Amanda

 

 

“Is anybody there? What’s your name? Do you mind telling us?”

 

The worst part of ghost hunting is that it requires an awful lot more patience than you can ever afford to let on to your viewers. They don’t want to know the time and effort you put in for those thousands of likes, the monetization, and the Patreons. But getting them proof of ghosts sometimes means spending my Halloween alone somewhere dusty, drafty, and dark, where central heating stopped being a thing three decades ago.

 

I’m filming myself doing EVP recordings. Ghosts seem to be able to manipulate electromagnetic fields, including electronic and magnetic media, and cause it to record their voices. So I give them prompts and an open sound recorder to talk into.

 

I usually record in shifts all night—three hours on, a few hours off to explore, then reset and change venues for the equipment, and another three hours of EVP. I then enhance nothing but the volume for my viewers, playing the interesting bits back at a lower speed in case they don’t catch those fleeting whispers.

 

In the years since I started doing this, I have caught a lot of pretty convincing things. The only problem is, I’m working surrounded by city noise pollution, even in the middle of the night. So, I’m a long way from proving I’ve heard anything that I can say beyond the shadow of a doubt has a supernatural origin.

 

That’s the problem with ghost hunting. To be taken seriously and provide anything resembling a consistent, scientific approach to investigation, we always have to be skeptical. Even to the point of constantly second-guessing our own work. But better that than ending up trapped in the pitfall of gullibility, or of believing one’s own hype.

 

Belief that evidence of the existence of ghosts can be captured with enough diligent work doesn’t equate to blind faith that every creak and cold draft is the work of a spirit. There are always other explanations, and I acknowledge them. I’m popular long term because I’m providing the evidence I find as I go along, as well as being user-friendly and a touch sensational.

 

The fact that a cute, thick girl with a friendly, perky attitude is doing the delivery probably helps as well. But the real stars are the ghosts—when I can get them to come out and play, that is.

 

I have the FLIR and a regular camera focused on me and the psych nurse’s desk behind me, and another focused toward the connecting hallway around the corner. I always record myself on video from a few angles while doing EVP recordings. Nine times out of ten, it’s while I’m sitting there trying to do them that any poltergeist activity, orbs, light streaks, or other phenomena will kick in.

 

But that means that I have to keep my manner, as well as my voice, calm and cheerful—for the ghosts and my audience—the entire time. I must also always be polite, even though the entities in this place may include a spree killer—or the demon that inhabited him. “This is Amanda. I was here a couple of weeks ago. Thought I’d come visit you guys again. I have the mic going. If you have anything to say, please do.”

 

I have to leave big empty spaces of silence between each question because I can’t actually hear the ghosts answer. Their voices are too quiet, even if they could register to my ears. I only know later if I have gotten anything. I end up having to spend hours sitting there, having a one-sided conversation and keeping faith that someone or something is talking back.

 

The EVP recordings I’ve captured in the past are all short phrases; usually single words, not always answering the question I asked. They always have this weird intonation, as if they’re only an approximation of a human voice. Some of them sound like a piece cut out of a longer conversation, while others are metallic, flat, or hollow—or buzzy, like a computer generated them.

 

“Fred here.”

 

“I’m still cold.”

 

“...nicer than the last...”

 

“Number four. Four. Four.”

 

“He’ll hurt you. Sorry.”

 

Every time I hear a good one for the first time, the hair on the back of my neck goes up with a mix of terror and glee. Once I calm down, I go back over them again, doing my best to be objective. I take a lot of trouble to screen them and eliminate false positives before showing them to my viewers.

 

I finish my first three-hour recording session and turn off the recorder and cameras, sighing and stretching. I grab a snack bar out of my bag and go over to the workstation I have set up at the nurses’ counter. Booting up my laptop, I start working on processing the audio I have taken so far. I’ll check the cameras next.

 

I munch and take sips from one of my water bottles as I get the program booted up. Its window opens promptly—bare bones, just some text and the oscilloscope graphic below, which vibrates every time there’s even a hint of noise. It only takes me a minute to transfer the files from the camera to my laptop and get the first one running.

 

I keep it turned to a normal volume at first, double checking the spaces between my questions and prompts to try and hear any faint sounds, or see the slightest vibration of the lines on my laptop screen. All I can think of right now is getting a good, convincing, exciting catch for my viewers to go along with the rolling gurney.

 

I can’t hear what’s causing it, but I definitely see the line wavering in spots between my questions. Sometimes in rhythmic patterns, sometimes at length, sometimes in short bursts. There’s no logic to it. Wondering what the hell is going on, I put my headphones on, isolate one of the quiet sections, and enhance it.

 

“Cunt!”

 

It’s a single word, whispered very clearly in what sounds like a young male voice. It has depth, expression, and barely any distortion; it sounds, in short, too human. Sometimes it snickers a little, but otherwise it repeats that same word in different ways for almost a minute.

 

“Cunt cunt cunt cunt. Cuntcuntcunt. Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuunt.” And childish snickering.

 

My eyebrows creep toward my hairline. What the hell?

 

I check some of the other spaces between my prompts. It’s the same voice, just a lot of swearing, mocking and insults, mostly based around that one word. What he says gets noisier and gains variety as it goes on, as if the speaker is getting bored of his own stupidity.

 

“Cunt cunt dried up cunt bitch stupid bitch thinks she’s gonna make a comeback show but thanks to me it’s gonna blow la la la you’ve been working for hours for nothing stupid biiiiitch!”

 

It doesn’t take me long to figure out what’s going on, and it makes my cheeks burn with anger. My fists clench. Chad. Somehow, he’s either planted a transmitter in this room, or...he’s very close.

 

Heart beating hard from anger, I take off my headphones and move as quietly as I can around the room, shining my tactical flashlight around, looking for gleams from hidden electronics. I don’t see any...but my eye is drawn to the open heating duct on the nearby wall. It leads straight up and down inside the wall, opening onto every floor.

 

I crouch near it and listen hard, my eyes narrowing. There’s part of me—a small, sad, disappointed part—that hopes that this is not what I think it is. But I’m a big girl, and though it saddens the romantic in me, I’m not surprised when I hear soft snickering coming from below me.

 

Oh, fuck you. I grab my cell phone and my flashlight, move quietly over to the doorway, and step outside into the cavernous, drafty hallway. I know where the spots on the stairs are that creak, and avoid them on my way down to kick some serious ass.

 

I smell pot on my way down the stairs and my scowl turns into a smirk. This idiot has been down here getting high for hours, probably freezing his skinny ass off as he smokes through his stash and slowly loses focus as he tries to ruin my EVPs. And maybe he has managed to ruin some of them, but in return, he just handed me comedy gold—and even more material for my comeback.

 

Recording video on my phone just like old times, I whisper into my phone. “Okay, guys, I was in the middle of recording EVPs when I found out that I’m not alone in here. And I’m not talking a squatter or a stalker, or a ghost. Nope.”

 

My voice is still perky. Still unsinkable. “So someone decided he would show up and whisper up through the old heating ducts so he could mess up hours of my EVP recordings. Guys, who do we know who might try something like that?”

 

I hurry quietly to the examination room below the area where I had been taping, the smell of pot leading me like a beacon. Once I get close I can even see a dim light coming from inside. My anger comes back, but I hide it behind a firm smile as I advance on the room.

 

I step inside and see the huddled figure leaning against the wall at one side of the heating grate. He’s starting to whisper into it again when I shine the light on him. “Busted!”

 

The scared-little-boy look of horror on his face as he tries to cringe out of the circle of light thrown by my flashlight is the same one he wore when I caught his ass in bed with Barbara. In its own way, it’s as satisfying as it is outrageous. “Well damn, Chad, just when I thought you couldn’t get douchier than fucking my roommate and trying to get my channel taken down, here you are, trying to fuck up my comeback video too.”

 

“I was just—I was...” He stammers, shielding his dull hazel eyes with a hand. His dark brown hair is stiff with gel, and he’s still dressed like a skater even though he can’t board worth a damn. I can smell that scent that is uniquely Chad—a combination of pot, cheap cologne, and unwashed socks. It’s so strong I would be able to smell it from across the room.

 

“I know what you were doing, dude. I’ve got your voice on tape with a timestamp. It will hold up in court, if the owner decides to press charges on you for trespassing.” I’m still recording as he paces back and forth along the wall like a trapped animal.

 

“Trespassing? You’re crazy! Even the guard knows I’m with you!”

 

“Nope. He knows you’re not part of my team anymore.” I use the term deliberately. I could break this boy like a twig in a fight, but he’s just the kind of coward to get belligerent if he thinks I’m here alone. My headache’s bad enough already, so I bluff.

 

He looks up and around nervously. “You’re not here alone?”

 

I don’t know what causes it, but immediately after he says that we both hear a soft thud and creak upstairs. Light, stealthy sounds, like those of a cat jumping in through the window could make. But they do sound a bit like footsteps.

 

He looks up in alarm. “What the fuck, did you move on so fucking fast, you slut? Who is he?”

 

I keep making shit up because I don’t have a choice. “My new camera guy, you mean. So, Chad the giant manwhore who has been through three girls so far since me—in a month—while I haven’t even dated, is jealous? Chad the master projectionist?” I say sarcastically as I advance on him slowly, and he backs away from me.

 

“Hey, whoa, come on, no need to get salty.” He laughs nervously. “I just get jealous because this...all this...used to be ours. This project was our baby.”

 

His fake sincerity makes me sick. I can’t believe that I ever fell for it before.

 

“No, jackass, this project is my baby. I started it, I have always put in the bulk of the work, and your lazy butt got kicked to the curb a month ago. And everybody knows that.” I get a good shot of his very nervous expression. “Now get out. And don’t bother me or my viewers again.”

 

I record him scurrying out of the room, and chase him down the hall with the camera while he glances back and swears. “Stop fucking filming!” he yells, knowing how many of his former fans will be laughing at him now. “Stop it! Oh come on, Amanda! Don’t be a bitch!”

 

“Couldn’t be a bigger bitch than you!” I call cheerily as I chase him all the way out the front door. The last I see of him, he’s running down the hill toward the front gate. I film him the whole way, and then turn the phone to my own laughing face.

 

I stop filming and shove my phone in my pocket, walking back inside slowly while the smile drops off my face. I’m angry, sad, and God help me, so fucking lonely that I’m swallowing back tears as I make my way back up the stairs. It’s hard as hell to get over the biggest romantic mistake of your life when he won’t leave you alone.

 

“Fuck,” I mumble. My head is pounding with the effort not to cry. I’m wearing professional quality fixative on my makeup so I don’t have to worry about crying it off when I have to be on camera, but it’s the principle of the thing. I don’t want to shed any more tears because of Chad.

 

Chad is a lot of things besides a cheating, perpetual child. He lies constantly, hates any kind of responsibility, makes a mess, forgets things, likes drugs and booze way too much, and God, he is a disaster in bed.

 

A softboy uses foreplay as a weapon, using just enough to get you hot and bothered and then forgetting about everything but rooting around in your cunt once his dick is out. He leaves you half-done, maybe a little sore from his perfunctory fumbling, and the boredom and frustration sets in soon enough after that.

 

Chad, fortunately, rarely lasted more than a couple of minutes, and his dick isn’t big enough to leave anyone sore. But he always acted like something was wrong with me when his half-assed fucking never got me off. That’s when I learned that “frigid” is a word that scumbag men use to shift blame for their inadequacy in the sack.

 

I’m so distracted by fighting with my emotions that I forget for a moment about the soft sounds that I’d heard upstairs. When I walk in through the door, I freeze in place as I see a tall black figure with a bulbous head crouched on the floor across the room. It takes everything I have not to scream aloud.