sensation got worse, gnawing at me now, I slid away from him.

  “You feel any of this?” J.J. asked Sierra.

  She was still rubbing her arms. “Yeah, I do.”

  Amanda Lee was doing her best to stay composed, her hands folded in front of her, never giving me away, not even when J.J. held out that meter and stalked me with it. Sheez, he was persistent, until I floated up the trunk of a tree, too high for him to reach.

  “The uptick in energy’s gone,” J.J. said, his hand falling to his side.

  Amanda Lee interjected. “You should know that it wasn’t Jensen. She’s not here.”

  The other spirits started laughing as 10 dutifully kept filming Sierra, who held up her recorder. I was no genius, but I guessed she was planning on taking an EVP, electronic voice phenomena, analysis. So I shut my big mouth, not giving her anything to record.

  But the other spirits decided it was time to rock and roll.

  Johnny Eagle let out a playful bird-of-prey cry that didn’t materialize to the other dimension. The other Native Americans followed with fervent animal calls. I didn’t know where the gypsies had gone. Maybe they were still behind the trees, giggling to themselves.

  “These hunters are so minor league,” Daniel said, stroking his Jesus beard, shaking his head at J.J., who was using his meter again. “They’ll be like kids who just got laid for the first time when they review these recordings.”

  But the ghosts didn’t stay entertained for long. Milo grunted and flapped a dismissive,
I’m-bored hand at us, then stomp-wandered off. Within a minute, the Native American guys stopped their animal calls and went their own ways, too. Major ghost ADD.

  Amanda Lee clearly knew that we’d be here forever unless she took things in hand, so she gave Sierra my photo while J.J. and 10 continued measuring and filming.

  I was sure the photo was the one that’d been plastered over old newspapers and on the Internet, with me and my strawberry blond hair, light freckles, green eyes, and beach-baby smile. And in one of those stupendously bad choices that just kept paying off, I’d put on some clothes that night that I wouldn’t have exactly chosen as the outfit most likely to be awesome for eternity. Nope, I’d gone casual, in Levi’s, a long-sleeved blue boy’s shirt tied at the waist and worn over a white tank, and, best of all, white freakin’ sneakers. Oh, and then there were the supercool rubber Madonna bracelets. I’d put them on earlier in the night, before I’d driven my friends to the forest for some legend tripping and a campfire scene right out of Friday the 13th, except I hadn’t known that I’d have my very own special murderer included in the good times.

  Sierra stopped recording and took the picture from Amanda Lee.

  “I’ve seen this before,” she said, “during our research. Jensen seems sweet, like everyone’s best friend.”

  Amanda Lee lifted a brow at the word sweet, then took the picture back.

  Hey, I was sweet. When I wanted to be.

  She gazed at the photo, her expression . . . softening?

  “During your research,” she said, “you must have run across speculation as to what happened with Jensen that night. I’m curious . . . What have you discovered so far?”

  Sierra kept looking around, like she was expecting to find me, no matter what Amanda Lee had told her. “We interviewed some hikers who came to the forest to do a little small-time ghost hunting of their own. There’s lots of speculation that goes beyond Jensen being MIA.”

  “Really.”

  Sierra only smiled.

  Hmm.

  By now, J.J. had put away the EMF meter and had started filming again. I drifted down from the tree branches, toward Sierra, for no good reason. Sometimes I did that with humans. Actually, more and more, I liked feeling the warmth they put out, and Sierra had a lot of it.