San Francisco
“Are you on welfare?”
In the middle of adjusting the optical zoom on his digital camcorder, Scott looked up to see a chubby, frecklefaced, ginger-haired boy of about eight or nine hovering in the doorway of the guest bedroom. “Sorry?” he asked.
The boy entered the room and went straight for Scott’s camera. “Granddad says anyone who isn’t at work during the day is a bum on welfare.” He pressed his fingers against the LCD screen and began twisting the lens.
Scott gently removed the boy’s hands from his expensive equipment and tried not to grimace at how sticky the fingers were. “Cody…right? Your grandmother asked me to check out the strange noises she’s been hearing in the walls.”
Cody stuck one of his sticky fingers into a nostril and began digging. “That doesn’t sound like a real job.”
Scott shuddered and looked away from Cody’s nasal excavation. “Now you sound like my father.”
When Scott informed his family he was quitting his job as stockbroker to pursue his passion full-time, his father, Garrison Wilder II, had been somewhere between infuriated and deranged. Garrison refused to tell his friends and colleagues that his namesake, Garrison “Scott” Wilder III, was now a full-fledged ghost hunter.
Scott’s response was to inform his father that his correct title was paranormal investigator. The term ghost hunter conjured up an image of a sunburned, straw-haired Australian, dressed in khaki shirt, matching shorts, and brown boots, stomping through a haunted house shouting, “Crikey! Ghosts rule!”
Scott’s father failed to see the difference.
Scott’s mother was a bit more understanding. She’d been the one to tuck her young son in bed at night, gently stroking his brow and removing the book he’d fallen asleep reading. Books with titles like Decapitated Spirits: The Ghosts of Windsor Castle and Violent Deaths: Why Ghosts Demand Revenge.
Meanwhile, Scott’s younger brother, Ethan, was off skiing in Zermatt with his fiancée and could not be reached for comment.
At thirty-four, Scott looked like a typical Wilder male. He possessed the classic Wilder attributes: dark hair, dark eyes, strong white teeth, height, and a shrewd financial instinct. From what he’d learned, none of his predecessors, however, had ever possessed the slightest interest in the paranormal.
“Spookology,” his father called it.
“Granddad says people who don’t work are degenerates and drug addicts,” Cody said, reaching for the camera again.
Scott intercepted him with a look, and Cody reluctantly pulled his hand back.
Wondering why the boy wasn’t deep-frying his brains in front of the television like other kids his age, Scott double-checked that the camera was mounted securely in the corner. From that angle, the entire room was visible. Hidden Dolby speakers on either side of the camcorder would pick up the slightest noise. He intended to leave the machine on until the following morning. All his cameras came with a night shot infrared system that could capture any image in total darkness, smoke, or fog.
He had one more camera to set up. Case in hand, he ushered Cody out of the room, shut the door, and took the stairs up to the attic at a sprint, confident the pudgy boy would be slow in following. Other than nose picking, Cody didn’t seem to get much exercise.
The attic door was stuck. As in many old houses, the wood had a tendency to swell. He had to push against the door several times to open it.
The room was filled with old furniture draped in white cloth. Sunbeams slanted through the dusty window. Carefully, Scott set his camera case on the floor and pulled out a slim black machine about the size of a Palm Pilot—his EMF (electromagnetic frequency) meter.
Large fluctuations in electromagnetic fields occurred in areas where paranormal activity took place.
Sweeping the instrument in an arc around the room, he checked the readings.
A tingling began at the base of his spine.
He had already double-checked the neighborhood for power lines, underground metal deposits, and anything that could possibly account for unusual levels of electromagnetic energy, but he’d discovered nothing out of the ordinary.
Which meant that the high fluctuation in electromagnetic frequency the meter was picking up now originated in the attic.
Excitement welled inside him. However, since Wilders were not prone to excessive enthusiasm (exhibiting such emotion was considered bad form), Scott merely allowed himself a small smile.
The door burst open and Cody stomped into the room, cheeks flushed, breathing pronounced. Out of curiosity, Scott aimed the meter at the boy, but the readings were normal. So Cody wasn’t the spawn of Satan.
Scott had to check.
Cody continued to wheeze. “I’ve…heard,” he gasped, “some of the…strange noises too.”
A second witness to paranormal phenomena?
Any spookologist worth his salt would want to know more.
“You have? Describe the sounds for me,” Scott asked.
Cody stepped up to the wall, curled his hand into a fist, and started knocking. Then he curved his fingers into the plaster and began scraping the wall. Obviously enjoying himself, Cody changed from scraping to banging. Scott winced.
Despite the boy’s unnecessary roughness, he knew the re-creation was accurate. The sounds of hollow knocking and loud scratching, as if someone were trying to claw his way out from behind the wall, were classic signs of a haunting. Parapsychology 101.
Cody continued banging on the wall. “You can stop now,” Scott said. Cody ignored him and added kicking to his repertoire.
Scott checked the EMF meter again, just to make sure Cody hadn’t scared away a possible spirit.
The readings were still high.
The kicking and banging stopped. “Do you feel that?” Cody whispered.
The cold descended upon them.
Then came the goose bumps.
Each of the soft hairs on the back of Scott’s neck quivered and stood on end.
Friends and relatives frequently teased Scott, asking if he spent all his time in dusty old attics, chasing Casper.
He looked down at the EMF meter. The machine confirmed what he already knew.
Casper was here.