Page 14 of Rattling Bone (OutFoxing the Paranormal #2)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

All of the hair on the back of Oscar’s neck stood up. At any moment, he expected to feel breath on the back of his neck.

So much for Jeff being a simple repeater.

He pictured his old football gear protecting him, imagined the weight of it, the padding that would keep away anything trying to hurt him. His heart raced, and he breathed in the icy air, searching for calm.

“Can you tell me why you’re still here?” he asked.

The cold rolled over him in a wave, nipping any exposed skin. Nigel’s eyes were wide with alarm. Hoping he sounded calm and reassuring, Oscar said, “Was your fall an accident, Jeff, or were you pushed?”

The pause for silence in which the ghost might answer felt as though it stretched forever. Oscar’s lips were going numb from the cold, but he forced himself to continue. “Who killed you?”

A bolt of anger tore through Oscar, accompanied by a confusion of other emotions: pride, betrayal, the sense of something that belonged to him being torn away.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the emotional storm dissipated. The air seemed to shift, and Nigel said, “The temperature is returning to normal.”

“I’m losing the cold spot on thermal,” Tina reported. “Everything is returning to baseline.”

Oscar let out his breath in a rush and bent over, hands on his knees. Nigel immediately crouched beside him. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” The wild spikes of emotion had left his nervous system confused, his veins jittery with hormones. “It seems Jeff found another way to communicate. I felt…anger, possessiveness…I don’t know, a lot of things at once.” He forced himself upright. “I don’t think Jeff is happy about being dead.”

“He wouldn’t be stuck here if he’d come to terms with it,” Nigel said. His eyes searched Oscar’s face worriedly. “Do you need a break?”

“We don’t have time for me to take a break,” Oscar said with a shrug. “I think that’s all we’re going to get here for tonight. Let’s head to the powerhouse.”

“Oh joy,” Nigel muttered.

* * *

Nigel followed behind Oscar, while Chris trailed them, still filming. Even though they needed to get to the bottom of this so-called curse, he wished they could avoid the powerhouse. The ghost of Edwin Corbett was already far too strong, and he couldn’t help but worry they were putting themselves at risk.

Necessary risk, though. He watched Oscar walk in front of him and tried not to think about what might happen if they couldn’t identify the entity that had been killing off the family. One way or another, they had to get answers, and they needed to get them tonight.

The powerhouse seemed far more menacing in the dark—though that might simply have been his own imagination playing tricks on him. “Do you sense anything?” he asked Oscar as they started up the stairs to the turbine hall.

“Not yet,” Oscar replied. “Though I imagine that will change soon, if what just happened in the distilling room is any indicator.”

Nigel suppressed a shudder. The idea of something standing right behind Oscar, something he couldn’t see no matter how hard he looked…

This might be his chosen field of study, but that didn’t mean ghosts never creeped him the hell out.

Oscar came to a halt within the turbine hall. “Let’s see if we can get Edwin to join us out here.” He glanced at Nigel. “Where we have a better escape route if we need it.”

“Good idea. Another EVP?”

“Since this ghost seems to have plenty of energy already, I thought the spirit box might get good results.” Oscar turned. “It’s in my backpack if you don’t mind pulling it out.”

Nigel did as asked, then stepped back while Oscar gave a brief explanation of how the spirit box worked to the camera. In essence, the device skipped very quickly between radio frequencies, generating static occasionally interrupted by a blip of sound from active radio stations. A nearby spirit could manipulate the frequencies to form words and communicate.

Oscar held the spirit box in his hand, facing the direction of the switching hall. “Edwin Corbett, if you can hear me, my name is Oscar. I’m your great-great grandson, and I’d like to talk to you.”

He switched on the spirit box, and the roar of static filled the air. Even though he knew it was coming, Nigel jumped.

“You can use this device to talk to us,” Oscar went on, a bit more loudly to be heard over the static. “Are you here? Can you speak with me?”

The hairs on Nigel’s arms and legs prickled, as if at an electrical charge. He bit his lip, unsure if it was his imagination or the presence of a spirit.

“Yes,” said the spirit box.

Oscar looked at the camera, then back at the box. “We need more than a single syllable to be sure any answers aren’t just an artifact of the channel switching,” he said. “Tell us your name, please.”

“Edwin Corbett.” Another burst of static. “I am here.”

* * *

Oscar swallowed hard. He couldn’t see Edwin, but he felt him, lurking only feet away. “Thank you,” he said, and was a bit surprised his voice didn’t shake. “Was your death an accident?”

“Killed me.”

It was what he’d expected, but it still chilled him. “Who killed you?” he asked urgently.

Though the words produced by the spirit box were flat, mechanical in quality, he sensed an angry growl behind them. “This is ours.”

Nigel frowned. “What?”

“Can you give me a name?” Oscar asked. “Who killed you?”

“Ours. Doesn’t belong to her.”

A smell like burned pork briefly filled the air, then vanished. The hairs on Oscar’s arms rose, as if a lightning storm was building all around them, accompanied by a sense of rage. “Who?” Oscar demanded. “Give me a name!”

All of their lights went out in the same instant the spirit box died, plunging them into darkness. The air crackled, tiny sparks of static electricity lighting up as they moved.

“No!” he shouted, bracing himself for an attack. “Nigel, Chris, get out!”

“Get back!” Nigel yelled, followed by what sounded like a handful of dirt hitting the ground.

The presence lessened instantly. Salt—Nigel must have thrown salt. “Hit him again,” Oscar encouraged, groping for the bag of salt in his own pocket.

A dim light appeared from in Chris’s hand, even as the walkie-talkies squawked. “Are you all right?” Tina asked.

“Meet us outside with a flashlight, please,” Oscar replied. To the others, he said, “Let’s get down the stairs.”

“And fast—these batteries are almost dead,” Chris said, shaking the flashlight. The light dimmed, brightened, then returned to its original weak glow.

They emerged just as Tina jogged up with a flashlight to guide them back to the tent. “I don’t think much of your relatives,” she told Oscar. “Not very welcoming at all.”

“Or helpful,” Chris added. “Like, just give us a name, buddy!”

“They’re angry,” Oscar said. The night air felt oddly light after the oppressive atmosphere of the powerhouse. “Which might be why they’re still here, instead of moving on.” He turned to Nigel. “That was quick thinking with the salt.”

“We need to be prepared.” Nigel hunched his shoulders against the chilly breeze. “I don’t know that Edwin Corbett would have harmed us, but I saw no reason to give him the chance.”

Chris clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m glad one of us had their hand on the salt.”

“I just wish we’d gotten more information.” Oscar held up the drained spirit box. “He’s very possessive about something, which could also be why he hasn’t moved on.”

“You said Jeff was, too,” Chris said.

“Edwin kept saying ours.” Nigel frowned slightly. “Perhaps he meant the distillery. It belongs to your family.”

“Technically not anymore.” They reached the tent and Oscar held open the flap for the rest to go inside. “Though I doubt he cares about the legal technicalities.”

They plugged in their cameras and headlamps, and began to swap out batteries in the flashlights. “Well, after all of that, I can’t wait to see what’s in store for us in the aging warehouse,” Oscar said, striving for a light tone. “Hopefully Ivan is less aggressive than his son.”

“About that.” Nigel scuffed a foot against the floor, looking as if he was preparing for an argument. “I would like to try something new, if you don’t mind.”

“What?” Oscar asked warily.

“Since we’re hoping to get specific information, this would be an excellent opportunity to use a talking board and a planchette.”

Oscar stared at him blankly, but Chris caught on right away. “Wait a minute,” they said, holding up their hands. “You want to use a Ouija Board?”