Status: Complete

In Over My Head

1/5

Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, my God, shit, shit, shit.

“Steve? Tango?” My finger trembled a little bit on the call button of my walkie-talkie, and I was sort of ashamed, because, duh, hardcore paranormal investigators are not supposed to tremble in the face of danger. But was this really danger? I didn’t know. I did know that I was sitting alone (aside from a camera guy), in the dark, in the middle of a room in an enormous Victorian manor in east-middle-nowhere, communicating with the dead.

Indeed, welcome to a day in the life of Carling M. Hale: paranormal investigator and, judging by recent events, idiotic-move enthusiast. The K2 Meter sitting on the floor three and a half inches from my left thigh was going absolutely insane; the row of tiny green lights blazed without interruption. I couldn’t look away from them.

A while before, I’d been tossed in here by my two bosses who, while on a tour of the house, had learned that the unnamed, male entity who liked to lurk in the three third-floor bedrooms was quite drawn to pretty young women. At first, I’d been flattered in a weird way and had gone about my investigating in the professional manner I’d been trained to. First, an EMF sweep, followed by EVP work and some K2 if I thought the room was hopping. Well, I had thought so. For one thing, there had been a persistent rustling over in a corner of the bedroom, followed by a low, undeniably male grumble and some footsteps. I’d whipped the K2 out of my back pocket, sat on the floor, and invited whatever spirit was in the room to ‘come right on over and join me’.

Well, it had (a moment marked by the frantic blinking of the K2 lights). I’d begun a simple explanation of the device (“All you have to do is come near it. It’ll help me know you’re here” Et cetera, et cetera), followed by a round of yes or no questions (light up the lights once for yes and not at all for no). The whole thing was so routine that, while I’d been delighted to see that I was receiving responses to my basic questions, it hadn’t frightened me the way it had the first time or two that I’d been part of a K2 session.

Within the first five minutes, I’d learned that the entity was, in fact, a male, that he had once lived in the house, that he was approximately forty-six years old, and that, yes, it had been him who kept pushing people down the stairs.

“You understand that I wouldn’t harm you?” I said. The K2 blinked, and then, for some reason that completely escaped me, I said the most disgustingly stupid thing I possibly could have. “Would you harm me?”

The second it was out of my mouth, I regretted it. The atmosphere in the room changed and the K2 went into a frenzy. It wasn’t even a blink, just a solid, unwavering row of green lights. My heart sped up, and that’s when I reached for my walkie. The lights weren’t necessarily a response, though. I tapped the walkie antenna against my chin and tried to run through any possibilities for such an occurrence (other than, well, the possibility that I had a violent spirit who liked to throw people down flights of stairs sitting beside me).

Maybe it’s the old wiring between this floor and the one below me… But, no, the K2 would’ve been inconsistent if it was… Faulty battery? No, no, I'd helped check them all… What the hell…?

That’s when I’d pressed the call button, my eyes glued to the glowing green lights.

Go for Steve and Tango.

There was a little too much static for me to tell which one of the two had responded, but I didn’t particularly care. I was having mental images of a Victorian-era man with a handlebar moustache leering at me and needed to figure some shit out before I got the hell out of there.

“Um, hey.” I said, then cleared my throat in an effort to keep my voice calm. “Are you guys on the second floor?”

Yes, we are.” It was Steve.

“Right, okay. Can you go to the -” I mentally ran through the floor plan of the floor below, trying to remember what room was directly below me. “Front sitting room,” I finally decided, “And do a quick EMF sweep of the ceiling? I’m getting some weird K2 hits in the second bedroom.”

Can do.”

I glanced up to see the camera guy grinning, obviously hoping to get some footage of me getting my ass kicked by some invisible assailant, or something. It took all I had not to flip him off. I’d wait until the camera stopped rolling to do it, I decided, and instead settled in to wait patiently in the dark like a good investigator should.

“Hale?”

I almost soiled myself at the sound of Steve’s voice coming through the floor. The bastard with the camera shook with silent laughter.

“Yeah, Steve?”

“I’ve got nothing down here. There’s a base of point one, point two and nothing else.”

I let out a little choked squeal and bolted up from the floor.

“Okay,” I said to the room because I was no longer sure where the “ghost” had gone. The K2 wasn’t lit up anymore. “Well, I’m going to leave now. Thank you for talking to me.”

I snatched up my equipment and hightailed it through the double-doors and into the hallway, down the stairs and onto the second floor. Steve and Dave Tango were still in the drawing room, and they looked up when I entered, slightly out of breath and a little jumpy.
Steve was standing in the far corner of the room, arm raised, EMF detector in hand. In the dark, it was difficult to see anything but the solid, black mass of him, but I knew he was probably looking at me from the recesses of a black baseball cap, dark eyebrows raised, equally dark eyes curious, maybe a smile on his face because he probably knew I was scared.

Tango was standing closer to the doorway, just inside the ring of light cast out by my flashlight. He glanced at me and grinned before looking down at the screen of the video camera he held in his hand.

“You running, Hale?” He said with a chuckle. It was part of our group’s policy: never run away, and I realized with a sinking feeling that I’d probably be in deep shit before the night was over.

“Shut up, Tango, I was in there by myself.” I lifted my chin in defiance. “Jay and Grant tell us to trust our instincts, and I didn’t feel right in there.”

“Sure, sure.” He said, still grinning.

“Leave her alone, Tango.” Steve said from his corner.

“See, he sticks up for me. You’ll stick up for me, right, Steve?” I crossed my arms over my chest. Tango shrugged.

“I didn’t say I’d stick up for you.” Steve said, moving into the light. He was smiling. “What happened up there, anyway?”

“I got the sickest K2 hits I’ve ever seen.” I said quietly. “Ever.”

He nodded approvingly and resumed his sweep of the room. Tango joined him and I stood in the doorway for a minute, looking down at my equipment.

The three of us worked for a paranormal investigation group called The Atlantic Paranormal Society, referred to as TAPS, mostly, because the former doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. We were based out of a little town in Rhode Island called Warwick, and had made the trip out to New York for tonight’s investigation in a black Yukon and a van that matched. Jason - or, as pretty much everyone on Earth called him, Jay - and Grant, our bosses and co-founders of TAPS, had grouped Steve, Tango, and I together like they usually did. I think that, on TV (hence the camera men, et cetera), we came off as the comic relief. Or, I don’t know, maybe it was just Steve and Tango that did. I probably came off as that wimpy girl that ran after getting some weird K2 hits.

At least I probably would after tonight’s episode aired.

God damn my life.

I was about to take a step into the room to join in the sweep when our walkies crackled simultaneously.

“Steve, Tango, Carling.”

It was Jay. I reached to my back pocket where I’d clipped my walkie-talkie after leaving the bedroom. Steve was faster, and had already lifted his to his mouth before I could successfully dislodge mine.

“Go for Steve.”

Right, guys. It’s getting late. It’s about time to wrap. Let‘s go lights on and start breaking it down.”

“Copy.”

The next fifteen minutes were boring, and, on the show, it would appear as a montage of myself, Steve, Tango, Kris Williams, and Amy Bruni (two other investigators who worked for TAPS) winding up extension cords, boxing equipment, and packing everything into the back of the van. Jay or Grant would do a quick interview, say goodbye to the client, and we’d head off - back to the hotel for a few hours of sleep.

I was carrying a case of Mini DV’s to the van when Jason stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

Jay was intimidating. There wasn’t really any other way to say it. He cut an imposing figure, standing more than six feet tall with broad shoulders and a permanent scowl. Plus, he was completely bald. Honestly, I didn’t think a person could get any more intimidating than that, but that was me.

I knew, though, that Jay really wasn’t as big a jerk as he looked. On camera, he came off as a hardass with quite a ‘no-nonsense-don’t-mess-with-the-boss’ attitude. When we weren’t filming, though, he was like an uncle, or something. He laughed at everything and was kind of a push-over.

Now, on the other hand, my other boss, Grant, was the polar opposite. He was small and compact with a full head of dark hair and almost a childish air of enthusiasm about everything. He was also my absolute favorite pool teammate. Ever. I saw him looking on from a distance, obviously anticipating the inevitable lecture I was going to get.

Unfortunately for me, the camera guy that had been in the third floor bedroom with me was edging closer, camera rolling, sneer on his face, which meant that I would be spared no ounce of mercy.

Right, here comes the shit. I hate that camera guy.

“What the hell were you thinking, Hale?” Jay said. I kept my eyes level with his and didn’t flinch. He was always easier to deal with if you didn’t make excuses.

“I wasn’t thinking, Jay.” I said squarely, “I said some stupid shit and got a response that scared me.”

“And you ran.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tango standing near the back doors of the van, laughing heartily at my predicament. If he hadn’t been pretty much my best friend, I would’ve spat in his breakfast cereal. I decided to settle for something a little less disgusting. Salt in the morning coffee, maybe? Of course I’d have another, untainted cup waiting for him, but the initial prank would be funny as hell.

“Yeah, I did.” I said, still looking directly at Jay. He rubbed a hand over his bald head.

“Put that crap in the van.” He spat, “And whatever you saw sure as hell better show up on camera. If it doesn’t impress the hell out of me, I’ll be pissed.”

With that, he waved his hand as a means of dismissal and I strode past, chin up, toward the van. I shouldered Tango out of the way.

“Hey, hey, don’t take it out on me.” He said.

“You’re a dick, Tango.” I said, grinning in spite of myself.

“Nah.” He said, and I climbed up into the van to rearrange some cases and stack some wire and good things of that nature.

Dave Tango was a year and a half younger than me and more gullible than anyone I’d ever met. He was Italian and completely Jersey (as I’d discovered during an investigation where he’d gone into an attic alone to curse out whatever shadowy figure lived up there). He had a stupid earring and wore pageboy caps almost every day, but he was the funniest son-of-a-bitch alive and he gave me piggy-back rides when I asked for them, not to mention he was a goddamn magician. Honestly, that only added points to my mental tally of greatness. Anyone who did magic tricks and gave piggy-back rides was good in my book.

“Hey, Carling, pass me that case of DV’s.”

I looked up from my organizing to see Steve standing next to Tango. He looked exhausted, so I didn’t hassle him like I usually would have. I just handed it over.

“Thanks.” He said, and opened the case on the van floor.

“What? What? You’re nice to Steve now? What the hell, Hale? You just called me a dick, but you’re nice to Steve?” Tango had thrown his arms up in what appeared to be full-fledged dismay.

“She doesn’t like Italians.” Steve yawned. Tango smacked him in the back of the head. Steve chuckled.

“Shut up and calm yourself, Tango. I love Italians.” I shuffled my way - quite awkwardly, given the tight space - to the doors, where I reached out and pinched his cheek. “Especially you.”

“Why are you telling me to shut up?” He grumbled, pushing my hand away.

“She likes Portuguese better.”

Steve. Always the instigator. Always the one messing with shit in other people’s houses on investigations, always the one daring Tango to do things he probably shouldn’t. There never really was a dull moment when he was around.

He was, indeed, Portuguese, and had also been my first friend upon joining TAPS. Jay and Grant had put him in charge of training me in the ways of paranormal investigation done TAPS style, and I had gradually grown used to heading into his office first thing in the morning on filming days, even though, after a while, I didn’t really need to anymore.

He was eight years my senior (which put him at thirty-four and me at twenty-six), but neither of us was fazed by this. We still hung out on off days and discussed the art of death metal. I went with him on tattooing sessions, he came with me on day trips to Boston (he claimed to enjoy the hardcore scene there). He had a severe phobia of spiders and, secretly, I kept him safe from them all the time in our normal, off camera lives. He repaid me with a skim-milk-hold-the-sugar-double-mocha latte pressed into my hand almost every morning. I also knew that he enjoyed eating candy and using the phrase ‘mother-fucker’ far more often than any one person should. It was for this reason (the former, not the latter) that I bought him bags of Skittles or Hershey bars and left them anonymously on his desk all the time. I think he knew it was me, though.

Steve was my favorite, even though I’d never, ever admit it. Especially not in front of Tango. He’d probably wet himself.

“I like everyone.” I said aloud, almost in response to my own thoughts, as well as in response to the two of them. “Now, let’s go. I’m damn exhausted.”

The three of us piled into the van (me in the cramped back seat [if you could even call it a back seat]), and waited for Jay and Grant to pull the Yukon out onto the street first. Steve yawned and scrubbed at his face while he drove. We’d been investigating for two nights straight and, while the lack of sleep didn’t bother me much, it was starting to take its toll on everyone else.

“Goddamn analysis tomorrow.” He grumbled, glancing at Tango and then at me. “I’d probably give my left leg just to sleep all day.”

“You and me both,” I said, “You can take audio tomorrow. Rest your eyes.” I reached around to pinch his cheek, too, and he scrunched his face up in an exaggerated smile.

“Always looking out for me, Hale.” He said.

“And Tango, too.” I added. Steve chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah.” Tango shook his head and looked out the window to hide his grin.

The clock on the dashboard read four twenty-two AM, and the three of us went quiet. The hotel loomed about a mile up the road, and even though I probably wasn’t nearly as tired as everyone else, the idea of sinking into a feather bed with millions of pillows sounded so good, I almost started drooling.

-x-

I woke up around nine, having never been one for more than four or five hours of sleep. I lolled around a bit, luxuriating in a bed that was almost twice the size of the one I had at home. From my burrow of enormous pillows and goose-down bedcovers, I eyed the electric coffee pot on the counter in the kitchenette and thought about how nice it would be to laze around for the rest of the day with a steaming cup of black coffee and stocking feet.

Unfortunately, my job didn’t allow for a normal life, so I heaved myself out of bed and put the coffee on to brew, opting for a hot shower instead of lounging all over the place. There was analysis to be done and, after my little incident the previous night, I wanted both to make sure my K2 session had been thoroughly recorded and then scrub my findings in Jay’s face because I knew I’d get away with it. (I was definitely his favorite).

By ten-thirty, there were repeated knocks on my door which I refused to answer because I knew it was only Tango trying to rush me down to breakfast. He liked the free oatmeal and stuff most hotels offered in the morning, but he hated going after ten because it usually meant he’d be stuck eating the dregs from the bottom of the pots. It was sort of normal for us to be the first two up for this reason, but also because he hated going to breakfast by himself and I failed at staying asleep for extended periods of time.

At ten forty-two, I opened my door to find him leaning against the opposite wall with a grin on his face.

“Morning, sunshine.” He said.

“Hello, Tango.” I stowed my key in the back pocket of my jeans. “Anyone else up, yet?”

He wagged his head back and forth. “Nah, just us like always. Steve’s in there sleeping with his mouth open. I could hear Jay snoring through the wall. I don’t think anyone’ll be joining us for a while.”

I shrugged and we set off down the hallway.

We were still in the lobby just before noon, taking up way more space than we should have (but, come on, if they don‘t want people reclining all over the place, they should make it illegal for armchairs to be so comfortable), when most of the TAPS team stumbled into the breakfast room to scavenge whatever was left. I caught sight of Steve, meandering over with two coffees and two doughnuts held gingerly in his hands. He was already wearing his hat. In fact, he looked fairly normal until you noticed the blue choo-choo train pajamas on his lower half. He was even wearing his customary black Nikes, which made the pants even more ridiculous.

He dropped into a chair to my left with a heavy sigh, and offered one of the coffee cups in his hand to me.

“Sweet of you.” I said through a yawn. “But I’ve got one already. Thanks.”

“Habit.” He shrugged.

“I like your jammies.” I said with raised eyebrows.

“Hey, now.” He said seriously through a mouthful of jelly doughnut. “Don’t diss on the choo-choo pants. They’re comfy as shit.”

“I’m sure they are.” I laughed. He shrugged. “So, any idea where we’re setting up for analysis?”

“Our room, I think.” Steve said, lifting his hat up to scratch his forehead and then replacing it again. “But I need to get more coffee in me before I even start to think about that.”

“We should go out, after.” Tango said. “There’s a couple of bars around here that looked pretty okay.”

“Fifty bucks says you’ll complain about how tired you are the whole time.” Steve said.

“Fuck you, Steve, no I won’t.”

“Tango, yes you will. You always do.” I said.

“Yes. See? Thank you, Carling.” Steve reached over and ruffled my hair in gratitude. “Fifty bucks, Tango.”

“Sixty.”

“Fifty, or the deal’s off.”

“Can you wear the choo-choo pants?” I asked, actually semi-hopeful that he’d agree because Steve just did that kind of stuff sometimes.

“No.” He said, and I was sad.

A few minutes later, Jay told us to set up for analysis, and we said we would only if he and Grant would come out with us later (only half-joking, really). He agreed and we all split off, me traipsing after Tango and Steve with a laptop from the van tucked under one arm and a case of EVP recorders under the other.

Analysis undoubtedly sucked, but I was so looking forward to cold beer and good company that I didn’t mind too much. Not to mention Steve shared his Jolly Ranchers with me while I reviewed thermal and he did audio. That was a plus.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is silly. Not meant to be taken seriously. I hope you all liked it. :)
A comment gets the next one!

Love you all more than I love double espresso shots. And that's a lot.