Uhh, second chapter... (feels meek)

Oh, and I forgot to mention something in the first chapter: I'm setting this story in the time when singers were booed off of their stages when they either wore too little or danced too wickedly. :/

Disclaimer: I own everything! YAY!!!

--Sanded Silk--

She was glad to get a whole day of solitude right after the drastically memorable night. They were traveling to the city where their next concert would be. For the whole day, she was packed in her velvet-lined box, and was either on an airplane, on a car, or in some stage equipment pile.

When night finally crawled over their heads with its velvety black fingers, she was carried into the concert hall--the floors were clean, thank God--and was taken out of her case. For a few minutes, she stood on the stage somewhere behind one of the thick black curtains. Then, she was hauled out into the center of the stage and plunked into place. She stood facing the empty chairs, then shifted her gaze to watch reverently as the stage crew scrubbed laboriously--and in vain--at the hardwood flooring.

James walked in abruptly and sat down in a random chair on the stage, reading a newspaper. "Yo, Allan," He called as his guitarist walked by, and waved his hand for Allan to go to where he was. Allan returned his greeting, paused to check for dark half-moons under his friend's eyes, and walked over to look at what Allan was thrusting into his face. Allan took one look at the headline, and his expression deflated.

"How did I know this was coming?" Allan sighed, and pulled up a chair to fold his skin and bones into, sitting with his back facing the mic stand. He took the newspaper into his hands, holding it up to his face to read the passage in more detail. The mic stand caught a glimpse of the headline. It read something to this effect: "JAMES AARESON GRINDS WITH MIC STAND: RIVALS SCANDALIZED".

She deflated too--though not physically, because she was, after all, a rigid mic stand--and looked up to see more of Allan's sharp shoulder blades making bumps in his thin t-shirt than she wanted as he handed the newspaper back to James and sighed, bending forward to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face into his hands.

"I saw this coming," Allan muttered into his hands. James nodded absently. He held the newspaper in his hand for a moment, then looked up sharply to stare at the mic stand.

She started--did he see?--and looked away just as sharply. She didn't dare shift in her base to face the empty hall, in case he somehow saw the movement, and was forced to endure his intense stare as she meticulously counted boards in the floor.

Finally, he spoke, but without breaking his stare at her. "You know," He said to Allan slowly, "I swear that when I was...well, when I was touching the mic stand, it...sort of...shivered."

Allan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Honestly, could this day get any worse? "Mic stands don't shiver, James. I think that even someone like you, who hasn't gone to more than four years of school in your entire life, would know so much."

"Yes, I do know for a fact that mic stands do not move." James sighed, frustrated, and his gaze broke from the mic stand--to her immense relief--to settle on Allan. "But on that stage, when I was performing, when I had that mic stand...uh, up against me...it moved. I swear it made some sort of shiver."

"It was the intensity of the performance," Allan said with conviction. "You were getting caught up in the excitement of the crowd--their cheering was getting to you--of course your senses would be blown off a bit."

"...I guess." James looked frowned, unconvinced, and his gaze returned to the mic stand, staring at her quizzically but steadily.

After a pregnant pause, a shuffling stage worker sidled up to Allan, all nerves and stutters. "Um, s-sir. Y-Y-Your guitar...it m-might have b-broken on the trip h-h-here--"

Allan leapt to his feet, and the chair behind him did a neat flip onto its back, a hairline crack appearing in the wooden backing. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME EARLIER??" He roared, the veins popping out in a terrifying--but aesthetically beautiful--pattern on his neck. He shoved everyone in his way into the nearest wall as he stormed, cursing, off the stage to the storage area. The stuttery stage worker scurried after him at a safe distance, apologizing to the victims of being aimed at a wall as he passed through the throng of slightly ruffled stage workers and musicians.

James didn't look away from the mic stand for one second as Allan caused the minor brouhaha. He didn't even twitch a muscle.

Which was why he jumped three feet into the air when Lucera Stone, the creepy keyboardist with a halo of curly bright red hair tied down with a black cloth headband, materialized behind him and whispered "boo" into his ear.

Lucera waited patiently as James clutched his heart, gasping. When his ragged breaths seemed to become more and more even, Lucera sat down in the chair Allan had inhabited a few peaceful minutes ago.

"I read about your little loss-of-control moment onstage," Lucera said quietly, smiling at the newspaper lying haphazardly on the ground. "I also witnessed it first-hand."

"And why are you telling me this?" James inquired, almost sarcastically.

"Well, I also overheard your conversation with Allan a few moments ago. The part about the microphone stand shivering."

James snickered. "Why, do you believe me?"

"Yes."

"...What?"

"Hm," Lucera hummed, leaning back and crossing her legs, looking pleased that she had the mighty-and-famous James Aareson gaping stupidly at her. "It looks like I'll have to start from the very beginning."

"The beginning of what?"

"The beginning," Lucera replied simply.

James looked ready to tear out his hair.

"You see, I have a sister who studies the occult--mainly, animism. Actually, she only believes a certain slice of animism. Animism is the belief that all objects, both animate and inanimate, temporarily or permanently have some sort of spirit or soul inhabiting it. My sister believes that inanimate objects can only be temporarily inhabited by a soul or spirit, and that not all inanimate objects are lucky enough to be inhabited. She also believes that, when it chooses to, a soul or spirit in an inanimate object may separate from its host and wander."

James was leaning in, reluctantly interested. "I think I know what you're trying to say, but I can't be sure."

"What I'm saying," Lucera said with an I-know-I've-got-you-befuddled air, "is that I believe your microphone stand is the host of some sort of soul or spirit. It could be a human's soul, or animal's soul, or a spirit that never once inhabited a living body."

James nodded, not sure what to say. "Uh...so, if a soul left an animate object, would it have memory of its time in that host?"

"I think it would, though I'm not sure," Lucera said seriously. "Neither my sister nor I have ever actually encountered a disembodied soul or a spirit. None of my sister's books say anything about the memory of a soul."

"Is there any way I could meet your sister and talk?"

"I was going to suggest that you meet her," Lucera said, smiling, and pulled out a pencil and a scrap of white paper from the pockets of her slick purple vest. "Here is her name and phone number," She said, scribbling something down, and handed the piece of paper to James. Before James could ask anything else, she stood up. "Good luck," She said, smiling faintly, and disappeared into the shadows of the stage.

James looked down into the piece of paper for a moment, and slipped it into his pocket. He patted his pocket good-naturedly, muttered "right" to himself, and left to find and placate Allan.

A/N: Soo...I now that this chapter was a little uneventful, but the next one should be okay. I'm sorry it's taking so long to update; I have the Static Shock story that I'm working on, and I just came back from a vacation to the beach that made me 100% lazier than I was before. :/

Review please!!

--Sanded Silk--