“Call for backup,” Nico says. The uniform we’re all wearing makes me look like a kid playing dress up, but he looks so professional and capable that I can barely remember how to string words together looking at him. “Under no circumstances do you engage alone.”
“And if backup doesn’t arrive in time?” I ask.
“Run,” he tells me, and I swallow hard to get down the lump in my throat. “Your lives matter more than catching him today.”
Griffin plays theGreasesoundtrack on the ride to Pittsburgh, and we sing along. When he switches to country, I groan but end up knowing more Toby Keith than I expected. Between songs, Griffin tells me about Montana, about mountains that make Pennsylvania look flat, and about his four younger sisters whostill live there and send him care packages with homemade elk jerky that he swears is better than anything you can buy.
“Do they know you hunt ghosts for a living?” I ask during a lull between songs.
“Nah,” he says. “They think I’m with a private investigation company. I tell them it’s mostly paperwork and surveillance, which isn’t totally wrong—we do a lot of both.”
The singing dies out as we hit Pittsburgh, giving way to the kind of silence that presses down like a physical thing. I stare out of the window at the gray buildings sliding past, my hands twisting together in my lap as I mentally prepare to talk to the first man on our list: Michael Jensen.
Michael Jensen turns out to be the human embodiment of a country song so sad it makes you want to kill yourself. He’s recently divorced, lives alone in a house filled with boxes his ex-wife still hasn’t picked up, and is nursing what I’m pretty sure is a mild hangover, but nothing more sinister.
Wearing earplugs is more disorienting than I thought. Every word sounds like it’s coming through three feet of cotton, and I find myself inching forward, squinting as if that’ll somehow help my ears work better. I completely miss the first question Jensen asks, and Griffin has to cover for me with some comment about me being new. I hate that these plugs are cutting me off from the one thing I’m actually good at, but walking into situations without any protection or understanding of my ability is how I ended up feeling someone else’s teeth getting ripped out.
“No energy came up on the readings,” Griffin says, climbing back into the truck. I yank the plugs out of my ears, and his voice goes back to full volume: “Jensen’s not our guy.”
I rub my ears and motion to the scanner jammed into the cup holder between us. “Why can’t we just hold that up to someone from the doorway?”
“We wouldn’t risk going into these people’s homes unless it was necessary.” He backs out of the driveway while bracing a hand on the back of my seat. “The scanner won’t get a reading unless it’s very close to whatever surface the energy’s clinging to. It’s better to make direct contact for an accurate reading. It’s like trying to smell if milk’s gone bad. You can’t tell from across the kitchen. Gotta get your nose right up in there.”
“Thank you for that mental image.”
“Just trying to give you a clear picture,” he says. “Human bodies are good at hiding ghosts. Something about the organic matter insulating the energy. Makes it hard for the scanners to detect unless we shove the sensor into their mouth or something—which is hard to explain away under the guise of checking for mold.”
The next man on our list is equally sad. We visit a gambling addict who won’t stop talking about his system for beating the slots, a guy on medical leave for a back injury who’s clearly abusing his pain meds, and a man who looks like he hasn’t eaten or slept since his wife died two months ago.
For lunch, we grab burritos, and I shovel mine into my mouth so fast I barely taste it.
Number five on our list is Edward Mathis. Thirty-nine. A taxi driver whose neighbors called police three times in the past two weeks reporting loud banging noises coming from his apartment.
“Says here he just got fired from his job after he stopped showing up,” Griffin says as we pull up to a run-down apartment complex. “He lives alone. Is single. Matches the profile.”
I’m unable to resist. “So do all the people on the list. Them matching the profile is why they’re on the list.”
Griffin gives me the finger.
“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” I joke.
CHAPTER 25
The eyes are the only gateway through which an entity can establish a direct neural connection. An entity must hold a person’s gaze long enough to force entry, which is more difficult when a person can’t see what they’re looking at.
Type One individuals are the exception. Where normal people have one entry point, Type One seers have many, and learning how to build mental barriers is necessary for them to protect themselves.
—Methods of Modern Ghost Hunting: A Tactical Guide to Containing and Vanquishing the Deadby Donald Dellman
The apartment complex is a three-story brick building with fire escapes zigzagging down the facade. Half the windows have AC units precariously balanced on their sills, and the other half are covered with cheap blinds or bedsheets.
“Apartment 3C,” Griffin says, checking the paper as we enter the building. The lobby smells like cabbage and cigarettes.
The elevator is out of service, so we take the stairs. As we step onto floor three and walk down the hallway, something sour makes my nose curl.
“You smell that?” I whisper.
Griffin nods. “Could be nothing.”
