style="font-size:15px;"> Spirits, she thought with disgust. “It’s practical. There are fewer people around, less electrical use and outside noise to interfere with the equipment. Not so many nosy neighbors trying to see what we’re up to. Most of our clients do not want others to know they’re having paranormal experiences. It’s a pain sometimes.” She held up a small digital camera. “I’ll warn you when I’m going to take a picture. I’ll say ‘flash.’ Close your eyes so you aren’t blinded. Any questions?”
“What’s the best way to use this camera?”
“Hold it close, right under your breastbone.”
He raised the camera a few inches.
“Let it move with your body so it sees what you see. Keep your movements smooth and stay aware. You don’t want to forget you’re holding it and end up with a movie starring the floor.”
He turned slowly, taking in the big room, his gaze intent on the black-and-white image on the viewing screen.
She turned slowly, too, examining the room that took up the entire third floor. Six Rampart members were investigating tonight. Tony and Tara were outside in the step-side van that served as the command center, watching the IR camera monitors and making sure the equipment didn’t glitch. Desi and Buck investigated the second and third floors, while Dallas and Ringo took the first floor and basement. In about two hours the teams would rotate.
This house had a sad history. Built in the 1880s, it had been a monument to a silver miner’s hard work and perseverance in the harsh Rocky Mountains. Since the 1950s it had sat empty—except for brief occupancies by tenants—slowly strangled by overgrown ivy and worn by the elements. The city had been on the verge of condemning it and having it torn down when the current owners, the Moores, bought it with high hopes of restoring it to its former glory.
The Moores had begged the Rocky Mountain Paranormal Research Team for help. They insisted the house was haunted. The activity was so frightening the Moores were ready to walk away and to hell with the money and work they’d invested.
Desi shone her flashlight at debris piled under a window. The walls were in various stages of undress, with patches of hideous cabbage-rose wallpaper, areas of missing plaster with lathing bared like bones, and large sections where the framing showed. The wooden floor was painted. Where interior walls had been removed, the beautiful original oak flooring was revealed. The Moores’ bed sat in a clean, uncluttered corner near a fancy little fireplace with Van Briggle tiles and a cast-iron screen.
“What are we looking for?” Buck asked.
“The Moores have owned the place a year, but only moved in about a month ago. They had to put on a new roof, completely redo the plumbing and install a furnace before the place was livable. Activity started as soon as they moved in. They hear voices and other noises, and somebody moving around.” Desi pointed the light at the corner near the bathroom door. “They’ve seen a figure that moves from there and across the windows, blocking the light.”
She worked her cold toes inside her sneakers. The room stank of chemicals and that sour funk old houses acquired after decades of absorbing odors. She examined an exposed framing timber. Black streaks and splotches marked water damage.
“Mrs. Moore claims something chokes her while she sleeps.” She then warned him: “Flash.” She took several pictures of the moldy walls. She photographed the high ceiling where telltale water stains spread from the coving.
Her walkie-talkie crackled. “Desi? This is Dallas.”
She unhooked it from her belt and thumbed the Transmit button. She spoke closely into the unit, keeping her voice down. “I’m here. Go ahead.”
“Are you still up on the third floor?”
“Sure are. The walls are full of mold. With all the chemicals and dust it’s no wonder the Moores say the place feels oppressive. It even feels creepy to me. It could account for her nightmares and sensation of being choked.”
“The basement is pretty bad, too,” Dallas said. “The electrical is a mess. Wires everywhere. The EMF readings are through the roof.”
Focused on the camera screen, Buck made his way slowly around the cavernous room. The camera light gave him a corona, outlining his body. He had exceptionally broad shoulders. His waist and hips were lean, and his legs were long. Calvin Klein would loved to have this guy model in one of those sexed-up jeans ads.
“You haven’t left the third floor? Been on the stairs?”
Dallas’s voice through the walkie-talkie startled her. She scowled at where her mind had wandered. “Not at all. Third floor only.”
“We heard someone walking around in the kitchen. We’re going to check it out.”
She hooked the unit back on her belt. A shiver ran through her. Even with a thermal shirt and a heavy sweatshirt, she had goose bumps. The walls and windows leaked icy air.
Buck asked, “What does the EMF meter do again?”
“It detects electromagnetic fields. The theory is that spirits need energy to manifest. If there are spikes in the readings, it could be because something is about to happen. A lot of people are sensitive to high EMFs. It can cause nausea, dizziness, flu-like symptoms, depression, even hallucinations.”
She resumed documenting mold, places where heavy-duty paint strippers had been used on the woodwork and power outlets. She slipped the camera into a pocket and from another pulled out an EMF meter. She slowly swept the room. Even around the power outlets the meter barely moved.
Buck asked, “Have you ever seen a ghost?”
The question irritated her, but his voice took the edge off. Low and even with rich tones and careful enunciation, his was a voice to make a person sit up and pay attention. She needed to be firm, let him know she was in charge and that this wasn’t a Halloween spook game they played. His smooth voice made her sound like a harpy by comparison. She wanted him to take her seriously, not think she was a bitch.
She forced a smile, determined to be professional and friendly. “I’ve never had any kind of personal experience. Nothing I can’t explain, anyway.”
“Do you hope to see a ghost?”
“This is research. It’s about gathering enough evidence to prove the paranormal is more than superstition and ghost stories. It’s also about ferreting out the hoaxes and scam artists.”
Especially phony psychics, she thought.
A creaking noise froze Desi in her tracks. Buck froze, too.
She focused her flashlight on the bedroom door. It hadn’t moved.
“It sounded like it came from the bathroom,” Buck whispered.
Another creak. There was no mistaking the eerie protest of rusty hinges as a door slowly opened.
B UCK HELD THE CAMERA steady on Desi while she examined the bathroom. A sensation akin to spiderwebs being dragged across skin tickled his nerves. This old house was definitely haunted.
He’d found the Rocky Mountain Paranormal Research Team Web site on the Internet. Their organization impressed
