Chapter Eleven

Heather DeGeneres Smells Like Teen Spirit

(Eilfie)

"I've never seen anything like this."

Josh flipped through the pages and pages of notes we'd gathered for the Peever case, eyes growing wider than I think I'd ever seen them.

He shook his head incredulously, and looked up at me. "How could she have known this?"

I shrugged my shoulders, nestling myself into the ragged, forest green chair. "I don't know. The majority of that information was far from readily accessible. I don't think there's anyway she could've researched this enough to fake it. Not with the amount of time she had, anyways."

Josh simply shook his head again, and stared in silence at the tiny script in front of him. His eyes narrowed the further down the page he went.

At the moment, we were between seasons of Paranormal State. So with our 'free' time, Ryan figured we might as well be put to work all the time. Right now, the main focus of PRS while on break from our busy filming schedule, was to solve and help out as many of the minor cases as we could. The unfortunate thing about a television show, as we soon found out, was that all they really wanted out of us was the pure 'theatrics' of ghost hunting. Only the most severe cases we could come across would they allow us to film for television. And although we understood this, it didn't mean we agreed with the unfairness of it. Because of A&E's strict orders to only take and film the more (as they deemed it) 'important' cases, this unfortunately meant that a lot of people were overlooked. And all simply because of our negotiations and commitment to the network.

So instead of taking breaks while we were on the off seasons of filming, we worked double hard, trying to make up for lost time and trying to help those who really, truly needed it. It's what we had promised ourselves as a group.

Laura Peever was an excellent example of the 'selective cases'. A single woman, in her mid-forties, living alone in a century old house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Never married, one child who passed away nearly a decade ago. Mysterious knocking in the home, funny smells coming from odd places in the house. Screaming could be heard from the basement. Sightings of a small, black shadow figure. Clearly, this wasn't as urgent as a demonic case, or a case where young children are being hurt or harmed - the producers wouldn't want us to waste breath on a case as minor and blase as this. Especially with no reports of actual sightings of shadow people. But demonic or not, the activity in the house was serious enough for this woman to consider relocating. So, that's where we came in.

Neither myself, Josh, Sergey, Heather or Katrina had been to the home. Ryan had gone with Chip and Harlow about forty-eight hours ago to investigate the reported activity and do a psychic walk-through and evaluation of the home. With Chip, we were used to Ryan coming back with one or two pages of information we had to look up. Sometimes he'd hit a jackpot, be able to fill out four or even more sheets on the alleged hauntings in cases. Even with Michelle Belanger, another regular Medium we brought along to locations, there was never a lot more than three pages. Sometimes there was a handful of facts to go off of. Sometimes there were none. We had come to expect little, hope for a lot.

When Ryan had returned from the Friday afternoon walk-through of the Peever home, we had expected a little more than usual, since there were two different mediums going through the home. You know - three or four pages, especially considering how minor of a case it was (activity wise). What we hadn't expected, was an entire folder filled with page after page of information Harlow had picked up. And it wasn't just the usual 'I think there was a murder in this house', or a 'I sense a lot of repression, especially in the kitchen'. Oh no.

It was every fact, every minute detail, that could've possibly been produced. It was not just 'there's a young boy that is haunting this home', as we usually got from the psychic walk-throughs. It was a detailed description of the boy, what his name was, his favorite books, the color of his hair - the somewhat gruesome description of what the boy was wearing in the last moments of his life. There was information on not only how he had died, but how he'd been burnt alive - not to mention all the extensive details on said burns. She knew every mark he'd gotten on his last report card. Knew his favorite subject in school was math, and that he wanted to be (ironically enough) a firefighter when he grew up. She'd drawn out the floor plan of the house when the boy lived there. She included all the details, every doorway, window, the type of wood the roof was made of, the original color of the house - where the spice cabinet had been located, for God sakes. She could describe every detail of the boy's face, the exact shade of his eyes. She'd pinpointed what the exact cause of death was, down to the very last toxin. She could match dates up correctly, dates from nearly three decades before she was even born. She could tell us by the second what had happened. She could account the story for every minute that the house had been standing. She could name the brand name of a furnace that had been in this random, Lancaster house almost fifty years ago. She could tell us the maker of the wood used in the basement's support beams. She could mark down to the last millimeter where the bodies were found by the firefighters.

Every tidbit, every fact you needed to piece together this mystery of the Peever's haunting, Harlow had it.

We had split up the research and cross-checking amongst our small group of five. I was in charge of building history. Heather managed autopsy reports. Katrina did the historical timeline of the house and surrounding neighborhood. Sergey was digging up information on the families that had lived in the home and Josh was working tirelessly on the physics behind enclosed chamber explosions.

The work was exhausting, and relatively thankless, but it all had to be done. And this was one case we all didn't mind researching - especially with all the information. Not only should it have made it a lot easier for us, but we wanted to see how legit Harlow's 'talent' really was.

From the far doors on the right of the library, I could hear the blaring iPod and quick, noisy steps of Heather, followed by the clacking of Katrina's heels against the floor. The two came into view shortly after, both looking pale, and slightly anxious. Heather, short and bouncing in a tweed shirt and loud makeup and Katrina, tall and vivacious in a low cut blouse and Chanel bag.

"Right on time," Josh said to them as they approached. Heather grinned.

"It's a first, I think," she said thoughtfully. "Possibly ever. No. Definitely ever."

He grinned back at her. "Did you finish your research?"

"Another first ever!"

Josh applauded.

Katrina's tan face looked flushed, and she kept peering nervously over her shoulder back to the library doors.

"You alright?" I asked her.

"I just wish Ryan would just get here so we could get this thing over with," she mumbled.

"Why?" I asked. "Did you find anything peculiar out?"

Katrina and Heather exchanged glances.

"Let's put it this way," Heather said softly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Harlow is definitely - no doubt a-friggin' bout it - the real deal."

Katrina nodded rapidly in agreement, waving her duotang stuffed with notes in front of her.

"I've been trying to contemplate for the last day how she could've faked this stuff," Katrina said tiredly, a hand running absentmindedly over her head. "How she could've just read off the environment, or looked some of this stuff up on the internet, or somethin'. But .. she's so bang on, it's not even funny. It's given me the wilies, I was up all night trying to figure it out .. "

I nodded. "You're not alone. If I didn't know better, I swear I'd think she was a fraud or that someone put her up to this. But there's just no way ... none. She knows too much, too much about too many things that no one could possibly know about."

"And it's not like Ryan told her where she was going," Josh said, straightening his report in his hands. "According to him, he gave her the address 30 minutes before she was supposed to arrive. And if I'm certain of anything in this world, it's that Ryan wouldn't lie about this. This is his life."

"Wait until you hear about the autopsy findings," Heather muttered, shaking her head and plunking down in the chair next to Josh. "I think I had about ten heart attacks as I simultaneously shit eight loads into my panties."

"Only someone as adorable as you could get away with saying something as disgusting as that," sighed Katrina, as Heather pinched her cheeks cheerfully.

"Well, at least we don't have to wait anymore," Josh sighed, leaning back in his chair exhaustively. "Here's Chief now."

Sergey and Ryan had just stepped into the library quietly, muttering under their breaths at one another. Ryan, a good four, five inches taller than Serge, looked around almost as anxiously as Heather and Katrina. Sergey had the same slightly dumbfounded look on his face that Katrina had when she'd walked in. Clearly, we were all on the same page as far as this case went.

"Are we late?" Ryan asked, checking his watch with a frown.

"No, I'm just on time," Heather said cheerfully.

"My God," Serge said, with a shake of his head, dropping into the seat next to me. "Hell has frozen over. Heather Taddy is on time to something. Early, even."

"God, I know right!" Heather said excitedly. "I can't even spell early."

It gave us all a good chuckle, as Ryan sat down on my right side, Katrina taking a seat on Heather's left. The room fell oddly silent as we all sat, the only noises coming from our papers shaking nervously in our hands and laps.

Ryan looked between the two sides of the table, eyebrows raised.

"So ... are we all done the research?" Ryan asked, looking at all of us questioningly - we nodded simultaneously. "What? No, really?"

"The second biggest shock of your life," Katrina said, with a grin. "Right after Heather actually being on time."

"Early," Tad corrected cheerfully.

Ryan laughed, folding his hands together in front of him. "Alright, so since we're - miraculously - all done researching, tell me how it went? I assume we cross-checked the information received, right? Did they get anything? Chip or Harlow? Any of them pick up on anything particularly interesting?"

"Well essentially, they picked up on the same things," I said, looking over my documents. "House fire, little boy, no other residual hauntings. But Harlow picked up on more details than Chip - little facts that pieced the history together. Chip gave us the basics, Harlow filled in the - many - blanks."

"Was she fairly accurate?" he asked, looking at me curiously, then at rest of the table.

We all exchanged the same, nervous glances and Ryan frowned.

"She was completely off? Really?" he asked, a genuinely surprised look on his face.

Katrina shook her head. "No .. no, actually. The complete opposite of it."

"She was completely, one hundred percent, dead on - er, no pun intended," Heather said, straightening out her file. "Every piece of information she had, it fit somewhere into the story."

"Really?" Ryan said with interest, eyes wide. "Everything?"

"Everything," we all said at once.

Ryan's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned forward with impatient interest. "Tell me everything you guys know."

"I can start. I did the house history, and from all the records I could find, I can confirm that there was a house fire in 1952," I said. "On June 13th, 1952, to be exact - the very same day she stated the young boy died. According to the house inspection, a faulty furnace in the basement blew it's gasket in the South of the home."

Ryan's face was blank, as he looked down over his notes. "This is a weird question, I know, but did they mention in the report what kind of furnace it - "

"Hawkins," I said. "In 1952, there was a series of explosions in the southern Pennsylvania area - Hawkins is a company that originated from Pennsylvania - Pittsburgh, I think it said. During the years 1950 to 1953, there was a total of thirteen separate incidents with faulty furnace lines and gas leaks around the state."

"Josh," Ryan said, looking over at him with a frown. "Do we know how they were faulty?"

Josh nodded. "The manufacturers were cheap. Let me explain. The heat exchanger and combustion chamber are supposed to be two separate chambers. One on top of the other - eventually the heat will meet with the gas in the supply plenum. In the Hawkin's models that had proven to be broken or 'faulty', the heat exchanger and combustion chamber had combining holes in the south part of the machine. The result of this would be a lethal combination of heat and gas and spark, resulting in melting of the metal inside of the furnace."

"So, when she said there was a little spiky circle thing at the bottom of the furnace," Ryan said. "What was she talking about?"

"The gas control valve," Josh said. "That's what would've caused the thing, ultimately, to erupt. The valve, as a rule, was what was the main reason behind the Hawkins' furnace explosions. It was constructed of very poorly made metal. It would spark at extremely low temperatures, and combined with the gas and heat leak in the center of the chamber, well .. "

Josh made a "PEW" noise, and rose his hands in the air.

"Instant explosion," Ryan said quietly.

"Probably within fifteen minutes of it being turned on," Josh said. "They were sued by dozens of people, eventually leading them to bankruptcy. They had to close down the entire operation in 1954. Another little fact Harlow seemed to pick up on - this is the Hawkins' logo, back in the 50's."

He held up a piece of white computer paper, with the word 'HAWKINS' in large, blood red letters.

"It matches what she said was on the side of the furnace," Josh said needlessly.

"Is there anyway she could've known that?" Ryan asked, looking from myself, then to Josh.

We looked at each other, but both shook our heads. "Harlow was born in 1984, I believe. Hawkins was closed for business in 1954. Thirty years before she was even born. Not to mention that from what I've gathered, Harlow was born in Rhode Island, and didn't move to Pennsylvania until a couple years ago. I don't know why she would be researching furnace company history's in her spare time. Not to mention that there's no historical reports or papers about the company on the internet or in the library. To find out the information, you need to contact the Free Press Archives directly, and they have lists of people who visit."

"Also, the furnace fiasco's of the 50's only ever killed two people," I said, leafing through my file. "Daniel Pritch, and his mother, Dora Pritch."

I held up two photos I'd stumbled across in the obituaries. One was of a woman, late twenties to early thirties. Long and light hair. Round and happy eyes. The other was a boy, probably aged about ten in the black and white photo. Light hair cut in a bowl shape, big and round eyes a twin to the females photo. He was smiling broadly, revealing a smile like a Jack-O-Lantern.

"Weird question," Ryan said, looking closely at the photo. "Do we know what teeth he's missing?"

"I couldn't find dental records from before his death," Heather said, yanking out a chart from her duotang. "But after the explosion, the only teeth remaining were these two."

She pointed to the two teeth on her chart of the human jaw that weren't blacked out with sharpie. "A cuspid and lateral incisor."

"Is that what - "

"What Harlow said," Heather nodded. "Obviously."

"She pointed to those two teeth," Ryan said quietly, looking critically at the chart. "She pointed to the ones in her mouth, anyways. She said those were the only ones she could see. Were there other ones?"

"It were the only ones in his mouth in the autopsy," Heather said, sticking the chart back into her binder. "They note that a lot of them had simply fallen out to make room for adult teeth, while other ones seemed to have been blown out by the blast."

"You did autopsy of the boy, then," Ryan said, looking a bit nervously over at Heather.

She nodded, and leafed through her stack of papers. "Luckily, they had no photos - I don't know if I'd have been able to stomach that, bluhh. But I got a lot of information on Daniel Pritch, the boy supposedly haunting the house."

"Let's hear it," Ryan said, his face rather pale.

"Autopsy performed June 15th, 1952. Two days after initial death. Boy, ten years old, born on May 10th, 1942. Four feet, eight inches. Death ruled as carbon monoxide poisoning as the result of a house fire. Burns covering 84.3 percent of his body. Left side sustained less burns than the right. Left eye visible, right had essentially molten into the skull. Hair was blonde, eyes were blue bordering on grey. Legs damaged extensively, dermis on feet had actually melted and formed a flipper like extension. Clothes had been charred to his body, but he was wearing what appeared to have been a red, plaid shirt. Khaki colored capris."

"Does it say anything about him personally? Did he have siblings, or was he .. was he - "

"Registered mute," Heather said. "One brother, Alex. Interesting note at the bottom of the autopsy forms, actually. Death was not instantaneous. The boy was alive a good four, five minutes after the initial explosion. Death ruled as carbon monoxide poisoning, but even if someone had taken him out of there, his injuries were too severe and he would've kicked the ol' bucket anyways."

Ryan shook his head, guilty laugh escaping from his mouth. "Tenderly put, Tad."

She smiled wryly. "Sorry. Too much death and died and killed and burnt. 'Kickin' The Bucket' sounds just so much more playful and fun."

"Any other interesting things about the autopsy we should know about?" Sergey asked, face noticeably paler than usual.

Heather leafed through sheets quickly. "Nothing Harlow hasn't already told us, man."

Ryan sighed, raking a hand through his short, dark hair. "Is there anything, anything at all, she got wrong?"

We all exchanged glances around the old, rickety table and shook our heads.

"Nothing," I said simply. "There was a bit of information that we couldn't confirm - but the likelihood of it being incorrect is extremely low."

"Yeah man, how the shit were we supposed to find out where the spice rack was located," Heather muttered irritably. "Or if the oregano flakes on the top right hand corner of the rack was 'Mister Dash' brand. Jeeze. How could she have known the brand name of oregano flakes?"

"Why would it matter?" Katrina asked.

"Maybe the key to this whole haunting is in the brand of the oregano flakes!" Heather cried.

"Shut up, Taddy," Serge mumbled.

Ryan flipped his duotang shut, and shrugged his shoulders tiredly. A happy little smile flickered on and off his dark skin.

"I'll give her a call," he sighed. "See if she's able to come to Dead Time tonight."

(Sophie)

"You're never late, Harlow. Never. In the years I've known you, the only time I can remember you being late is that time your car conked out and you ran three miles to get to orientation."

She grinned, stretching her legs out in front of her and wiggling her toes. "Actually, if I remember correctly, I wasn't even late that day."

I frowned, considering, then shook my head irritably. "No, you're right. You weren't, you Freak of Nature. But never mind that - why were you late to Volley? There's no way you just overslept, or forgot - you must've been drugged."

She laughed, running her hands through her long, dark hair. "Yeah. Definitely. I was drugged. I didn't forget, I was just drugged. That's exactly it."

"Stupid ghosty boy," I muttered, crossing and uncrossing my legs in agitation. "Did Casper Hunter drug you? Inject some Ketamine into those Godly veins? Summon the evil overdue spirits of Pennsylvania upon you? Bind you into a psychic comatic state?"

She sighed, and leered over at me from her chair, jaw clenched in irritation. "No. Ryan - not Casper, or Ghost Boy, or Dark-Closet-Hermit - did not drug me. He did not summon demons upon me. He did not bind my body comatose. I was just running late, that's all. I don't know how many times I can tell you that, Soph. Sometimes, people run late. You do it all the time. I was just having a Sophie day."

"Bullshit," I mumbled, reaching for my drink.

We lay on our makeshift little beach chairs on my building's rooftop - the old Filipino caretaker never did remember to lock the roof door, forgetful ol' codger. Harlow sat on my right, sipping her lemonade cheerfully, poking her ice cubes playfully with her straw. I was parked next to her, chugging back my second scotch on the rocks, seeing how fast I could get through a bottle on the same cubes of ice - oh, how I just loved Mondays. It had been three days since our last practice - the practice in which Harlow mysteriously showed up twenty minutes late to.

BUM BUM BAHHHHHHHH.

Now you may be thinking, big deal - twenty minutes? We've all been late once or twice in our lifetime, right? Uh, wrong. Orphan Annie here had never been late - not once, not even for a second - before in her entire life. Besides the ability to smoke balls like no one's business, and understand the deep, weird-ass complexities of the human mind, little old Harlow also had the freakish ability to always (ALWAYS) be on time for every function ever. Ever ever. Ever. Total freak, ammirite?

So when I, like any best friend would, questioned her relentlessly after practice (and, uh - everyday after that .. I WANNA KNOW, OKAY?) on what she'd been doing those elusive, mysterious twenty minutes, she'd replied every single time with 'oh, I just lost track of time'.

Yahhhhh right.

"Shut up, Soph," she yawned, stretching her arms back behind her head. "Can't you see I'm getting my tan on? I don't need you and your 3 o'clock scotch rocks ruining my mid-day bake."

I swatted her from my warm spot in the sun, but she ignored it.

"I didn't miss anything anyways," she continued nonchalantly. "I missed you and Ainslee having your mandatory practice bitch fight - because that never gets old."

"She asks for it."

"I missed Natalie's jugs falling out of her top - again."

"Yeah, but this time she didn't notice for a good five minutes."

"I missed Kimmy sticking the volleyball's down her shirt and imitating Mickenzie."

"That will never, ever, ever not be funny."

"And all of this happens every practice - since we started on the team," she finished, with a grin. "I really, truly, from the bottom of my heart feel no loss."

"That's not the point, Numbnut," I said irritably, my warm spot now feeling irritatingly hot. "You are never, ever, ever late, Harlow. Never. I have no memory of you even being ten seconds late. If anything, you're always early. So what happened? What's up? Where were you those mysterious twenty minutes? You can't lie to me, I'm your best friend. I know when something's up."

"I'm not lying," she sighed, brow furrowed. "I told you already, at least ten times. I went grocery shopping - I do have to eat. I got home, was putting the groceries away, was distracted by the TV. It's that new Housewives show - it's such a trainwreck, I couldn't even look away. Next thing I know, I'm already five minutes late and I'm parked on my couch."

"Bullllllshit."

"Call Bull all you want, but - "

"I don't call Bull, I call Buell."

She rolled her eyes, a noticeable pink flushing her cheeks. She was saved from further questioning as the familiar beeping of her phone sounded next to her.

"Speak of the devil - literally," I muttered.

She threw her towel at my head, and rolled over onto her feet. "Hello?"

I watched her shrewdly, straining my ears to hear any voice coming from the other end of the line - damn Telus and their shitty connections, I couldn't make out anything caller numero deux was saying!

I was rich. I'd just hire a private investigator, then.

Naw, just kiddin'. I'm not that creepy.

"No it's alright, I was just sunbathing," she said, with a laugh. "I'm at Sophie's. Cool ... yeah, that's cool. What time? Nine? Yeah, I can definitely make it. No, no, it's no problem."

She was pacing the blacktop, any emotion I could have potentially read hidden behind her dark glasses. Damn you to Hell, Dolce! You and your sickeningly gorgeous shades.

"Alright, cool - I'll meet you there nine sharp," she said happily.

"Make it 9:20," I called, and she flipped me off irritably. I snickered, taking a hefty chug of my delish beverage.

"No that's great, sounds perfect - definitely, see you in a few Ryan," she said softly, snapping her phone shut a moment later.

"Whats Casper want?" I asked, stretching my legs out in front of me.

She plunked back onto her chair, and shook her head. "Nothing you'd find interesting."

"Another date?" I asked, rolling on my side and gazing at her with feigned super-interest.

"You could say that."

"What are you guys going to do?"

"What do you care?"

"I just want to know what the big second date's gonna be, that's all."

"Nothing."

"Coffee."

"It's not a date."

"Movie?"

"Shut up."

"Blowjobs in the back of Stella's?"

"I'll kill you."

"Diving into haunted caves and trying to Ouija board with the ghost of Kurt Cobain?"

"Yeah, you guessed it. That's exactly what we're doing tonight, you bitch."

"Rad. Well. Make sure to tell Kurt I say 'hello' and teen spirit doesn't smell nearly as funky fresh as he insinuated."

"Go to hell."

"Oh, I'm already there, baby cakes."

(Heather)

"So do you like, see him right now?"

"Mmm .. I see his outline. He's hidin' behind the fridge again. I can't see him as a person, but I can see where he is. No details, just location."

I frowned, and she smiled serenely.

"I wish I could explain it better," she said guiltily.

"No no .. that makes .. perfect sense," I lied.

She looked thoughtfully - searchingly, even - back at the steel grey fridge a couple of feet away from us. Absentmindedly, she brushed a long piece of auburn hair from her eyes, sweeping it behind her ear.

Is it weird that I totally wanted to reach over and touch her face? Like, would that make me a super lesbian if I admitted to really, truly just wanting to touch her face with my hands? Like not sexually. I just wanted to touch her face.

Also, I would like to write a twelve page report about every different shade of brown and red in her hair. And why I liked them.

And why I wanted to touch them.

And sniff them ..

I guess I couldn't make fun of Ryan for being a googly-eyed pervert fuck around Harlow now. Because I was turning into one too. Oh God, I think I just looked down her top. Oh God, Oh God, Oh Go -

"Hey Heather," Lo said softly, turning the bright green of her eyes to me as I jumped nearly five feet in the air - up, up and awayyyy from my super lezzy Harlow daydream, how embarrassing. "How many of these dead time things have you done?"

"Hm. Probably close to a hundred by now, and it's only been a couple of years," I said, hoping she didn't see the bright cherry red creeping across my face. Hey Harlow, I was just ogling your boobies ...

She gave a lopsided grin (even in it's lopsidedness it was exquisite, she's such a bitch tit), resting her chin in her hand. "That's a hell of a lotta dead times."

"I don't even know how a clock works anymore," I admitted. "I sleep at random hours, and work the other ones."

"I can't even begin to understand how you stay up this late," she sighed, an involuntary yawn escaping her lips.

"Multiple cups of coffee - minimum four - and five hour energy shots," I said honestly.

"How many energy shots?" she asked.

"Well one's supposed to keep you alert for five hours," I said thoughtfully. "So I usually take three."

"At once?" she gasped, then grinned. "Sweet Jesus, Heather. Don't you completely lose your mind from all the caffeine and sugar?"

"I figure if I'm hyper and sugar fucked out of my mind during dead time, then at least if we make contact with a super scary, super mean ghost, I'll be the first to jump up, scream and run away. The rest of the team's on their own."

We both laughed, a nice break in the relative silence that filled the kitchen. It was comfortable silence, don't get me wrong. But silence is silence, and I don't do well with that. The voices from the living room drifted in, unclear but distinctly Ryan, Josh and Sergey's. Eilfie and Katrina were wandering around upstairs, their faint footsteps creaking across the floorboards above us. The heavy, sure-footed ones were Elf's. The timid, tapping thunks, Kat's.

The two of us, Tad-riffic (me) and Hot-arlow, had our bums parked comfortably in the drab but surprisingly inviting kitchen. Besides the fact that I was aware there was a severely disfigured and molten little ghost boy chillin' out behind the fridge, I felt oddly at ease in the room. Maybe it was because the ghost wasn't malevolent. Maybe it was because Harlow emitted this weird, calming aura everywhere she went (she was magic, I swear).

Or maybe it was the two beers I'd chugged back at dinner. And the pineapple cocktail. And the lime and vodka. And the standard malt.

Hey. Ryan said dinner was on HIM tonight. Who wouldn't take advantage of that?

Harlow, seated across the shiny oak table from me, looked questioningly at the refrigerator. Her eyebrows narrowed, green eyes alight with confusion. She gnawed on her bottom lip in avid concentration.

"You hear something?" I asked softly, peering at her face from my seat across the table - man, I actually just felt a pang of jealousy that Ryan gets to bone this bitch.

IT ONLY TOOK ONE LOOK AT HER, AND I WAS TURNING INTO HEATHER DEGENERES.

Harlow jumped a bit, my voice startling her out of her trance. She smiled apologetically. "No, not really. I'm practicing .. Chip keeps telling me I should try to communicate with spirits in my head, like all the 'normal' mediums do and I've been kinda trying it out."

"Is it working?"

"I think if I concentrate anymore than I already am, I'm gonna poop myself."

We both laughed, me louder and probably a lot scarier than her, as Sergey ambled anxiously into the kitchen from the dining room door.

Alright. Hold up, story readers.

Okay. So. Before I continue, I gotta tell you something. It's not important, nor does it really have anything at all to do with the story. But it's hilarious. And if you're as mean spirited as I, then you'll enjoy this too, alright? It's hilarious, and I tell it at parties all the time to feel liked and popular. Lemme share this gem with ya'll.

Here it is: Sergey's terrible with women. No. Terrible. Actually awful. Like, I know Ryan's always the butt of our jokes, but it's because he knows he's a bumbling mess. And he admits it, embraces it, and can laugh about it. Sergey, as far as I know, is also aware of the disaster that is his dating record. But he, unlike Ryan, is unable to joke about it.

But seriously. Anytime Serge finds himself in a situation where he has to talk to a pretty girl, he goes all 'super foreigner', as Kat and I call it. Forgets how to speak English. Forgets how to make eye contact. Begins to sweat profusely. Starts talking fast and incoherently in Russian. Flails his hands, as if that is a proper substitute to plain ol' talking. A mess, a complete mess.

An example of Sergey talking to a pretty lady at a bar:

Purdy Lady: "Hey, come to this bar often?"

Sergey: "Ahahahaha, ahahahaha, ahahahaha, no. Net. NET."

Purdy Lady: "Heh ... oh. I didn't think you looked familiar."

Sergey: "Ya imet k mochit'sya."

Purdy Lady Who's Terrified: "Uhm .. sorry?"

Sergey: "No English, NET ANGLIISKOGO! BATHROOM, BATHROOM."

Terrified Lady Who Regrets Life: "Okay .. okay .. it's over there .. sorry, sorry."

Sergey: "Zhenshchiny, ah bog ah bog, ah bog, AH BOG."

Like, go ahead and laugh. But that actually happened. I witnessed it, and peed my pants a little.

So, now you know how Sergey is with women. All women. But in a case like Harlow's, well ... times his awkwardness and social retardation by about twenty six billion. Because that's only a fraction of how terrible he is around Lo and her angelically STUNNING face.

Now, don't get me wrong. In all honesty, none of us have quite gotten used to Harlow's alarmingly perfect presence. It takes time, I'm sure. Maybe you never got over it, I don't know? You do, however, learn to control yourself around her. You coach yourself into pretending like you're not dying a little inside everytime she's near. You convince yourself she's actually a super big bitch and that face is airbrushed to shit every single day because surely no real human being looks like that. You manage to string coherent sentences together so she doesn't think you're a huge, embarrassingly massive idiot. You learn to control yourself.

But of all of us, even McBumbles(Ryan), it was Serge who seemed to be having the hardest time dealing with this. When Harlow was around, it was like he turned into some weird, socially awkward eight year old. He had immense difficulty in meeting her eyes and when she passed close to him in a room, he literally FLEW backwards against the wall, like he'd just been tased or something. He'd sputter when she said hi to him, trip over his feet when they were in the same room. Flailed around like a fuckin' loon when she waved to him. Now, being the complete sweetie pie she was, Harlow pretended not to notice when Sergey would fall over a chair. Or when he'd look at her boobs by accident, panic, then look again. Or how every time she walked by him in a hallway all his papers and binders would fly up in the air as he tried to dodge coming within a 10 foot radius with her. I think that's what made me like her even more.

I mean like, if I were Harlow, I'd be fucking terrified of him.

I guess she did see ghosts all the time, though. Maybe spastic foreigners weren't so bad, all things considered.

So, because of Harlow and her fabulousity, mine and Katrina's new favorite game was 'What Will Sergey Fall Over Next?'. It's actually not even a game. It's more us just blatantly and rudely making fun of him. But 'game' sounds nicer.

"Hey, Harlow," Sergey said to the opposite wall, red blooming on his pale cheeks. "Ryan said he's ready if you are."

Amazing! He spoke without choking/spitting/slurring/speaking in Russian! Maybe he was getting better? WELL DAMMIT, there goes my new fun game!

Harlow looked at him cheerfully and nodded, and I'm not gonna lie, she also looked a bit surprised to not have her breasts eye raped. "Sure, yeah ... should I just go in the living room?"

"DA, DA," Sergey nodded/yelled.

"No, Harlow. And I'm Heather," I said, grinning.

"Ah bog ah bog," he mumbled, shuffling out of the room.

"Is he alright?" Harlow asked, brow furrowed with concern.

"Naw, he's a little off," I shrugged. "Russian. Y'know. When he was a baby he drank vodka instead of breast milk. Messed up ever since."

Harlow smiled, clearly torn between laughing and being a little bit disgusted at the thought of Sergey and breast milk being mentioned in the same sentence. DAMN ME, I MAKE EVERYTHING AWKWARD.

"C'mon," I said, rising from the table - Harlow followed suit across from me. "Let's go talk to some Ghosties."

We padded quietly into the living room, a quaint but homey place. Seated on the couch farthest from the door was Ryan, shuffling through his case file, brow furrowed. He looked up, and I noticed his face slacken noticeably as Lo entered the room. Serge, red as a Russian Tomato, stood awkwardly across from us. Ryan nodded shyly at Harlow, shifting a few inches over on the sofa

And like the tactless dolt he is, Serge thundered over and plopped down next to him.

Dumbass.

"Idiot," muttered Josh, who was seated on a rickety old chair in the far right of the room.

"Agreed," I mumbled, Josh and I exchanging dark looks. I wandered over to the left, plopping down on a plush purple foot stool.

Harlow smiled serenely, ignoring Sergey's idiocy and seated herself in a chair on the left of the kitchen's doorway, on the right of my purple seat.

"Well," Ryan said, eyes flickering furiously over at the completely unaware Sergey. "It's 1:45. We might as well get this thing goin'."

I nodded. Harlow was peering distractedly into the towering, red brick fireplace on the opposite wall of the room. The flames danced and crackled, Harlow's face illuminated. I heard Katrina and Elf shuffling down the stairs then noisily into the room. A couple of meters away from me, Ryan and Sergey were babbling back and forth, discussing final details of the case before we settled down for dead time. All this nattering going on, but my focus and attention was latched on to Harlow.

Her face, thought immaculate, looked suddenly old. Weathered, distant, haunted. It was like she had aged twenty years in the fifteen seconds since she had sat down. She gazed blindly into the fire, her lips moving back and forth, but barely. It looked like she was muttering under her breath, though I could hear no words over the chatter in the room.

I leaned closer to her, a wave of anxiety washing over me. "You alright?" I whispered.

She said nothing, didn't even take notice of me - I wasn't sure she had even heard me. Her eyes were busy, distracted. It was like they saw something I didn't - couldn't - and it was terrible. I could no longer see those bright green iris', just a circle of jet black on snow white. Reluctantly, I rested my palm lightly on her kneecap, but she didn't budge, didn't even flinch.

"Harlow?" I muttered. "Harlow?"

I rapped on her knee, firmly but as gentle as I could - she jolted, the weathered and weary face abruptly changed to alert and poised.

"Sorry," she said, blinking. Her hands knotted convulsively in her lap. "I'm sorry."

"Zoned out?" Katrina asked from the opposite end of the room.

I turned my head sharply, realizing that the chatter had died away. My team was looking over at mine and Harlow's little corner, mingled looks of concern, curiosity and nervousness etched on all their faces. Harlow sniffed, steadying her hands in her lap.

"Sorry," she said again, with an awful attempt at a forced grin.

"Did you see something?" Ryan asked, his eyes the only earnestly concerned but unfrightened ones in the bunch.

"Sort of," Harlow said - her voice was still steadying itself but her eyes were fully alert. She was looking at Ryan, him at her, sharing a very obvious but unknown secret in that one simple stare.

"What did you see?" I asked encouragingly.

She didn't break contact with Ryan's gaze, but she inclined her head towards the fireplace no less than fifteen feet ahead of her.

"It - it's, just the fireplace. The fire, rather. He - it's, he .. he doesn't like it on," she said slowly, her words chopped and unsure. "Danny, Daniel. The little spirit boy in the house. He doesn't like the fire, it scares him."

"Does he want us to turn it off?" Ryan asked, pushing himself up off the sofa.

"No," she said softly, breaking eye contact and waving a hand dismissively at him. "He'll deal with it."

"We don't want him to feel uncomfortable, if he doesn't want it on, I can easily just - "

"No, I mean he can deal with the fire himself."

"He .. what? How?"

"He'll put it out."

"How, though?"

"I don't know, exactly."

" ... Well, when?"

The room fell silent, our team staring intently at Harlow. She seemed to take no notice - her head was cocked to the side a little, eyes narrowed with polite confusion and interest. She exhaled softly, smiled, then turned her twinkling eyes to Ryan.

"Now."

Poof! Tssssssss.

(Josh)

The room fell into instant and all-consuming darkness. Katrina squealed in terror, Serge whispered a soft 'fuck!' under his breath. There was a scramble, a thump and the lamp next to Eilfie flickered on. Our faces illuminated, wide-eyed - even in the pale lamp light, we were all white as snow. Well. Excluding Harlow, that is, who looked remarkably cheerful.

"He's in here?" choked Katrina, eyes wide with fear. "He's in the room?"

Lo nodded. It was the strangest thing - her presence calmed me. Her oddly relaxed demeanor in this (apparent) room of terrifying doom and horror seemed to ease my nerves. I felt a calm wash over my anxiety, a certain tranquility from just her being.

"Where?" Kat asked, and I could see the hair on her arms standing up all the way over here. It wasn't from a chill, the room was cozy, pleasant.

Harlow hesitated, seemingly contemplating the answer to Kat's question.

"Do you know?" Katrina asked, rather forcefully. I saw Eilfie gave her a swift boot to the ankle. She grimaced, but couldn't seem to tear her panicked eyes away from Harlow's own tentative ones.

"Near the bookshelf, on the right of the fireplace," Harlow finally said, motioning with her head to the bookshelf only inches away from Katrina's arm.

A visible shiver ran through Kat's entire body and her face paled even more than I thought possible. She was as white as a ghost.

A hah, a hah. It's funny because we're ghost hunters, right?

"Sorry," Lo apologized, hands tightening in a knot on her lap - she looked guiltily at Katrina. "I knew it'd freak you out."

"I'm not freaked out," she whimpered.

"Can he do something to show us he's in here?" Ryan asked, eyes flickering back and forth between Harlow, the snow-white Kat and the bookshelf.

"You mean besides putting out a frickin' fire," muttered Serge, who after Katrina, won the palid competition.

Through my slight anxiety, I could help but chuckle at Serge. He shot me a scathing look.

"I'm not scared," he said, rather defiant for someone curled into a ball on the couch.

"Of course not," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Ruh-shah ees no scared uff enn-ee sing!" Heather grunted, then ducked, roaring with laughter, as the couch pillow went sailing past her head.

"Stop it," Ryan said, with an unimpressed look shot between Serge and Heather. "Sorry, Lo. Can he - Danny - do anything to show us that he's here?"

Harlow, who'd been smiling distractedly at the bickering between Serge and Heather, turned with surprise at the sound of her name.

"Mmm," she pondered, brow furrowing slightly. "Thought I lost him there for a minute. Gimme a sec, I'll see."

She settled back into her chair, right leg crossed over left, hands folded mildly in her lap. She took a deep breath, exhaled.

"Did you lose him?" Ryan asked.

She shook her head, frowning. "No, no. Got him. Just .. gimme a sec."

The room grew cold, very suddenly and very inexplicably. I felt goosebumps rise on the back of my neck, my teeth chattered and I swore I could even see my breath. According to my thermometer, the room had stayed the exact same ... Freaked, I peered over at Heather, who shivered and looked over at me in confusion. A mutual thought passed through us - you felt that too?

In the chair to Heather's left, Harlow's face had shifted as suddenly as the temperature in the room. The same distant, vaguely aware stare had taken over her skull, washed over her in a quick and sudden wave. She was concentrating intently on a spot a foot away from Kat's head (which, may I add, Kat seemed to take note of - she shifted uncomfortably to her right). Harlow's concentration even further deafened the already silent room. Only further froze the already sub-zero room. I could hear my heart beat in my ears, the nervous pounding against my chest, painful and growing more and more apparent as the time ticked on.

In these few moments, in this random house in Pennsylvania, Harlow seemed to lose exactly what made her Harlow - her beauty. Her face was no longer the face of a Goddess. A deadened expression took the place of the benignly content one. The small, smooth hands curled into balls, whitened at the knuckles. The jaw clamped down, sharpened, became a statue of hard curves and contours. Her face was petulant, absent. She stared straight ahead with such a fierce glare, her soft features we all knew and remembered had melted into nothing. Eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul. If this was true, what a horrific and terrifying soul she must've had. Her eyes were glassy but bright, aware but hopeless - for these short moments, it was as if she suddenly saw every secret the world had ever kept. Saw the horrors and terror that every human in the world had ever gone through, bore witness to, committed. As if - finally - she understood the enormity of the gift she had been given. In a split second, her face had been replaced with such a fierce intensity, it was horrifying, jaw-dropping - but awe-inspiring.

After what had felt like an eternity (but in actuality, had only been about twenty seconds), her green eyes burned one last time with vehemence, then flickered with a slight tinge of impatience, and finally softened with relief and compassion. The face was benign again, beautiful and untouched as though that half minute of fury had never even happened.

"Moby Dick or The Good Earth," Harlow asked aloud, a wicked ghost of a grin lighting up her face.

The team exchanged doubtful, obvious looks of bewilderment.

"What?"

"Choose one."

"Why?

"Just choose one."

"Moby Dick," Heather offered.

She nodded, eyes narrowing slightly - the flame ignited behind her iris' once more, less furious this time and only lasting for a split second. I barely even caught it.

"Good choice," she said serenely. She pointed with a slender finger to the bookshelf on the right of Katrina, the left of Eilfie. "Watch him."

Crrrrrrck - THUNK.

If I hadn't witnessed it myself, I would never have believed it.

From the bookshelf - this time on the opposite side of Katrina - a thick, blue spined book had dragged and fell onto the floor by Elf's feet. After a few seconds of stunned silence, Elf stooped to grab it.

She needn't have, really - the faded picture of a great blue whale on the cover had already told us exactly what it was.

The room was silent except for Katrina's ragged breath and Serge's girlish whimpering. There was disbelief on all our faces, but we'd all seen it. Heard it. Witnessed the exact book we'd asked for drop from the middle of the back of the bookshelf. Exactly where Harlow had pointed. The exact shelf. Exact spot.

"I think I pooped," Heather whispered, staring wide-eyed at the old book clutched tightly in Elf's hand.

Harlow looked contently at the copy of 'Moby Dick', hands curled easily in her lap.

"He can thump too," Harlow said, a slight edge of pride in her smooth voice - more pride for the spirit boy than herself, from what I could tell. "If you ask him questions. He's feeding off the energy in the room, he can thump and respond so you know he's here."

"Because we didn't believe he was here before," Sergey muttered in terror, eyes wide and still glued on the book in Elf's slightly trembling hands.

"Can .. can he show himself?" Ryan asked, his voice a failed attempt at indifference - even Ryan's face was pale, alarmed.

Harlow frowned, peering at the empty air between Elf and Kat thoughtfully. I don't know much about Mediums or how they work, but it looked to me that she was more waiting for the boy's answer than her own. She nodded slightly, turned her gaze over to Ryan.

"I don't think so. It takes a lot of energy to even make a tapping noise, never mind breaking the barrier between now and ... them," Harlow said softly, an air of sadness in her smooth voice. "Even if he could, I don't ... I don't think that would be a great idea."

"We won't be scared," Elf reassured her, although her eyes told a very different story than her mouth.

Harlow laughed faintly, shaking her head. "It's not that I think you'll be scared ... it's just. He may be dead and gone and a deaf mute, but he still has feelings. If you saw him, just .. just trust me. It's gruesome, alarming to say the least. The last thing I think this little boy needs is a bunch of people screaming in terror at that ruined face."

She sighed, gazing sadly at the bookshelves once more. "And I think the energy involved in attempting it would be too much."

The image of him in my head was terrible, and I have to say I fully agreed with Harlow - I could barely stomach the imagined version of the boy, never mind the real one allegedly only feet away from me. His image was trapped in my mind, but my mind alone;

and I think I'd rather it stay that way.

Ryan leaned forward on the sofa and flicked the tape recorder on - Click - in front of him. Harlow shot him a nervous glance, but he nodded at her reassuringly. He cleared his throat, meeting Elf's eyes from the sofa.

"This is the Peever Home Haunting case, the time is 1:53AM. So far, unfilmed, we've encountered a fireplace going out precisely when Har - uh, when the resident Medium predicted. Also, a book we chose from random flung off the bookshelf in the living room. We are about to attempt to communicate with the spirit in question, Daniel Pritch, ten years old at the time of his death."

There were chills running through my bones, and I shivered rather audibly. The terror was clear in all our faces. Katrina had huddled close to Eilfie. Heather nestled inches away from Lo's chair. Serge was cross legged on the sofa, curled up in the corner. The only unfrightened one in the bunch of us was Harlow - she looked with interest and earnest fascination at Ryan, eyes twinkling brightly in the dull lamp light. She didn't fit the mold for spooked paranormal investigator - she looked more like she was listening to a particularly intriguing lecture on behaviorism, rather than listening to some twenty-something year old guy talk about ghosts into a tape recorder.

I had to give her credit - most people think we're lame. She did a great job of pretending she wasn't one of them.

Ryan flicked the tape recorder off with a click and looked directly across the room at Harlow. Her eyes met his, brown on green, both smoldering with something I felt that none of us could truly grasp.

Except perhaps Eilfie, who was looking smugly at both of them. She's the psychic one, I swear.

"Ready, Lo?" Ry asked, corners of his mouth twitching.

"As I'll ever be," she said softly, but with a slight grin.

Ryan beamed, looked over at Heather and I, then to Katrina and Eilfie.

"And we begin."

Click.

AUTHORS NOTE: HELLO, FAN FICTION WORLD.

I am back after a SICKLY long hiatus! And I am so so so sorry to have kept you all waiting :( I wish I had some kind of super legit excuse to give you all as to why I stopped writing for some ridiculous amount of months, but the fact is ... I don't. :( Honestly, I just got sick of writing for a while there. The story was boring me, I didn't enjoy writing it anymore, I just couldn't work up the energy to complete even a quarter of the chapter, y'know? It was like writers block, but a lot shittier. But! Now I'm back! And I promise to update more frequently than at once a month, haha ;)

Now, it's about 4 in the morning over here. Just got home from the bar (was the DD, so fun ... sarcasm. sooo muchhhhh sarrrcasssmmm), and although I was gonna post this up tomorrow afternoon, I figured I might as well tonight. What am I doing? Sitting here eating pretzels, drinking iced tea and reading mah updates from Perez Hilton. Lame. I know.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I promise you, I will be back next time with a bigger, better, longer and CRAZIER author's note next chapter! And a litttttle hinty hint about next chapter - there mayyy be smoochy smoochy. Or gropey gropey. Or beddy beddy. :D

I LOVE YOU ALL TO BITS! Thank you so much for the glorious reviews! They truly mean a lot :)

Stay sexy, my lovely readers!

love;

ellah! (L)