Music blares from a Volkswagen Beetle as it turns into the cemetery. Its lights illuminate the three ghosts, and it drives right into them without hesitation. For a moment, the spirits disappear. Once the car passes through, its rear lights bathe them in a red glow. As it continues onward, the light diminishes until the specters disappear into the shadows.
Paige’s phone vibrates, and she checks the screen. “He says he’s inside already.”
As she talks, I stare at the cemetery gates. “Is there another way, around the cemetery?” I ask. Paige unbuckles her seat belt. “What are you doing?”
“It’s only a mile from here.”
“You can’t go alone.”
She opens the car door. “I’ll be fine,” she says with absolutely no confidence. She slowly steps out.
“Paige, get back in here! It’s too dangerous!” It was never my intention to let Paige go in there alone. I was supposed to be by her side the whole time.
She ignores me and walks toward the cemetery. I get out on my side and only take a few steps before stopping. I sense a force field around the cemetery, repelling me. The ghosts watch me, waiting.
“Be careful,” I call. She stops, suddenly looking afraid.
“At the rave,” I clarify. “Be careful at the rave.”
She nods. “I’ve got my Taser. I’ll be fine.” Paige stands at the gate, not crossing the threshold. She turns back to me and takes a deep breath. Like a sprinter at the starting gun, she bolts into the cemetery and past the ghosts. I can still hear the echo of her heels long after she disappears into the darkness.
The dull bass of electronic music thumps in the distance. Above the trees, a soft glow warms from the event the sky just over the horizon. The rave must be closer than I thought.
After an hour, I start to get hungry. Luckily, I always keep snacks in my car. It’s an important life lesson I learned from several all-night stakeouts and the time I got stuck in a SigAlert on I-5 that shut down traffic for two hours.
I open the rear hatch and find some crackers. As I’m sitting on the hood of my car, enjoying my saltine snack and a bottle of water, I notice more headlights coming up the road. I’m curious about who the latecomers are, so I pay close attention. Then I notice red and blue sweeping lights. Police cars. A lot of them.
This can’t be good. I reach into my pocket, pull out my wallet—no reason to wait until the last minute—and use a hands-free earbud to start calling Paige.
One by one, police cruisers and SUVs stream past me and into the cemetery. Near the end of the line, a cruiser pulls up to me and shines its directional light in my face. I hold up my private investigator license before I’m even asked.
“Private investigator! I’m the one that called it in!” I shout, trusting that my confident lie will buy me a free pass. Without a word, the cruiser turns away and follows the convoy into the cemetery.
Paige’s phone goes to voicemail—not surprising, since she’s at a rave. I try texting her: Cops on the way! Run!
Sirens blare from inside, and I can see the glow of police lights swirling from past the cemetery. I try to ignore the ghosts who follow me as I walk down the road to find a better angle to look. The dull bass from the music stops. Too many moments pass, and I consider running inside.
Now, I know I said I cannot enter hallowed grounds… but that’s not entirely true. I can, but the experience is excruciating. I once made the mistake of riding in a car that drove onto a cemetery a few years ago. I felt like I’d entered an activated microwave oven. My skin started to burn, and it was like I was being cooked from the inside out.
That was the last time. My concern for Paige is overwhelming, and I think about making the attempt again. Or I could drive through. That might be faster. Hopefully, I wouldn’t lose control of my car and crash into a tree.
Headlights appear from deep within the cemetery. Moments later, dozens of cars race through the cemetery, not just on roads but across the grass and over the flush markers on the ground as well. Car engines rev, and then footsteps thunder as hundreds of silhouettes stampede out of the cemetery and onto the country road.
Reaching through my driver’s-side window, I turn the lights on. The three ghosts are still there. Trying to ignore them, I look past among the fleeing partygoers. There’s no sign of Paige among the masses.
“Paige!” I call into the cemetery. “Paige!”
“Darcy!”
Turning, I see Paige emerging from the shadows deep inside the cemetery. She runs, pointing farther in, where I spot a figure in a black hoodie dashing down another knoll. He narrowly misses getting hit by a car that skids on the grass.
I waffle. Run or drive? Run or drive? With every second I debate, he’s getting farther away. I decide to run.
My feet pound on the asphalt, and I sprint down the street. Cars speed past me now, trying to get away. I round the corner and head around the bottom edge of the cemetery. The hooded figure emerges from the grounds. He races across the street and into a field on the other side. I close the gap fast.
Then I biff it on a ditch and slide face-first into the ground. I hear footsteps behind me, and Paige zooms past me. Her strides are long and quick, and I mutter an insult because she’s running effortlessly in heels.
I push myself up and follow her onto the nearby field. The dirt is uneven, so I keep stumbling. My effort is unnecessary, though. With Paige’s speed and stamina, the subject is no match her, and she delivers a flying leap and tackles him to the ground.
When
