Ghost Camera (4 page)

“You don’t need to be in the store for that?”

“Huh? No. I’ve got it memorised.”

Jenine sucked her teeth ruefully. She needed a to-do list if she had more than three tasks on her plate.

Bree’s apartment sat above the floristry. The street was quiet for a Saturday afternoon; a handful of parked cars were scattered down the curb, but most stores were already closed. Bree drove past two free spots in front of the floristry without slowing down.

“Aren’t we stopping?”

“Changed my mind,” Bree said. Her tone was abrupt and her mouth had set into a thin line.

Jenine swivelled in her seat to watch the floristry disappear behind them. “Hey, isn’t that Travis’s car?”

Bree didn’t reply, and Jenine felt acutely uncomfortable. “Oh.”

She wondered how long he’d been waiting there for Bree to come back. Bree hadn’t answered her phone all day. He had to be worried, and it wasn’t like Bree to ignore him for so long.

“I might have to borrow your clothes again, babe,” Bree said. Her voice had softened, but a frown had set in above her eyes.

“Yeah, sure. Are you—I mean—”

“I’ll talk to him eventually,” Bree said. “Just not right now.”

“And… and you didn’t need the order forms?”

“I’ll do them Monday.”

They got back to Jenine’s place late in the afternoon. The air was still hot, but the humidity had dropped to a more comfortable level. Bree turned the kettle on while Jenine put the camera on top of the fridge. The three cats wove themselves about her legs, mewling and bumping against her.

“Okay, okay, slow down,” Jenine whispered as she got their food out of the fridge.

The mattresses and blankets were where they’d left them that morning. Jenine didn’t see any point in putting them away if they were just going to come out again in six hours, so she kicked them into alignment and picked up the empty chip bags and glasses from the coffee table.

“What do you want to do first?” Bree asked. “Take some time to study or look up a ghost hunting expert?”

Jenine rubbed a hand over the still-chilled part of her neck. “Let’s find the expert first. They probably won’t be able to come out for a few days, anyway.”

“Laptop?”

“In my bedroom.”

Jenine got out two mugs and poured the boiling water into them while Bree fetched the computer. She made tea for herself and coffee—extra strong, no sugar and lots of milk—for Bree. Her friend had set up the laptop on the kitchen table and was opening Google by the time she brought the mugs over.

“Is there a technical name for someone who investigates ghosts?” Bree asked, fingers poised over the keyboard.

“If there is, I haven’t heard of it.”

“We’ll start with ‘ghost researcher,’ then.”

Surprisingly, the search brought up quite a few results. Bree opened the top link, which led to the blog of a researcher named Richard Holt, who lived about an hour away.

“
Ghosts… damned or desperate?
” Bree read, scrolling down the page. “
The truth about the Mallory Haunting. Haunted Items vs. haunted locations.
Hey, this could be good.”

“Does he have a contact number?”

“Yeah.” Bree opened the
Contact Us
page. “Looks like he charges an hourly fee, though.”

“Okay, sure.” Jenine felt silly for expecting someone to help them for free. Her funds were tight, but she could probably get a loan from the bank or sell the TV she didn’t use.

Bree had her mobile out and was dialling the number. “We’ll split it.”

“What? Hey, no. You don’t have to—” Jenine withered under Bree’s glare.

“We’ll split this thing fifty-fifty. That means any profits from interviews or book deals or whatever, too. Sound fair?”

“Oh, sure, okay.” She doubted they were likely to make a profit off the camera, but the idea was tempting. She still couldn’t shake the feeling that Bree was doing her a favour, though.

“Yes, hello?” Bree said into the phone. “Okay, great. Sorry for calling on a weekend. My friend and I have a ghost problem we’d like to talk with you about.”

Bree put the phone on the table and pressed the speaker button just in time for Jenine to hear: “Well, that’s my specialty. Haunted item or haunted location?” Richard’s smooth voice reminded Jenine of the relationship advisor who had a segment on evening radio.

“Item,” Bree said.

“Good. They’re normally easier to deal with. Would you like me to make a house call, or would you prefer to visit my office?”

They exchanged a glance. “House call would be easier, if you’re travelling by us. We’re in West Harob.”

“I have a few clients down that way. That shouldn’t be a problem. I have Tuesday afternoon free, if that suits you?”

Jenine whispered, “What about the floristry?”

Bree waved her away. “Tuesday’s great.”

“Excellent. I’ll take a few details, if you don’t mind. What’s the item, and how long has it been a problem?”

“It’s an old Polaroid camera my friend found two days ago. The pictures all have ghost… spirit… things in them.”

The line was silent. Jenine and Bree exchanged a glance.

“Uh… hello? Still there?”

“I won’t be able to help you,” the man said. The mellow tone had disappeared from his voice, which had become curt and vaguely defensive. “I recommend you destroy the camera.”

“Wait, what? So you can’t get here on Tuesday? We can reschedule—”

“I won’t be able to help you,” he repeated, his tone lower, colder. “The best thing you can do is break and burn the camera. Goodbye.”

The line went dead. Jenine sat back in her chair and rubbed at her arms, feeling prickles trail up her neck.

“What the hell?” Bree snapped, tossing her phone onto the table. It bounced but didn’t break. “What a jerk.”

“Maybe we should try someone else.”

“Yeah, we’re going to do that. We’re going to find someone who isn’t a total jerk to prospective customers.”

Jenine cringed. “Hey, maybe cameras are out of his area. Maybe he only does cursed dolls or whatever.”

“Yeah, uh-huh.” Bree was mad. Jenine had seen her similarly angry a few times, mostly because of Travis, and she knew it was best to stay quiet while her friend worked through it.

That day, Bree’s method of working through it seemed to involve finding an alternative ghost expert as quickly as possible.

“Here,” she said, pulling up the second result. “Irene Sumner. Looks like… okay, so she specialises in haunted houses, but she should be able to handle a little camera, right?”

Irene answered quickly, and Bree put the phone on speaker. “Hey,” she said, unaware she was letting anger seep into her voice. “We have a camera that takes pictures of ghosts. Could you look into it for us?”

“Oh, oh,” Irene said. She sounded like an older woman, and her voice was so soft that Bree had to increase the phone’s volume. “I’m sorry, darling, I really only handle haunted buildings. I haven’t had all that much success with haunted objects, I’m afraid.”

“Okay, thanks anyway.” Bree spoke through gritted teeth but managed to put a bit of cheer in her voice. “Have a lovely evening.”

“I could recommend someone, though.”

Bree’s jaw unclenched, and she leaned forward. “Yeah? That would be great.”

“There’s a gentleman who specialises in this area. He’s done a lot of work, published some great theories, and he lectures at one of the local colleges. He’s got a website you can look through, too. His name is Richard Holt.”

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?”

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 Jenine’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 life 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.”