Nightmare

by Robin Parrish

  Jill's hand reached out and grasped Angela's just as Angela was about to slide away, leaving Jill on her own. As the old man came closer to her, but never moving at more than a snail's pace, the other five apparitions at the table rose from their seats and began inching toward both Jill and Angela.

  Angela screamed as the old man came close enough to touch her, and suddenly everything went dark and a cold gust of wind blew through the room, whipping up all around us.

  I was starting to understand why this place was so popular. But nothing I'd experienced had brought me remotely close to feeling fear. It was all extremely well done, using advanced technologies to astounding effect. But it was too perfect, too scripted down to the last detail, to elicit the desired response. At least from me.

  I knew better.

  After a bathroom, a brief detour into the basement where numerous things jumped out at us, and a bedroom, where the bed and all the furniture hung from the ceiling, we entered a long, narrow hallway. The house's power attempted to surge to life, but managed only halfhearted blinks and flickers before going out completely. Once all was quiet, something resembling a guttural growl filled the hall, and it began to shake violently, nearly forcing the three of us off our feet.

  It was clever, this techno-paranormal wizardry.

  I walked at a brisk pace, mostly to keep up with my terrified and sprinting friends, in an attempt to keep them from feeling ridiculous. I felt no fear at anything we'd seen or done. It was all too much like being inside a special effects-filled movie on the big screen. It may have contained a few vague references to the reality of the paranormal-evidence of someone's attempt at realworld research-but there was nothing genuinely supernatural about any of it.

  The hallway grew narrower at the far end, and I followed Jill and Angela through a small door, spilling out into yet another dark room. This one was decorated as the house's living room.

  I knew we had to be near the end of the attraction, as double front doors lay directly ahead of us. But first, of course, we would have to face whatever artificial "thrills" awaited us here.

  From their pale-white faces and wide-eyed expressions, I could see that my friends were ready to get out of there. I knew that in another minute or two, they would be outside in the warm night air, laughing it all off, pretending to have never been afraid at all. But right now I was sure they were sweating.

  Which I suddenly realized was odd, because I was feeling a distinct cold sensation running through my entire body, hair to toenails. I had an abrupt chill, but resisted the urge to hug myself, knowing this was probably just a cleverly directed airflow built into the room.

  Still, it felt oddly authentic, just like a cold spot. A real cold spot, a phenomenon I knew very well.

  No lights ever came on in the room, but my eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness by now that I could make out most of the room's mundane details-a dilapidated rocking chair, a crumbling fireplace against one wall, curtains barely clinging to the windows on either side of the front doors.

  I was taken aback for the first time when a mist suddenly entered the room and began to swirl about. It didn't come down through the chimney or blow in through a crack in the windows, it passed through the wall to my left. Yet this white mist didn't billow or blow, it flowed with intention, like living wind. It swirled up all around me like a tiny whirlwind, and I was surprised to find that it was no hologram or trick of lights. It was a tangible substance that I could feel touching my skin, ever so lightly.

  Only a few times before had I experienced anything like it, and those occasions were genuine hauntings.

  Okay, Ghost Town, I thought as the mist swirled through my hair, moving it about. I don't know how you're pulling this off, but bravo. This is your best trick yet.

  A faint voice whispered in my ear, a female voice. I couldn't make out what it was saying, but if it was a special effect, it was impossibly good, because it couldn't have been coming from speakers hidden in the ceiling or the walls. It was right beside me, in the center of the room.

  My heart thumped heavily as I rewound the voice in my head and thought for just a moment that it might have said my name. I instinctively grabbed my own chest, trying to coax my heart to keep beating.

  My breath was visible as I exhaled, almost gasping.

  The mist suddenly twisted and flew away from me and then doubled back, bearing straight down on me. Just as it was about to touch me again, it coalesced for a fraction of a second, a threedimensional white face emerging from the vapor before the entire cloud passed through me.

  I froze in place, trying to breathe, but it was as if my lungs had been submerged in ice. At the same moment the fog passed through my body, the very same moment I saw the face in the cloud, I heard the female voice whisper one last time, so faint I knew I must've been the only one to hear it. It was as if a pair of lips were less than an inch from my right ear.

  "The nightmare is coming," the voice breathed in a terrified pitch.

  The mist dissipated into nothing as floodlights suddenly came up and the front double doors flung themselves open. The ride was over.

  Angela and Jill fled out into the safety of the amusement park, but I stood stock still, the sensations and sounds and sights I'd just experienced refusing to leave my senses.

  Because the girl's voice I'd heard whispering and the face I'd seen in the mist for a fraction of a second ... I was certain that they both belonged to someone I knew.

  Someone I hadn't seen or heard from in months.

  Someone named Jordin Cole.

  SEPTEMBER 22ND One Year Ago

  "You're Maia Peters, aren't you?"

  I stopped in my tracks, my shoulders involuntarily clenching up to my neck. I was crossing the courtyard outside Greene Hall and had almost made it to my dorm in peace when the intruder called out my name. I knew I was being followed from the moment I'd left Forensic Science class, but I was silently praying the whole way to my room that whoever it was would go away.

  "Yes," I replied slowly, not turning around to see who'd asked. My eyes danced across the East Campus residence hall entrance, which was just across the courtyard from Greene, and now less than twenty feet away. Its brick walls looked an awful lot like safety and escape just now.

  I really hated when people recognized me. Fame had never agreed with me. It wasn't my fame they were recognizing, anyway. I was just famous by association. Or perhaps infamous.

  My Catholic mother and agnostic father-an eccentric pairing if there ever was one-were known all over the United States, and much of the world. And anyone who knew of them, knew of their daughter. Me.

  Why couldn't people just leave me be? I didn't relish being a loner, but it was a lot easier than dealing with every wacko who wanted to be my friend just because of my famous parents-or worse, the ones that were only interested in having a good laugh at my expense.

  "Jordin Cole. We're in the same English Comp class."

  My thoughts froze. Could it be that this girl-a girl whose name I recognized immediately thanks to Jordin's entirely different kind of reputation, despite having no memory of ever seeing her in my English Composition class-had no interest in my parents, or my past? Was she just hoping to copy my notes from class, or something equally harmless and utterly, blissfully normal?

  "Mm-hmm," I said tentatively, turning at last but not bothering to hide my skepticism as I sized this girl up. It wasn't that I meant to be rude, but I'd been down this road too many times, and it was growing tiresome.

  "I didn't recognize you at first ... I mean, you look a lot different than you did on TV."

  It was true. When I transitioned into the college life, I cut my hair and dyed it a darker color. I changed the way I dressed, and had put on a little weight, too. That last bit was a fact I'd decided I didn't care about. I was more comfortable in my skin now than I had ever been before; being on TV so often made you obsessed about appearances, and now I wasn't anymore. It felt good. I didn't consider myself overly
attractive, but I wasn't ugly, either. Looks just weren't a big priority for me these days. Maybe after graduation I'd feel differently, but for now I was focused entirely on my studies.

  For her part, there was no getting around the fact that Jordin was drop-dead gorgeous, without even having to try. Sure, she wore designer jeans and a stylish top, and was no stranger to hair or makeup products, but she didn't give off the air of someone who put a lot of concern into either. Jordin was naturally blond, more slender than I was, and had a set of regally white, perfectly straight teeth. She radiated an easygoing, unfussy nature, while simultaneously giving everyone that passed the two of us in the courtyard a taste of that milliondollar smile.

  I couldn't figure out if her warmth was pretense or not. Either way, I still didn't want to talk to her.

  "Anyway, I was wondering if you might be able to help me, or at least point me in the right direction." Jordin paused, as if hesitant to continue. Finally she plowed ahead. "I need to know if it's real."

  I raised my eyebrows, an unspoken question.

  "The paranormal," Jordin explained. "Is it real?"

  So much for the "innocent fellow student" theory.

  Without a word, I turned and walked quickly through the dorm entrance, leaving Jordin Cole alone in the courtyard.

  She tried again the next day.

  She got in line behind me at the school bookstore. I knew Jordin had to have been intentionally trailing me to find me here.

  "Your major doesn't involve people skills, does it?" she said in a conversational tone, as though our prior conversation had never ended. "Which is kind of stunning. I mean, you're a TV star. You have actual fans. I guess most of them have never met you, or they might rethink that."

  I glanced at her sidelong. "Do we have to do this?"

  "I get it," she said. Her voice was a little louder than I would have preferred, causing several heads to turn in my direction.

  "I totally understand," she continued, and I was over this already. Mostly because of Jordin's too-casual use of the word "totally." She continued, "If my parents were world-famous ghost hunters with their own reality show, I'd avoid every weirdo who asked me questions about the paranormal, too."

  "They're not ghost hunters," I said, almost mumbling, refusing to face her full-on, because it would feel too much like we were having an actual conversation.

  "Huh?"

  "My parents," I repeated. "They are not `ghost hunters.' They're not ghost busters. The correct term is `paranormal investigators.' And since you don't have a clue what that means, and I don't really care to explain it, please just go forget you ever met me."

  "No, no, I know!"Jordin said, backpedaling and regrouping fast. "I'm just really new to this stuff, and that's totally why I need your help."

  "No" was my definitive answer. I wasn't going to get into this, not with Jordin Cole or anyone else. "No, I can't help you with whatever it is you want. I can't get you an autograph, I can't get you on the TV show, and I'm not interested in helping you contact your dead relative."

  "I don't want any of those things," she said.

  "Then what do you want?" I asked pointedly.

  "Well, I was kind of hoping you might be willing to consider-"

  "What do you want?" I pressed, raising my voice while stepping up to the counter and running my check card through the machine.

  Jordin froze, and looked me in the eyes. She seemed to change in front of me, and her hyper-friendly exterior faded.

  "I want to touch the paranormal. I want to know that it's real. Or not. I don't want to be told. I don't want to read about it. I want to experience it for myself."

  "Go to the library," I replied. "Internet search: 'Paranormal investigators, New York City.' Tons of amateurs out there eager and willing to show you around any haunted house in the area you want. Might even let you tag along on a real investigation."

  "But I don't want them! And I don't want to visit any haunted house," she said. "I don't know anything about this stuff, but I know that no one else has your level of expertise. Your parents are the authorities in this field-respected by pretty much everyoneand you were on tons of episodes of the show as one of their best investigators. Until-"

  I cut her off. "Do you know the question?"

  Jordin blinked. "What?"

  "Do you know the question?" I asked again, picking up my purchased textbooks and hugging them in my arms. "Look at every quest, every search, every journey that's ever been undertaken, and at its heart you'll find a question. A question that needs answering. And that drive for answering it is what fuels the quest. The search for the paranormal is no different than any other quest. At its core, there is a question that needs to be answered. Do you know that question?"

  Jordin looked away, searching her thoughts. "Why do ghosts exist?"

  I shook my head and turned to go. "You go have a nice life."

  It was three days later before Jordin made contact again.

  I was leaving a statistics class when she ambushed me as I walked out of the lecture hall and onto the busy university sidewalk.

  "Hey, girlfriend. I figured it out," she said, chipper and pleased with herself. "The question that drives the search for the paranormal."

  I stopped under the shadow of a well-manicured tree, satisfied that we were out of earshot of anyone nearby.

  "I'm not your friend," I remarked, unimpressed and once again unnerved that she knew how to find me so easily. "I'm not even on your social ladder."

  "What happens when we die?" Jordin continued.

  Despite myself, my eyebrows rose. "Not bad. And here I thought you were just a pampered, bored heiress."

  Jordin was rich. Beyond rich. Richer than rich. And everyone at school knew it. Some kind of inheritance or something, I couldn't recall the details.

  "That's because you don't know me," she replied, shrugging. "And I understand why you don't care to. But I still need your help."

  "You may know the question," I noted, "but that doesn't mean you're ready to try and answer it."

  "The question ... it makes sense," Jordin said slowly, thoughtfully. "Do you know the answer?"

  I shook my head, unable to mask my boredom with this conversation. "Not really."

  "But don't you want to?" Jordin said, confused at my indifference.

  "Do you have any idea what a real paranormal investigation is?" I retorted, what little patience I possessed dwindling. "We run toward the things that most people run away from. It's all about cataloging the unexplained. Gathering real, scientific evidence in the worst places and conditions you can imagine. And in cases where real people are being terrorized in their homes, it's about helping them. Are you honestly interested in any of those things?"

  "Sure."

  "You are not!" I shot back.

  She hesitated. "Look, my reasons are ... my reasons. But I have to do this. And I want you to help me."

  I shook my head at the ground, almost laughing.

  "What?" she asked.

  "You really think you're somehow different than every other `ghost hunter' wannabe I've ever met, don't you."

  "I know I am, sister. Because I'm the first wannabe to tell you that there's no limit to where we could go or what we could investigate."

  Ahyes, and here it comes ...

  "I do know who you are, Jordin," I said.

  "Then you know that when I say the sky's the limit, it's an epic understatement. Anywhere, anytime," she said. "The most haunted places in America-or the world. There's got to be some places out there you always wanted to investigate, but never got to. Or favorite locations that you meant to get back to, but never got around to. I can make it happen. My only request is that you take me with you."

  "Quite a sales pitch," I replied, mildly amused. "Practiced it much?"

  "I can do this for you, Maia," said Jordin. "I can help you finally find the answer to the question. I want to."

  "That's ... kind," I replied, eying her sidelong. "But I'm still
not interested."

  "Because you're serious about your studies here, your career. You want to be taken seriously. You don't want to be known as ,the ghost hunters' daughter.' I get it. But nobody forced you to go along with your parents on all those investigations. And I think that despite this new life you're pursuing, some part of you still wants to know the answer. Find that proof that the paranormal's real. What if I could help you do that? We might even legitimize your parents' lifelong quest."

  I didn't even try to hide my curiosity. Jordin was a lot smarter than I first gave her credit for. She was also a lot kookier.

  "Okay, say for a moment I got myself some temporary insanity and agreed to ... to whatever it is you're wanting to do. Paranormal investigation is not some hobby or whim to be undertaken out of curiosity. For the unprepared or the uninformed, it's extremely dangerous. If you're not strong enough, you can lose yourself to what you'll encounter."

  She seemed unfazed. "I can handle it."

  I frowned. "What are you hoping to find?"

  Jordin perked up and whipped out a five-by-five-inch journal. "Stuff like this." She opened the book, and it was overstuffed with newspaper clippings, printed website pages, and dozens upon dozens of photos. Most of them were poor in quality, probably made on a copier or printed on a low-res printer. But it didn't matter; I recognized most of the images as rather notorious photos. There were famous pictures like the Brown Lady at Raynam Hall in Norfolk, Boothill Graveyard in Tombstone, the Cashtown Inn in Gettysburg. Some of the best so-called evidence of the paranormal.

  Jordin had collected for herself a record of supposedly real hauntings from the last twenty to thirty years. Amateur photos and reports, predominantly, of paranormal sightings that average people "happened" to unintentionally catch. Many of these sightings were quite well-known among paranormal investigators.

  I examined the book for a moment, trying to stay poker-faced. But I couldn't keep it up.

  "What?" she asked.

  I kind of shrugged. "It's just ... it's garbage, Jordin. All of this. You're operating on pop culture-fueled notions of what ghosts and spirits are, and it's nonsense. Ninety-nine percent of the stuff in your little book here is nothing at all like what you'd experience in a genuinely haunted place."