Happy Thanksgiving! Here's an update.

10

"I've come to find the best thing to do when in these seemingly hopeless situations is to distract oneself, which is difficult if all interest and hope has been lost. It's hard to be caught up in something when you feel like you've lost your ability to care. But find something engaging, something out in the sun, perhaps, that can draw you away from your dark thoughts if even for a moment. At the very least it restores a bit of your stamina for dealing with the beast. It doesn't fix things, no, but it does give you a chance to get the rest you need to stand up on your own again."

Naru started the clip over again without us asking. Meanwhile, Lin watched the monitors, hands resting above his mouth.

But it wouldn't rewind to the beginning, where the man appeared. It just showed him climbing over the banister again. Then, he simply slipped off, bounce about by his neck, which had gone rubbery and his head floppy.

The video froze on the image of the banister holding the rope.

A strange, sickening sort of chill shivered in my gut.

"This video probably won't hold for long," said Naru. "Did everyone get that?"

"Th-that's real?" asked Takigawa.

The prof gave him one of his droll stares.

"I don't think anyone could have made that up beforehand. I mean, a disappearing act on you of a whole dangling body?" said Ayako.

"Actually," I said, quite happy to oblige. "You can use the reflection off a pane of glass to project a ghost-like image, then simply turn the glass away to stop the image. We went over that last semester."

That just got us all looking at the prof and Lin.

"Sorry to disappoint you," he said. "But I did not set this up to test you. Nor has Lin. He has little patience for pranks or tricks."

"And, we're supposed to go on your word?" asked Takigawa.

Another droll stare.

"Stop looking at me like that! I'm not an idiot. It's just…come on, why would a ghost do this?"

"It's not why," I said. "Remember? They aren't logic consciousnesses anymore. If anything, their just a kind of energy entity that sometimes effect the energy around them—"

"I know that," he said, for the first time sounding a bit exasperated with me. "But to wipe an entire tape and put this in?"

"It's not a tape," said the prof, and he proceeded to play the clip again. Except, this time, it wouldn't start. When he refreshed it, the recording read on as though nothing had happened, this time with a blank railing and staircase. No dangling body included. "Though I've never seen this kind of sophistry in a ghost before…"

"I woudn't call hanging yourself sophistry," said Ayako blandly.

"There was that one case with the doll," I said, eager to continue showing off that, yes, I did pay attention in class thank you very much.

The prof just nodded. No praise. Of course not. Was I legally insane?

"But that was an inanimate object," he said. "Not a full-blown memory impression. Camera's can't record the past."

"So, you're saying this may or may not have even happened?" asked Takigawa incredulously.

"Correct. It could be a memory, or simply an expression."

"Hanging yourself can only express so much," said Ayako.

"It only expresses pain," said Naru, and his usual flat, dry tone had a strain of something beneath it.

A silence fell between us.

"Did you finish temperatures?" the prof asked Takigawa.

"Yeah…I don't really feel up to going upstairs, though…or looking at any banisters."

Naru nodded. "You can take a short break out of the house if you need to."

Now that sounded weird.

But then he whipped his head to me. "Not you, Mai. We have research to do."

I threw my head back and groaned.

"What about me?" Ayako asked.

"You can do temperature readings in the next hour. Otherwise, I don't care."

Ayako did a bit of a fist pump, then proceeded to go up the stairs as though nothing had happened, and Takigawa hadn't seen someone hanging themselves. The later, still looking a bit pale, gave me a weak smile and asked if there was anything I wanted him to get me.

"Depends on whether I'm on night patrol tonight."

The boss shrugged. "It would give you more experience, but let's try for half a night."

"A Monster then."

Takigawa saluted, I thanked him, and then he was gone too.

The professor stepped back from Lin's chair, laptop in hand. He gestured towards the couch and I followed him there.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting almost close enough to feel his body head against my thigh, with the laptop before us on the table. An extra laptop, used by me while I reviewed what I slept through, still sat there.

"First, we need to record every detail of what we saw before we forget. Then, we're diving into what the owners had been able to find about the history of this place and those who lived here."

I straighten at that, even as I realized my hands hadn't stopped shaking since the vides. But I liked the stories. The stories were what made the ghosts real, not any of the fancy stuff.

So, an afternoon passed like that under the professor's close tutelage. He read over my shoulder as I went through things, then asked me what stood out. Then he'd add on what I should have taken note of and what I should ignore. I caught on quick, and soon I was adding notes of the history to the computer.

"So far, three people are mentioned of hanging themselves on the railings," I said, tapping the space button.

"Twelve of those who have lived here, for any part of their life, died of suicide, whether on or off the lot, we can probably guess by looking at the years of residency."

"At least they have recorded…"

As they had. Every owner or renter of the home had the years and months in which they stayed carefully recorded. The list was impressive, testifying to the long age of the home.

I read over the names, hoping for one of them to pop out to me, and wishing someone had at least kept a diary. But so far, only the older residents had, and they were more of daybooks/logbooks than journals of any depth. If there were any diaries or journals for the others, all the web searching I could do brought up nothing. Seems no one particularly famous to History books had lived here.

When the professor got up to make sure someone was organizing dinner, I was halfway through my third time through all the data with a web browser open on one side.

This was getting nowhere. These people, despite having family and friends, seemed almost as disconnected as me. No one knew their thoughts. They had killed themselves, and nobody cared anymore. But, then, death didn't make people care for you. Actions did. And when you weren't around to do any actions, to bad so sad.

I rubbed my aching eyes. Exhaustion wore on me like a lead blanket.

And I have to keep watch tonight?

I pushed the laptop onto the coffee table and spread out on the sofa, aware of the warm spot where the professor had been. I put an arm over my eyes hoping the pressure might help with the pain and keep out the wisps of red light from the setting sun.

When I opened them, I was still in the house, but it had grown brighter. Someone had turned on the lights, and the house was suffused with a warm glow. Didn't know why they wanted it pitch black in the parlor all the time. It also felt warmer, and I hadn't noticed how cold I was inside. Los Angelos could still get cold too.

But this warmth was beyond just temperature. It reached in deep, soothing me in a way I couldn't remember. It was peace, safety, security.

I sat up slowly. The warmth made it feel okay to take my time.

Except instead of monitors and computers, I saw two people sitting on the couch. They smiled at me as I noticed them. In an instant I recognized them, and couldn't comprehend how I could have ever forgotten.

Mom. Dad.

My mother had blue eyes and the same auburn hair as me. Dad had darker hair and darker eyes, along with the rounded jaw I now possessed. They sat there as though they had been there the entire time, as though they owned the place.

Without hesitation, I dropped all the luggage and guilt I'd carted around and dove into their arms, not caring if I crashed my face on an elbow or split my chin on a knee.

But I fell into their embrace perfectly. Warmth sublime. Ah, so this was what it had been liked to be loved. How had I ever lived without it?

But I didn't start to cry until I caught Mom's scent. All those mornings, the bed I missed so much, came sweeping about me, along with the sense that it would stay now. I wouldn't forget. I could sleep now. Dad was here, and so was Mom. And we had this huge house. We could put as many people as we wanted into it.

Because that's what I suddenly realized I wanted. I wanted a big, beautiful old house like this that I could fill with people who loved me, and I loved them, and bathe in this safe, peaceful warmth until the day I died. In this warmth, food sounded tastier, beds sound comfier—heck, I could even curl up on the carpet and sleep. The lights seemed more gentle, the world a better place, and the future not scary at all. How could it scare me? I had the perfect safe place to return to whenever it got hard.

Because this is what was really held in my parent's arms: the security of knowing I had somewhere to go whenever I felt pain, whenever I was sad, or mad, or made a mistake, or got lonely.

Oh, god. I hadn't even realized. How have I been alive this whole time?

As I breathed in my mother's scent, and my hair stroked by my father, they talked to me. I didn't know what of, but it didn't matter. The silence had vanished and there were voices talking to me, voices that were happy with me. They promised comfy dresses and more fluffy Navajo blankets to cake me with. A new downy pillow to sit beside the old. Stuffed animals. Gentle things. Comforting things. Warm baths and winter nights by a fire. Good food I didn't have to make, made with love, and the knowledge that I wasn't a beast. I wasn't a sociopath. I was just a normal little girl, who was a miracle to somebody's life.

All too suddenly, I woke up.

I didn't want to wake up. I felt I could sleep more, and scrambled on the threads of the dreams to come back, frantic with fear. On the edge of my consciousness was the knowledge it wasn't real, and I wasn't ready to face that. I couldn't.

But, behind my sticky eyelids, only darkness met my gaze.

My throat tightened hard and quick, stealing my breath. My body started to shake, and my chest felt as though it had caved in on itself.

Then, slowly, I opened my eyes.

The pale parlor ceiling met them, lit by the blue-white glow of the monitors. No warmth suffused light. No voices. Just the dark and the quiet, ocean-like waves of traffic.

Tears poured out the minute I opened my eyes. I gasped for breath.

A chair creaked. "Mai?"

Oh. No. Please, let anyone see me besides the Prof. I couldn't handle it if—when he'd see how—no I just—

I put an arm back over my eyes, struggling to choke back the body shuddering sobs I hadn't had to deal with since I was, what, thirteen?

But it couldn't be help. Raw, cold, alone, it was as though I had been betrayed and abandoned naked on the side of the road in the middle of winter. I couldn't live like this, I couldn't—no point—if I had wanted to prevent this, why didn't I…

As another choked gasp escaped me, I heard the prof rise from his chair and stiffened as he drew near, fighting harder than ever to quiet down.

After a few seconds of quiet, I dared to believe he had left the room, and for a brief moment I let the sound escape me. But just as I drew in another breath, I heard him.

"Bad dream?"

I swore and turned onto my side, my back to him.

I couldn't do this.

Not knowing how to face this, I curled in on myself and finally let it go, just let myself cry and hurt. I didn't miss them. No. It wasn't a sudden morning of their death. It was a morning for my future and the great gaping maw of want that had become my soul—and would never be fulfilled. I'd always be wanting. I'd never get a cool old house like this and be able to feel it with people who gave me that connection. I hadn't had that connection since Mom died. I didn't even know how to make one. I couldn't remember how to open up myself in such a way that would warrant such love. I just…who would…how would I ever find anyone…even if I got married I wouldn't be able to be with my husband the entire time, and he could get tired of me and divorce me. There was no way a husband could love like parents, so unconditionally.

Sometime later, I don't know, after I'd started hiccupping from the force of the sobbing, a warm hand grasped my shoulder.

"Here."

For a moment, I considered pretending I hadn't heard anything. But my nose had started to run like a fountain and I couldn't breathe right, so I'd have to sit up eventually, if for nothing else than to clear my sinuses.

Slowly, arms shaking, I sat up and put my feet on the floor. My professor had a cup of tea, and a roll of toilet paper on the coffee table.

A little scared by his thoughtfulness, I took the toilet paper first and blew my face into it—or at least what it felt like.

Then, hesitantly, I took the warm mug of tea. Without needing a clear nose, the first waft of steam that passed my mouth came with the tang of lemon and soothing notes of milk and sugar.

I took a small sip. Warmth melted down my chest.

Meanwhile, my professor just sat on the coffee table, waiting, not saying a word, his precious monitors and mikes neglected. Only when I was halfway through my tea, and probably apparent that I wouldn't talk, he stood up and returned to the computer chair before the monitors. He kept his headphones off, however. I wished he wouldn't. The kind of noises leaking out of me were pathetic.

Only then did I notice the blanket that had pooled onto the floor when I got up. It was the same blanket the professor had used when he supposedly slept on the couch to keep me awake and on the screens.

Even after I calmed down, tears leaked out of my eyes, and I quivered with cold. I couldn't see myself ever being warm or happy again. Had I been happy? Could I really call what I had lived through happy? At least I could take some comfort in the fact that I did have emotions and could cry. Though, at the same time, that I would want a house full of worshippers didn't say much either. I did have anything to give. Didn't you have to love someone in order to get love first? I didn't love anyone like that. I felt too cold for it. And I had always known I'd never have a chance with Naru. I even looked forward to getting past this stage of my life and him out, so I wouldn't have to have those aching, disappointments when he glared at me or told me my essay was probably the worst he'd seen yet.

…I really was a masochist. I wanted to be tortured. I wanted to be despised. And then, hypocritically, I wanted a house full of people who adored me like parents.

Eventually, with the blanket tight around me in hope's I'd warm up somehow, I went to the chair and tapped on the professor's shoulder.

"I can take over now."

He didn't argue. Just nodded and got up. His quiet disturbed me too. Or maybe I had disturbed him so much he didn't have to deal with me.

But just as I sat down, he asked, "May I ask if I was in your dream?"

Wow. He really was a narcissist. See the kinds of things I was attracted to? Ulk.

"No," I said, and the word came out both stuffy and offended.

He shrugged. "It's nothing personal. I have a theory your subconscious has created a spirit guide out of my image, since I am the one to lead you through most of your knowledge of the paranormal. The brain has to have a way to express the information it's getting through your clairvoyance."

Now I was feeling dumb. Gal, when had I become so sensitive? Since I got all naked and raw feeling on the side of the road? Probably.

"Well, no," I said again.

"Would you mind telling me—"

"Yes."

He just nodded. "Alright. If you're feeling tired, wake me up. So far we've had the usual cold spots, including the one up on the third floor in room 6. I already went and checked it out though."

A tendril of foreboding trickled through me.

"You did it alone?"

He just looked at me. "No one else around."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I was raised with the philosophy that sleep was sacred, and interrupting one's sleep one of the highest of offenses."

I gave him an odd look. The idea that his parents actually taught him to be considerate baffled me. If sleep was that important, why had he woken me up in class tapping on my head with a pen? And wouldn't they have taught him to not flaunt people's weaknesses all the time?

He didn't respond to my look. Just went to the couch and proceeded to lie down, throwing the blanket over himself. The same one I had been using. Not that it mattered or anything.

With a sigh, I turned my aching eyes to the monitors and slipped on the headphones.

Author's Note: Oh! I forgot. Answer to my question. I have one son and ten younger siblings. I'm the oldest. ^.^