She examined the camera closely. “You’re sure the night vision works well?”
“Positive,” I said. “I used to use this to record raccoons in my backyard at night. Always worked very well.”
“Perfect.” She weighed the camera in her hand. “This’ll work. If we ever do this again, I should have a digital one. My parents said they would buy me a new camcorder for Christmas.” She pulled me into a hug, the scent of her Sweet Pea bodywash hitting my nose. “Thanks for coming, Lace.”
I hugged her back with a chuckle. “Are you kidding? This is going to be so fun. I’ve never ghost hunted before.”
The cabin we were at had multiple Reddit threads discussing how haunted it was. One guy even claimed that he entered it one evening, was in there for five minutes max, but it was daylight when he exited—and three days later. August said that story was probably bullshit, but the ones claiming sightings of apparitions, unexplained cold spots, and whispering voices were likely real. She knew more about this subject matter than I did, as she spent a lot of her time watching YouTube videos and reading books and online articles about ghosts, hauntings, and the occult.
She guided me inside the cabin and handed me a flashlight. My nose wrinkled at the overwhelming smell of mildew as I swept my light around the room. It was surprisingly well structured for an abandoned cabin in the woods. From the outside, it appeared ready to collapse, but the inside seemed solid. Dusty, dirty, and filled with bugs galore, but solid. And smelly.
I swung the light back to August to find her staring at me, icy blue eyes narrowed.
“What?” I asked.
“What’s that bruise from?”
“Bruise?” I repeated innocently.
The beam of her flashlight hit my face, making me squint, before she pulled it away. “The massive one on your chin.”
I blinked in an attempt to regain the sight she stole from me. “Oh. That.” My fingers went to the bruise involuntarily. “Brittany Anderson tripped me today. I was walking down the hall with my hands full, and she stuck her foot out.” I lightlytapped the bruise. “This is from my American History textbook.”
August pursed her lips. “Brittany Anderson is such a bully.”
I corrected, “She’s a bitch.” I grimaced before I told her what happened next. “I was pissed off, obviously, so at lunch I went out planning to slash her car tires. The vice principal caught me with my dad’s pocket knife against the tire before I could pierce it.”
August’s shoulders slumped. “That’s why you weren’t at lunch?Ugh, you know that is not how you’re supposed to solve your problems. It’s better than using your fists, but?—”
Cutting her off, I said, “I know, I know. And, well, I’ve been suspended for a week, which, weirdly enough, my mom was not too jazzed about.”
“Suspended? Lace…”
My head hung. “It was a bad idea. I know.”
August toyed with one of her braids. She was never one to tell me not to act the way I acted, but she often liked to suggest that I learn to take my anger out in more constructive ways. Like sports, crafting, or interpretive dance. None of those were good suggestions.
I learned to control the anger, a little, but still desired to solve problems in waysIfound more constructive. Often somewhat violent ways. It was what I used to do back in elementary school. And in early middle school. And, okay, I punched this guy freshman year because he grabbed August’s ass at a party. However, I’d moved past that. I knew how to handle my anger, and it was not with hostility. It was by shoving it all down deep and letting it tear away at my insides until I couldn’t stand itanymore and exploded. And, well, when I was tripped, the fuse was lit.
“It’s only one week,” I assured her. “Anyway, aren’t we here to search for some evil spirits?” I switched on the camera and pointed it at her face, making an, “Ooooo,” sound.
She shoved the camera away with a smile. “Not evil spirits. Just normal spirits.” August knelt on the ground to search through her bag. I pointed the camera back at her as she pulled out several candles, setting them down in a line before herself.
Without her having to ask, I tossed her the silver lighter always in my pocket. It wasn’t for personal use. The lighter was my dad’s, and I liked to keep it on me. A reminder of what killed him, in a sense. Lung cancer. Too many cigarettes. Whatever you wanted to blame.
She lit the candles one by one.
“Calling on anyone dead,” I prodded, scanning the room like I was expecting Patrick Swayze to pop out and say hello.
“Shush,” August scolded. “Be nice to them. Watch me.”
I walked around her so I could focus the camera on her face.
“Hi,” she started. “My name is August. Is there anyone here with us right now?”
I held my breath to make it easier to hear the slightest of sounds—but nothing happened. “Damn,” I said.
“Don’t give up,” she urged before she tried again. “If anyone is here, I’d love to talk.”
