Future Works

                The dusty steps moaned under the weight of each heavy footfall. Slowly, he ascended into the attic, sweat dripping onto the cracked boards. The thick, stifling heat of the July night was like an invisible wall pushing against his 200-pound frame; its resistance a clue that he wasn’t welcome in the darkness into which he was climbing. When the creaky staircase finally opened into the small expanse above the second floor of the abandoned home, only then was the stinging moisture wiped from his furrowed brow and eyes. With his camera showing the way, he reached a trembling hand toward the thin drawstring of the single-bulb light a foot ahead. A click seemed to echo off the sheetrock and plywood as his pupils shrunk away from the dim light that repelled the darkness of the confined space as if the very shadows now cast were roaches seeking refuge from exposure.

                The dead quiet was expected, but the sense of watching eyes was not. Yes, the stories of this house had drawn him in. Yes, he was a skeptic and had never in his life taken a report of paranormal activity seriously. Yet here he was, alone with just an IR camera, a flashlight, an EMF detector, a digital recorder, and his cellphone. It was time to get to work, regardless of that inner voice screaming inside to turn back.

                He’d seen it done many times. A quick walk through the small attic with the EMF detector showed the tiny room’s baseline to be at 0.01. No anomalies. With a swift swipe of his Reebok, the mouse droppings and dust bunnies gave way and he took a seat on the floor, once again wiping the replenished sweat before it got in his eyes. After a deep breath and nod to no one, the digital recorder was retrieved from his left side pocket. Against his better judgment, a shaky thumb pressed record.

                “Hello. I’m Darryl Carpenter. Is there anyone here who’d like to communicate?”

                He paused to give the alleged entity time to respond. Was it the temperature causing his heart to accelerate? How could his lips and throat be so dry? Why was he still here? Something much more than heat was in this attic with him. But how could that be? Ghosts don’t exist!

                “I’ve heard so much about this place. Why are you here?”

                This pause brought about the familiar silence…at first. Just as he was about to ask his next question, a sharp “pop” shattered the quiet as darkness reclaimed the room.

                “Fucking bulb,” he whispered, hoping to keep up the false bravado he attempted to project. A small “click” then pierced the veil of black as his small flashlight lit up the room. Laying it on his lap, he continued his EVP session.

                Ten minutes later, the recording revealed its secrets. Nothing. Just as he suspected. Was his racing heart merely a victim of legend? It likely was. His false bravado had transitioned to the “real deal” as he pulled his phone from his right pocket. There was only one thing left to do.

                Of all the tools used by “ghost hunters,” the most ridiculous was the spirit box. How could anyone think that ghosts could communicate using their energy to manipulate words through shuffling frequencies? Did these “professionals” not even realize that their own minds and thoughts also produced energy that could be picked up by these devices? That’s why when they are thinking about demons—which was what all these weak-minded people thought was at every single “haunting”—the spirit box would always reveal the word demon. It was nothing more than self-generated communication. Well, that was something that he would NOT do.

                A quick right-swipe on his Android brought him to his most recently downloaded apps, and there was the one he wanted. Ghost App. With a tap of his thumb, his phone became a spirit box; the white noise akin to fingernails on a chalkboard in the tight, silent oven in which he sat. A smirk moved his lips upward as confidence pushed his chest out. Before the question was even asked, it was answered in three ways. First, the EMF detector beeped as the numbers rocketed up from 0.01. Second, the intended formation of thought that was intended to be released as a coherent query instantly changed to a terror-filled shriek. Third, a gravelly voice roared through the Ghost App, “Fool!”