“These are the recordings of ghost voices?” I ask curiously.
“Yes, we can ask questions and then playback to hear any electronic voice phenomena,” he switches it on, and I begin to get slightly nervous. “I will ask questions and wait at least ten seconds in between to allow for a response.”
I nod, unsure he can even see it. I am on edge and excited by both him and the idea of paranormal activity. He starts with his name, location and date before launching into questions.
“Bridget Jacobs, are you here with us?” he asks, pausing. “Why are you here?”
I stay as quiet as I can as I scan with the thermal camera. My breath catches as I feel the air between us tinge with unnatural frigidity. The plunge in temperature sets every hair of my body on end, and I straighten, willing myself not to make a peep. I look at Ian who nods reassuringly at me, indicating that he feels it too but it’s nothing to be worried about.
“Bridget, what do you want?” he asks, his deep voice melodic and rich.
Without warning he stops and starts playback. I hear his voice on the recording and gasp when I hear a gravely but feminine voice answer his first question. “Still here.”
“I don’t know,” it laments at his second question. The sound of its magnetically rendered answers shocks me. Though it’s assisted by a modern device, it feels authentically from the grave, and the eerie feeling of hearing something I can’t see frightens me. I begin to wonder why I agreed to this and hope he at least sees my underwear to make it all worthwhile.
My hands involuntarily ball together and sweat at the playback of his question asking what she wants. The answer is soulful, haunting and clear as day to me.
I can see him shake his head confused, and he skips back and listens again and again.
“What is she saying?” he says aloud finally.
“She wants Erik,” I say, exhaling.
“She answered ‘I want Erik’ to the last question?” he clarifies.
“No, it said that SHE wants Erik,” I say, careful to point out the distinction. As though Bridget were talking about another entity, rather than herself.
“Who is Erik? The gambler who jilted her was named Henry.” He says simply, voice devoid of alarm because he’s used to this.
“I think she’s talking about what someone else wants,” I say quickly, my voice brittle and foreign sounding.
I try to shrug away the fear, rationalizing that the name Erik is a coincidence. My mind wanders back over ten years ago to the last time a supposed entity said it wanted Erik, and I freeze, aided by the icy air still hanging all around us like a cocoon. Why did I come back here?
“Bridget, who wants Erik?” he asks, pausing for longer before stopping and playing it back.
“Katherine knows,” comes the staticy, hollow voice.
I cannot control my gasp at my name, and my mind is racing. Sweat prickles at my hairline, and I feel my heart begin to beat wildly. Ian seems to read my panic as he jumps up and floods the diminutive room with light.
I am both relieved and also afraid of how much my face is giving away, and make a concerted effort to control my breathing and the wild eyed look I’m sure has settled over my countenance.
“Kat, are you ok?” Ian asks as he rushes over, placing himself next to me on the bed and grabbing my hands, which are clammy and balled.
“That was frightening,” I admit after a beat.
“You think she was talking about you?” he asks, staring at me with furrowed brows.
“My name is short for Katherine,” I confirm. “And I know Erik.”
“Is there something else going on, Kat?” he asks, searching my face.
“I…” I mutter, looking away. “I can’t talk about it.”
He looks incredibly curious but nods. “I’m sorry I brought you into this.”
“No,” I say, patting his hands one last time as I pull them away. “Neither of us could have predicted how weird this would get.”
“Let’s go ahead and conclude ghost hunting for the night,” he says with a small smile, as he gets up, flips off the laser grid and turns off the camera.
“No,” I say, starting to rise. “You are here with a job to do. I should go and leave you to it.”
He gently pushes my shoulders down, as he gets on his knees to look me directly in my eyes. How beautiful his sculpted face is, and how reassuring it is. “Kat, I’m here for the better part of a week, I can continue this anytime. Do you really want to be alone right now?”
“No,” I admit. “Do you mind if I stay for awhile?”
“Please do,” he says, laying down. “Can I hold you?”
Without hesitation I crawl next to him, laying my head on his shoulder. I can smell his faint cologne, warmed by his body, and feel the rigid muscles in his arm as he curls it around my shoulder, careful to not graze my breasts. Perfect gentleman, indeed.
My mind is racing, and I can feel the trauma that’s been held at bay for years threatening to overtake me. I desperately try to slow my breathing and instead concentrate on his heart beating rhythmically below my ear. I feel myself calming little by little as we lay there in silence for just the right amount of time.
“Well,” I say finally. “Not my usual first date.”
“But it’s mine,” he says jokingly. “Good ole scare ‘em to snare ‘em.”
I laugh. “And here I am, in your arms.”
“Gets them every time,” he says leaning his head over to kiss the top of my head.
I am relieved that my pulse is back to normal and my breathing is no longer shallow, but in its wake I start to feel the excitement of his proximity. Almost subconsciously my body begins to writhe more into his embrace and I can feel him
