two. He might catch some EVPs—electronic voice phenomena. And if there was any evidence at all that something paranormal existed in this quarry, there was a chance Aimee was somewhere, too.
Going by his senses, Ross pointed the video to a spot in the quarry that his eyes kept coming back to, although he had no idea if in fact that was where a murder had occurred. He loaded a fresh tape and checked the battery, then sat back to wait.
Suddenly he was blinded by a beacon. “I can explain,” he began.
Whatever Ross was going to say, however, died on his lips as he found himself face-to-face with an ancient man wearing a vintage security guard’s uniform; a man who held so much of the world in his eyes that Ross was certain he was looking at a ghost.
“Who are you?” the man whispered to Az. He was gawking like he’d never seen anyone native before, and frankly, that pissed Az off.
“You’re trespassing,” Az said.
“This used to be your land?”
Sweet Jesus, and they talked about Indians being hooked on peyote. Granted, Az was old, and he was rigged out in a security guard’s uniform he’d owned for twenty-five years now, but still . . . The guy looked normal enough—maybe even had a little Abenaki blood, what with that long, dark hair. It was enough to make Az feel pity for him, anyway. “Look, tell you what. You pack up whatever it is you’re doing and get out, and I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”
The man nodded, and then lunged forward in an attempt to touch him. Startled, Az drew away and pulled his billy club.
“Please! I just . . . I just want to ask you a few questions.”
Christ . Az was going to miss the whole seventh inning, at this rate.
“Do you live here?”
“No, and I don’t have a teepee either, if that’s next on the list.” Az grabbed his arm. “Now shut that thing off and—”
“You can touch me . . . ?”
“I can beat the crap out of you, too, if you keep this up,” Az said. “The Red Sox are tied with the Yankees, though, so it’s going to be fast.”
The intruder—well, he faded—that was the only word for it. It was the same thing Az had seen over and over sitting at the deathbed of a friend; that light that made a person what he was, suddenly snuffing out. “The Red Sox,” the man murmured. “Then you’re not a ghost.”
“I may be old, but I’m sure as hell not dead.”
“I thought you were . . .” He shook his head, then extended his hand. “I’m Ross Wakeman.”
“You’re crazy, is what you are.”
“That too, I guess.” Ross ran a hand through his hair. “I’m a paranormal researcher. Well, I was one, anyway.”
Az shrugged. “You ever find anything?”
Ross paused. “Is there something here to find?”
“Never seen nothing myself. Not here, anyway.”
“But you have, other places?”
Az avoided the question. “You can’t stay. Private property.”
Ross busied himself cleaning up his equipment, taking his sweet time, from the looks of it. “I heard there was a murder here years ago.”
“That’s what they say.”
“You know anything about it?”
Az looked into the pit of the quarry. “It happened before I was a security guard.”
“Right.” Ross lifted the camera bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Sorry about . . . the mistaken identity thing.”
“It’s nothing.” Az started to escort the younger man out. As Ross reached his car, Az curled his hand around the cast-iron gate. “Mr. Wakeman,” he called. “Those spirits you’re looking for? You aren’t far off.”
He went back to the security booth, leaving Ross to wonder if that was a promise or a threat.
Over the next few weeks, the residents of Comtosook came to believe in the unexpected. Mothers would awaken with their throats so full of tears they could not call out to their children. Businessmen catching their reflections in a pane of glass were suddenly unable to recognize their own faces. Young lovers, parked at the Point and twined
Going by his senses, Ross pointed the video to a spot in the quarry that his eyes kept coming back to, although he had no idea if in fact that was where a murder had occurred. He loaded a fresh tape and checked the battery, then sat back to wait.
Suddenly he was blinded by a beacon. “I can explain,” he began.
Whatever Ross was going to say, however, died on his lips as he found himself face-to-face with an ancient man wearing a vintage security guard’s uniform; a man who held so much of the world in his eyes that Ross was certain he was looking at a ghost.
“Who are you?” the man whispered to Az. He was gawking like he’d never seen anyone native before, and frankly, that pissed Az off.
“You’re trespassing,” Az said.
“This used to be your land?”
Sweet Jesus, and they talked about Indians being hooked on peyote. Granted, Az was old, and he was rigged out in a security guard’s uniform he’d owned for twenty-five years now, but still . . . The guy looked normal enough—maybe even had a little Abenaki blood, what with that long, dark hair. It was enough to make Az feel pity for him, anyway. “Look, tell you what. You pack up whatever it is you’re doing and get out, and I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”
The man nodded, and then lunged forward in an attempt to touch him. Startled, Az drew away and pulled his billy club.
“Please! I just . . . I just want to ask you a few questions.”
Christ . Az was going to miss the whole seventh inning, at this rate.
“Do you live here?”
“No, and I don’t have a teepee either, if that’s next on the list.” Az grabbed his arm. “Now shut that thing off and—”
“You can touch me . . . ?”
“I can beat the crap out of you, too, if you keep this up,” Az said. “The Red Sox are tied with the Yankees, though, so it’s going to be fast.”
The intruder—well, he faded—that was the only word for it. It was the same thing Az had seen over and over sitting at the deathbed of a friend; that light that made a person what he was, suddenly snuffing out. “The Red Sox,” the man murmured. “Then you’re not a ghost.”
“I may be old, but I’m sure as hell not dead.”
“I thought you were . . .” He shook his head, then extended his hand. “I’m Ross Wakeman.”
“You’re crazy, is what you are.”
“That too, I guess.” Ross ran a hand through his hair. “I’m a paranormal researcher. Well, I was one, anyway.”
Az shrugged. “You ever find anything?”
Ross paused. “Is there something here to find?”
“Never seen nothing myself. Not here, anyway.”
“But you have, other places?”
Az avoided the question. “You can’t stay. Private property.”
Ross busied himself cleaning up his equipment, taking his sweet time, from the looks of it. “I heard there was a murder here years ago.”
“That’s what they say.”
“You know anything about it?”
Az looked into the pit of the quarry. “It happened before I was a security guard.”
“Right.” Ross lifted the camera bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Sorry about . . . the mistaken identity thing.”
“It’s nothing.” Az started to escort the younger man out. As Ross reached his car, Az curled his hand around the cast-iron gate. “Mr. Wakeman,” he called. “Those spirits you’re looking for? You aren’t far off.”
He went back to the security booth, leaving Ross to wonder if that was a promise or a threat.
Over the next few weeks, the residents of Comtosook came to believe in the unexpected. Mothers would awaken with their throats so full of tears they could not call out to their children. Businessmen catching their reflections in a pane of glass were suddenly unable to recognize their own faces. Young lovers, parked at the Point and twined
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